Chapter 12: Abeer

The pregnancy was: unplanned.

Not unwanted — unplanned. The distinction mattered because the Calculator planned: everything, and the one thing the Calculator had not: planned was the thing that changed: everything.

Gauri told me on: a Sunday. In the kitchen. She was making: chai — in her kettle, on the counter, with the: buffer zone between kettle and Breville now reduced to: one inch. The morning was: warm. May in Delhi, the heat building, the: air conditioners working, the city preparing for: summer the way soldiers prepared for: war.

"I'm pregnant," she said. Into the: chai. Into the: steam. The words spoken: downward, into the cup, as if the: chai could receive them first, could: absorb the impact before it reached: me.

"Pregnant."

"Pregnant. Eight: weeks. I took: three tests. Mohini made me take: the third because she said two was: insufficient data."

"Three: tests."

"Three: positive tests. And a blood test. From Dr. Sharma at Max Hospital. The hCG levels are: confirmed."

I sat. On the: kitchen stool. The stool that I had: not sat on before because the kitchen stools were: Gauri's territory, the territory of a woman who made: chai in the morning and who claimed the: counter space with the: authority of a nation claiming: land. I sat on: her stool. In her: kitchen. With the news that we were: making a person.

"Are you: okay?" she asked.

"I'm: calculating."

"Of course you: are."

"The due date is: January. The board meeting for the annual review is: January. The Rajasthan school expansion phase two is: January. The Randhawa SEBI hearing is: January."

"Abeer."

"The nursery will need to be: the guest room on the second floor. The room that faces: the garden. The light is: better."

"Abeer."

"Papa will: cry. Again. HK will: calculate the inheritance implications."

"Abeer."

"I'm: happy."

The word. Spoken: plainly. Without: calculation. Without: strategy. The word that the Calculator had: avoided for thirty-two years because happiness was: imprecise, was: unmeasurable, was the one thing that could not be: placed on a spreadsheet.

"I'm: happy," I repeated. "Genuinely. Completely. The kind of happy that I can't: calculate because the number is: too large."

She put down: the chai. She crossed the: one-inch buffer zone. She stood in: my space — in the Calculator's space, the space that I had: guarded with algorithms and: distance and the: specific armour of a man who noticed everything and felt: nothing, except that was: a lie, it had always been a: lie — she stood in my space and she: held me.

"The buffer zone," she said. "Is: zero."

"Zero."

"Zero is: good?"

"Zero is: everything."

*

Papa: cried. As predicted. The crying was: immediate, unstoppable, the: tears of a man who was going to be a: grandfather and who had not: expected to feel this much about anything ever again after Kamini: died.

"A grandchild," Papa said. "In this: house. In these: rooms."

"In: the room that faces the garden," I said. "The light is: better."

"The light is: perfect. That room — that was: your room. When you were: born. You slept in: that room."

"I didn't: know that."

"There are many things you don't: know. About this house. About: your mother. About the: person she was before she was: your mother."

"Tell: me."

"She was: afraid. Of: motherhood. She calculated — yes, she: calculated, you got it from: her — she calculated the: risks and the: costs and the: probability of failure and she: panicked. For three months. And then: you arrived. And the: calculation stopped. Because you were: not a number. You were: a person. And persons are: uncalculable."

"Uncalculable."

"It's: a word."

"It's: not a word."

"It is: now. Your mother: invented it. For: you."

Uncalculable. The word that Kamini Malhotra — dead at forty-five, car accident on the Jaipur highway, the: loss that had made the Calculator into: the Calculator — the word that she had invented for: the thing that didn't: fit into the: algorithm. The thing that was: too large. The thing that was: a child.

*

HK's response was: different. HK's response was: succession planning.

"Boy or: girl?" HK asked.

"We don't know: yet. And it doesn't: matter."

"It matters for: inheritance structure. If it's a: boy, the primogeniture—"

"Papa," Gauri said. On the phone. From the Vasant Vihar drawing room. "If you say: primogeniture one more time, I will restructure your: voting rights."

"I'm: planning."

"You're: controlling. Which is: different."

"It's: the same."

"It's: not. And the baby — boy or girl — will inherit: nothing until they're: qualified to inherit. This family: elects. Remember?"

"I: remember. I was: outvoted."

"You were: governed. Welcome to: democracy."