Chapter 16: Janhavi

# Chapter 16: Janhavi

## The Father

Baba called on a Sunday.

Baba called on a Sunday because Sundays were the days that Baba called — the pattern having established itself over the months since the first call, the thirty-second call to Maushi's phone at 11 PM, the call that had been the first contact in three years and that had been followed by other calls, the other calls arriving on Sundays, arriving on Maushi's phone because Baba did not have Aai's new number and because Aai had not given Baba the new number and because the not-giving was Aai's boundary, the boundary that said: you can call the sister's phone but you cannot call mine, the mine being the number that the leaving forfeited, the forfeiting being the cost of the leaving.

The calls had grown. The calls had grown from thirty seconds (the first call, the call that was guilt's minimum expression) to two minutes (the second call, the call that included the question "how is school?") to five minutes (the third call, the call that included the information that Baba was in Nashik, that Baba was working, that the working was at a coaching centre for competitive exams, that the coaching centre was the employment that Baba had found after the leaving).

The fifth call was the call that came on the Sunday after the state meet. The fifth call was the call that Maushi answered and that Maushi handed to me (not to Aai — Aai was in the kitchen, Aai was making the Sunday lunch, the lunch being the elaborate lunch that Sundays permitted, the Sunday lunch being the poori-bhaji that was Aai's contribution to the tradition that Maharashtrian households maintained, the tradition of the Sunday meal being better than the weekday meal, the better being the deep-fried and the rich and the time-consuming).

Maushi handed me the phone. The handing was — the handing was the decision, the decision that Maushi made without consulting Aai, the consulting being unnecessary because Maushi's judgment was the judgment that the situation required, the situation being: the daughter needed to speak to the father, the father was on the phone, the phone was in Maushi's hand, the hand could deliver the phone to the daughter.

"Janhavi." Baba's voice. The voice that was — the voice that was Baba's voice, the voice that three years had not changed because voices did not change, voices being the fingerprint that the vocal cords produced and that the vocal cords maintained regardless of the geography, the geography being Nashik or Mumbai or wherever the voice originated.

"Baba."

"Maushi tells me you're running."

"I'm running."

"She tells me you qualified for states."

"I ran at states. Last week. Eighth."

"Eighth at states." The repetition. The repetition that fathers did when the information was larger than the response, the information requiring the repetition as the processing mechanism, the processing being: my daughter ran at the state championship and placed eighth and the eighth is the thing that I am repeating because the repeating is the understanding.

"My time was 4:49. 1,500 metres."

Silence. The silence that was not the phone's silence but Baba's silence — the silence of a man who had run the Mumbai Marathon and who understood the time, the time being the number that the running-father decoded with the specific, numerical literacy that the running provided. 4:49 for a 1,500 at sixteen years old. The number that Baba decoded.

"That's very fast," Baba said. The sentence that was the understatement — the understatement that runners used when the time exceeded the expectation, the exceeding being the surprise that the understatement contained.

"I started at 7:08. In November."

"7:08 to 4:49 in four months."

"Fifteen weeks."

Another silence. The silence that was the calculation — Baba calculating, Baba's running-brain processing the improvement rate, the rate being the data that the running-father's intelligence assessed with the specific, trained analysis that running fathers possessed.

"Who coaches you?"

"Shubhangi Mane. Rajaram Vidyalaya. She was state-level. 800 metres."

"Good." The good that was the father's assessment of the coach — the assessment that the coach was competent, the assessment being delivered from Nashik, from the phone, from the distance that the leaving had created, the distance from which the father assessed the daughter's life with the specific, insufficient, phone-call assessment that the distance permitted.

"Baba," I said. "Why did you leave?"

The question. The question that had been in the house since the leaving — the question that had occupied the empty hook and the empty shelf and the empty space at the table, the question that Aai had stopped asking and that I had not started asking because the not-asking was the withdrawal and the withdrawal was the protection and the protection was the thing that the not-asking provided.

The question was out. The question was on the phone, in the air between Kolhapur and Nashik, in the specific, electronic medium that the phone call provided, the medium that was simultaneously intimate (the voice in the ear) and distant (the body in another city), the simultaneously being the condition that made the asking possible, the asking requiring the intimacy of the voice and the safety of the distance.

Baba's silence was the longest silence. The silence of a man who was being asked the question that the man had been expecting and dreading, the expecting because the question was inevitable and the dreading because the answer was the answer that no answer could adequately provide.

"I was drowning," Baba said. The sentence that was the metaphor — the metaphor that Baba chose from the available metaphors, the drowning being the word that described the condition that the leaving was the response to. "The flat. The teaching. The city. The — the everything. I was drowning in the everything."

Drowning. The word that I received in the yellow room — I had moved to the yellow room when Maushi handed me the phone, the moving being the privacy, the privacy that the conversation required.

"You drowned us too," I said. The sentence that was the response — the response that was not the understanding (I did not understand, I was sixteen and the understanding of a father's drowning was not the sixteen-year-old's understanding) but the consequence, the consequence being: you drowned and you took us down with you, the down being the Borivali flat's sale and the Kolhapur move and the three years of the silence.

"I know," Baba said.

"Aai sold the flat. She works at the zilla parishad. ₹24,000."

"I know."

"You know?"

"Maushi tells me. Maushi tells me everything."

Maushi. The intermediary. The woman whose position in the family was the position of the bridge — the bridge between the absent father and the present family, the bridge that carried the information in both directions, the information flowing from Kolhapur to Nashik and from Nashik to Kolhapur through Maushi's phone and Maushi's voice.

"Do you want to come back?" I asked. The question that was not my question — the question was Aai's question, the question that Aai had stopped asking but that Aai had not stopped wanting the answer to, the wanting being the thing that Aai's efficiency could not suppress, the wanting being the thing that lived beneath the efficiency like water beneath ice.

