Free Family Planning by Karan Mahajan Page A

Gulley—really, whatever direction the wind blew the creature’s Dumbo ears. In addition, Rakesh would dress purely in saffron, never shower, and make it a point to emit a terrific odor. He would allow his elephant to mold mountains of shit wherever it desired so that curious American tourists could follow in his wake and photograph that Far Eastern shit ! If he was invited to a party, he would say: “Only if you invite my elephant and refuse to bring it up in conversation at any point. Because if you bring it up then it will suggest to Americans that elephants are indeed unusual in an urban Indian setting, and this will break their hearts. So what would you rather do? Maintain an icy silence—or send Americans screaming, heartbroken?” At restaurants he would throw a consumerist fit if the patron said: “Do you want a doggy bag, sir?” Do I look like a doggy-owning sort of man to you! Are these the hands of a doggy-rider? At night he would let the elephantrest in his driveway and scrub it like a lovesick mechanic and refer to it as PINKY. But mostly Rakesh relished the image of walking up to his parents and saying I am dedicating myself to buying an elephant and enjoying their stunned expressions.
    Will you have some chai , they would say.
    You are getting away from the point at hand.
    But son, have we not been good parents? Did we not take you on the third of every full moon to the Delhi zoo from the special pass entrance?
    No, you have given birth to me and led me to sadness, and now the only thing I can say to you is that I need an elephant in my life.
    What about another wife?
    Another wife?
    They are better, no? Can be ridden too. Plus, less dung, less maintenance.
    He had woken from his vision to the wailing of two-year-old Arjun—curled up in a tiny crib on the plane—and been ashamed that his vision had made no mention of Arjun and that already he was craving a new wife. He needed to remain single, wedded only to his memory of Rashmi. He had to live for the last surviving vestige of Rashmi—his son. He had to make money for Arjun’s sake and not descend into depression.
    But what could he do now that he had quit his PhD program?
    Rakesh Ahuja crouched in the aisle seat of U.S. Airways Flight 232 and wept.
     
     
    Thinking of Rashmi, Rakesh felt a flare of warmth shoot through his body. All his sexual instincts were reactivated. Hewanted to make love to this strange, unattractive, gutsy girl lying next to him on the hotel bed. He made her turn away from him, held her breasts, and entered her precisely; she said nothing, though he could feel little tender jabs along the line of her spine. He thought of Rashmi the entire time they made love. Once in a while, he said a soothing word.
     
     
    The end result of all this—when they lay side by side again, fully clothed, after having washed up, taking turns in the bathroom, having nothing to say—was regret. He hadn’t used a condom, and this was a hideous way to make a girl lose her virginity, what did she think of him? He tried to be tender with her again, but her body reacted with stiffness. She fussily adjusted her pillow. She turned and flounced away as if they had been married for years. Rakesh wondered: Did she see him, as he saw himself now, as a monster? Or was she pleased that they were now stuck—that he couldn’t possibly leave her now. What if she was pregnant? And if they were stuck, did she know what she was in for? The type of person he was?
    “I think you’re very pretty,” he said.
    Here we go.
    “Thank you,” she mumbled.
    “Was that okay?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did you feel good?”
    He was sitting up now, arms thrown around his knees.
    “Yes.”
    “Are you sure?”
    He considered turning her over and kissing her.
    “Yes.”
    “Good,” he said.
    “Good night,” she said.
    “Good night.”
    Soon she was asleep, curled away from Rakesh. He stayed awake for a few minutes, staring at the spiral striations left by the bangles on her