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Pooja doesn't realize at first how much of a problem Rahul Raichand will be. True, he's taken a shine to her sister, but he's hardly the first. More than one love-note has been thrown at the confectioner's door, and Anjali, oblivious as she is outrageous, has blithely trod over them every time.
Which is why it's such a surprise to find them here, spirited away to this miserable cold land by her sister's new husband. Husband! Three months ago Pooja had known herself to be the queen of all around her, safe in Chandni Chowk's radiance and clamor. Now everything — sky, school uniform, spirit— is a faded gray.
And amongst it all, Rahul lords it over them. He sits at the head of the table, where Bauji used to once; reminds Aunt to prepare school lunches as if she doesn't know this already; spends most of his limited time at home peering around critically. Their flat here in London, a loan from one of Rahul's friends, is simply enormous —three bedrooms, so that each of them have their own bedroom. Rahul purses his lips critically, studying it with clear disappointment, and Pooja curls her fingers into a fist without quite meaning to.
Anjali can dream whatever she wants to, Aunt coo as though he were her own son, but Pooja knows the truth: Rahul might play at patriarch all he wants, but that doesn't mean he won't tire of it before too long. It falls to Pooja to prepare herself before he disappoints her, too.
*
All she means to do is point out how ridiculous the English language is. That the letters p and h placed together might make f instead — that the word fat might be spelled P-H-A-T as easily — is clearly nothing more than a colonial prank on innocent children. It is the kind of wry observation that would be received to wide acclaim back home, with even Teacher Ma'am sparing her a faint smile.
In England they laugh. Just like at Laddoo's school, Pooja flinches from the sound as though it were a blow. Behind her, she hears a snicker, and then: "What else would you expect from a Poo?"
She comes home in a dreadful mood. Anjali and Aunt would be bad enough to face, but —just this once —Rahul is home early, peering at the stove as though he's never seen it before. Pooja shoulders him aside, and reaches for a pan. She hasn't the patience to show him the basics of the kitchen that she learned as a toddler, not when it's easier to do it herself.
It takes Rahul three shrill whistles of the kettle before he thinks to get the teacups ready, and one near miss with the sugar tin before he asks, "And what's put you in such a mood?"
Pooja very nearly kicks him in the shins. Instead she bares her teeth into the semblence of a smile and describes everything that's happened. She intends to be brief, but her frustration, once released, will not be quelled. Surely now, now Rahul will realize everything that is wrong with London and take them back to Delhi.
Instead he listens without a word, as though her little problems meant sometime to her. For an instant it gives her hope. But he opens his mouth, and shrugs a little, and says only, "You might try being kinder to them. Perhaps smile a bit more?"
Smile! Rahul Raichand may have never encountered any difficulty he couldn't overcome with a charming smile—his parents' disapproval excepted—but Pooja is nothing like. Now, more than ever, it's clear they'll never come to an understanding.
She leaves her chai behind and goes to bed hungry, wondering when they might be rid of each other.
*
Anjali announces she's expecting the next morning. Pooja bites her cheek and tries not to scream.
*
Aunt says, for the third time this week, "Really, Rahul. Home late again?"
"Well—" Rahul blusters — "Anjali wanted mangoes, and you know there's only one store that carries them so late in the year."
"Mangoes?" Anjali echoes. "What fool told you that? Now anyone knows they make my nose itch, which no one wants to see. Not as bad as the time you brought home empty pani-puri shells and nothing else, but still—“
"It was," Rahul pauses, and very pointedly does not look in Pooja's direction. "No one. My own mistake."
That, at least, she can respect.
*
Aunt waits months to confront her. At first Pooja doesn't even realize. She's only helping with the dishes one night after Rahul and Anjali have retired when Aunt murmurs, seemingly out of nowhere: "You might grant him a bit of patience."
She doesn't need to ask who Aunt means. Pooja snorts. "He doesn't have much to spare for anyone else," she points out, not unjustly.
Aunt only shakes her head sadly. "He's frightened," she says, "and not without cause."
There's nothing to be said for that, not least because it's true. Pooja changes the subject instead. "Rukhsar is newly married, and without a parent to guide her," she points out, knowing she is being cruel and not caring in the slightest. "That didn't stop you from coming with us as soon as your lady snapped her fingers."
That rankles, too: the knowledge that Rahul comes by his casual arrogance honestly, and that his family hasn't even the decency to be kind to each other. And yet --Aunt deserves better. They all do.
But: "Is that what you believe?" Aunt says, honestly surprised. "My child, when Nandini Madam bid me go with her son, it was a relief. Although only because I wouldn't need to leave their service myself."
Out of indignation, or because their youngest had been sent away to school? Aunt must notice her confusion, because she laughs.
"I made a promise ten years past," she explains, "to the best woman I knew—that I wouldn't leave her children's side until I saw them safe and settled."
Mother, Pooja thinks, with a sudden stab of pain. "My sister is married," she says, because in their world that ought to be enough. "You might have stayed with Rukhsar."
"But you are not," says Aunt, and it is not enough, but for now Pooja is content not to be an afterthought, not an unexpected burden incurred when a young man fell in love with her sister. Aunt's arms are around her, and Pooja's nose is running. "There, there," Aunt says, and that is when Pooja realizes she's crying at last.
*
She isn't alone with Rahul again until the night Anjali gives birth. Aunt is with her, of course, and Rahul has been summarily dismissed from the delivery room after the second time he lost consciousness. Pooja, not being an idiot, had flatly refused to be present.That leaves the two of them side by side in the empty waiting room, peering nervously at the moonlight.
"I can't do this," Rahul says hoarsely, and Pooja turns to face him. "I can't be a father. You of all people know that."
He isn't angry or resentful, as she expected; instead, his expression is dark with...shame?
"You ought to have thought of that months ago," Pooja retorts, and makes a face.
"I mean—the baby will deserve better. You deserve better." Suddenly all of Rahul's behavior, insufferable though it has been, starts to make a sad new sense.
Pooja crosses her arms. "I don't need a father," she reminds him. "I have one. Just because he's not here—" she swallows.
Rahul runs a hand through his hair. "I know," he says. "I know." And very likely he does; but it was easier to tell himself he might repair their little family as atonement for ripping apart his own. Pooja understands the impulse, the need to do something rather than watch in silence, and at last she relents.
"I don't need a father," she repeats, "but I might want a brother."
Rahul brightens.
"You might think twice," he warns her, but his lips twitch into a smile. "Rohan will tell you I'm a terrible bully."
"So am I," Pooja reminds him. "There's no need to worry about me."
"Don't I know it. Now, about these schoolmates of yours—"
By the time Aunt emerges to tell them that baby Krish has been born, and squalling mightily, Rahul and Pooja have determined the best way to deal with her school tormentors is to overtake them as ruthlessly as Rahul does his business competitors. Pooja refuses to be satisfied with acceptance when she might have autocracy instead.
Anjali smiles at her from her hospital bed and squeezes her hand. "Not so bad after all?" and Pooja can't be certain if she means Rahul, London, or this dizzying new life they have. For the first time, she finds it doesn't matter.
"We'll see," she says haughtily, and moves to the window to let the sunlight in.