"It's not that simple," Baba said.

"It is that simple. You left. You come back. The leaving and the coming back are both simple. The leaving was simple — you packed a bag and you took the Rajdhani and you went. The coming back is the same — you pack a bag and you take the bus and you come."

The logic. My logic. The logic of a sixteen-year-old who understood the mechanics but not the psychology, the mechanics being the packing and the transport and the arriving, the psychology being the thing that the mechanics did not contain, the thing that had caused the drowning and that the returning did not guarantee would not cause the drowning again.

"I'm sending money," Baba said. The sentence that was the substitution — the substitution of money for presence, the money being the thing that the absent father sent as the apology that the absent father could not deliver in person.

"How much?"

"Five thousand a month. Starting this month. To Maushi's account."

₹5,000 a month. The amount that was — the amount was the amount. The amount was the supplement to Aai's ₹24,000, the supplement being the additional income that the household needed, the additional being the difference between the ₹4,500 margin and the ₹9,500 margin, the ₹9,500 being the margin that included the shoes.

The shoes. The thought arrived with the calculation — the calculation that ₹5,000 per month included the ₹8,000 stability shoes within two months, the two months being the time during which the ₹5,000 accumulated to the amount that the shoes required.

The thought was ugly. The thought was the thought of a girl who heard her father's money-offer and calculated the shoe-purchase, the calculation being the specific, mercenary, transactional response that the offer invited, the offer being: I will send money instead of sending myself and the response being: the money buys shoes.

"Okay," I said. The okay that was not the acceptance and not the rejection but the acknowledgment — the acknowledgment that the money was being sent and that the sending was the thing and the thing was noted.

"Janhavi," Baba said. "The 4:49. That's — that's something."

"It's a time."

"It's more than a time. It's — you're fast."

"I know."

"Run your race," Baba said. "Run your own race."

Run your race. The sentence that Baba delivered from Nashik — the sentence that was the father's instruction, the instruction that contained the running's philosophy, the philosophy that every runner understood: the race is yours, the pace is yours, the running is yours, the yours being the only thing that matters.

Run your race. The sentence that I carried after the phone call. The sentence that sat beside Isha's sentence (the running is what stays) and beside Rukmini's sentence (today is today) and beside Mane madam's sentence (we start with what we have), the sentences being the collection, the collection of the phrases that the running life had produced, each phrase a contribution from a person who was part of the running and whose contribution was the sentence that the running contained.

Run your race. Baba's contribution. The absent father's sentence. The sentence from Nashik.

I did not tell Aai about the call. The not-telling was the decision — the decision that the daughter made to protect the mother from the information that the mother did not need, the information being: Baba called, Baba is sending money, Baba said run your race. The protection was the daughter's gift — the gift that inverted the usual direction of protection, the usual direction being the mother protecting the daughter, the inversion being: the daughter protecting the mother from the father's voice.

But Maushi told Aai. Maushi told Aai because Maushi could not not-tell — the not-telling being contrary to Maushi's nature, Maushi's nature being the nature of full disclosure, the disclosure being the default setting that Maushi operated on, the setting being: if I know it, everyone knows it, the everyone being the family and the family being the unit within which the information flows.

Aai's response to the money was: acceptance. Aai accepted the ₹5,000 not as the apology (the apology being the thing that money could not purchase) but as the contribution (the contribution being the thing that money could provide — the contribution to the household's margin, the margin being the space in which the living happened).

The ₹5,000 arrived on the first of February. The ₹5,000 arrived in Maushi's account as a UPI transfer from an account that Maushi identified as Baba's — the UPI being the Universal Payment Interface, the digital infrastructure that India had built and that India's citizens used to transfer money with the specific, phone-tap ease that the infrastructure provided.

Aai took the ₹5,000. Aai did not comment on the ₹5,000. Aai put the ₹5,000 in the household account. The ₹5,000 became part of the household's ₹29,000 income — the income that was ₹24,000 plus ₹5,000, the addition being the arithmetic of a family reconstituting its finances without reconstituting its structure.

The shoes. The shoes that the ₹5,000 would eventually fund. The shoes that the daughter would buy with the father's money. The shoes that were — the shoes were the connection, the connection that the money provided, the connection that was not the return (the return being the thing that the asking had requested and that the response had denied) but the contribution, the contribution being the lesser thing that the absent provided when the greater thing (the presence) was not available.

I did not buy the shoes immediately. I did not buy the shoes because Isha's shoes — the Asics GT-1000 — were still working, the shoes having been given and the giving being the bridge and the bridge being still standing. Isha's shoes would carry me for another three months — three months of training, three months of the red track, three months of the Panhala road.

After three months, I would buy the shoes. With Baba's money. The buying being the specific, complicated act of a daughter purchasing running shoes with the money that the absent father sent as the substitute for the presence that the absent father withheld.

Run your race. The sentence from Nashik. The sentence that I ran with — not literally, the sentence not being in my legs but in my head, the head carrying the sentence the way the head carried all the sentences, the sentences being the cargo that the running transported from the head's storage to the body's expression.

Run your race. My race. The race that was the next race — the race that was not yet scheduled, the race that the training was preparing for, the race that would come in March or April or whenever the next season's calendar announced, the calendar being the document that Mane madam would read and that Mane madam would select the races from and that the selecting would be the next phase.

But before the next race: the training. The training that continued — the intervals on Monday, the tempo on Wednesday, the hills on Thursday, the time trials on Friday, the Panhala on Saturday, the rest on Sunday.

The training. The thing that stayed when the fathers left and the mothers worked and the aunts told everything and the money arrived by UPI and the sentences accumulated and the running continued.

The running continued. The running always continued. The running was the thing that did not leave.

Run your race. The race continued.