Chapter 5: Gauri

I said: yes.

Not immediately. Not in the IIC dining room with the: tablecloths and the thali and the fathers walking in gardens deciding: futures. The yes took: three weeks. Three weeks of: thinking, of talking to Mohini (who said "obviously yes, he writes in: notebooks"), of talking to Bimla aunty (who said "the boy eats: properly, that's enough"), of talking to: myself, which was the hardest conversation because myself had: opinions that contradicted each other with the: regularity of Delhi traffic.

The yes happened on a: Thursday evening. In the bookshop on Khan Market — the bookshop where I went when I needed to: think, because bookshops were the only places in Delhi where the: noise stopped. I was holding a copy of a Jhumpa Lahiri novel — the one about the: arranged marriage, naturally, because the universe had: a sense of humour — when my phone rang.

"The Barmer borewells are: approved," Abeer said. No preamble. No: greeting. The Calculator communicated: efficiently.

"All: twelve?"

"All twelve. The team starts drilling: next month. Your programme director — Sunita — she'll coordinate with our: engineering team."

"That's: fast."

"I don't see the point of: slow."

"Most things in Delhi are: slow."

"Most things in Delhi are: performative. This isn't."

"The borewells or: the proposal?"

Silence. The specific silence of a man who had been: operating on two levels — the CSR level and the: personal level — and who had just been: caught.

"Both," he said.

"I know."

"You: know?"

"Abeer. You increased the donation by: three crore in a single meeting. You funded: twelve borewells. You memorised my: retention statistics. You have: glitter on your ear. I: know."

"Then you know what I'm: asking."

"You're asking if I'll consider: the arrangement."

"I'm asking if you'll consider: me."

The sentence. In a bookshop. On a Thursday. While holding: Jhumpa Lahiri. The sentence that separated: arrangement from choice, that said: this is not about families merging, this is about: a person asking another person to: look at them. Really: look.

"Yes," I said. "I'll consider: you."

*

The engagement was: announced at a party at the Khanna house in Jor Bagh. Three hundred people. Not the same three hundred as the: charity gala — a different three hundred, because Delhi's social circles: rotated, the same families appearing in different: configurations depending on the: occasion, the way kaleidoscope patterns: shifted without the actual pieces: changing.

Mohini was: maid of honour, which she had been: practising for since she was: twelve. Papa was: radiant, the specific radiance of a Punjabi father whose daughter was marrying: well, which in Papa's lexicon meant: into a family with comparable: assets and compatible: values.

Surender Malhotra — "Papa ji," as I was now expected to call him, a: linguistic transition that felt like: crossing a border — was: formal. Warm but formal. The warmth of a man who had lost his wife and who saw in this marriage the: possibility of family expanding, of: grandchildren, of the house in Vasant Vihar becoming: full again.

Abeer stood next to me in the: Jor Bagh garden, wearing: a sherwani that did not have glitter on it, and received congratulations with the: specific efficiency of a man who was: not comfortable being congratulated but who understood that: discomfort was the price of: happiness.

"You look: terrified," I whispered.

"I look: strategic. There's a: difference."

"There: isn't."

"There is when you're: me."

The ring was: his mother's. This he told me: privately, before the party, in the study of the Khanna house where Papa kept his: books and his: whisky and his: photograph of Maa. The ring was: platinum, with a single diamond, the diamond that Abeer's mother — Kamini Malhotra, who had died when Abeer was: nineteen, a car accident on the Jaipur highway, the: loss that mirrored mine — had worn for: twenty-seven years.

"My father kept it," Abeer said. "He said: 'Give it to the woman who stays.'"

The woman who: stays. The reference to the: terrace. To the night when I said: "My mother is dead" and he: didn't leave.

"I: stayed," I said.

"No. I: stayed. You threw: glitter."

"Same: thing."

"Not: remotely."

I took the ring. The platinum was: warm — warm from his: hand, from the pocket where he had carried it, the specific warmth of a thing that had been: held. The diamond caught the: study light, the light of a room full of: books and whisky and: memory.

"It: fits," I said.

"Of course it: fits. I had it: sized."

"When?"

"When you said: yes."

"I said: 'I'll consider you.' Not: yes."

"In Gauri-language, 'I'll consider you' is: yes. Your sister: confirmed."

"Mohini is a: traitor."

"Mohini is an: asset. I'm acquiring: her loyalty."

"You can't: acquire loyalty."

"You can: earn it. With: notebooks and: borewells."

I put the ring on. The ring of: a dead mother. On the finger of: a living daughter. In the house of: a dead mother. The symmetry was: not lost. The symmetry was: the point.