Chapter 3: Gauri

The framework meeting happened the following week, and it was: a trap.

Not a trap in the corporate sense — not the kind of trap where contracts had: hidden clauses and handshakes concealed: knives. This was a different trap. The trap of: proximity. The trap of sitting across a conference table from Abeer Malhotra for two hours while his team and my team negotiated the: terms of a CSR partnership and discovering that the man who memorised statistics also: listened.

He listened. Not the performative listening that Delhi's business men deployed — the nodding, the "absolutely," the checking-of-phone-under-table that constituted: executive engagement. Abeer Malhotra listened with his: whole body. Leaning forward when my programme director, Sunita, explained the: retention challenges in Rajasthan. Going still when the numbers were: bad. Asking questions that were: specific, that showed he had: read the reports, that showed he: understood.

The Calculator: computed. But the computation included: empathy, which was not what I had: expected.

"The schools in Barmer district," he said. "The dropout rate in Class 8 — forty-one percent. That's: higher than your Ajmer schools. Why?"

"Water," Sunita said. "The girls walk three kilometres for water. By Class 8, they're needed: at home. The education competes with: survival."

"So the solution isn't: more teachers. It's: water."

"The solution is: both. But: water first."

He wrote something. In a notebook — an actual: notebook, not a tablet, not a phone. A leather-bound notebook with: a pen. The anachronism of a man who ran: steel mills with his left hand and wrote: notes with his right.

"I want to fund: a borewell programme," he said. "Alongside the education commitment. If the water problem is: solved, the retention rate—"

"Improves by: approximately fifteen percent. Based on our Ajmer: data."

"Then the: five crore is insufficient. We'll make it: eight."

The room: stilled. Eight crore per year. Twenty-four crore over three years. The kind of money that changed: geography, that put borewells in villages that had been: walking for water since before anyone could: remember.

My programme team was: stunned. Priya — his assistant, sitting behind him with the: expression of a woman who was recalculating her understanding of her boss — was: stunned.

I was: not stunned. I was: suspicious. Because in Delhi, when someone increased a donation by: sixty percent in a single meeting, the: increase was not about: water. The increase was about: something else.

*

"He likes: you," Mohini said.

Mohini — my sister, twenty-six, junior analyst at Goldman Sachs Mumbai, the sister who had inherited Maa's: directness and Papa's: ability to see through: walls. Mohini was visiting Delhi for the weekend, sitting on my bed in the Khanna house in Jor Bagh, eating: rajma chawal from the kitchen that the cook, Bimla aunty, made with the: specific perfection of a woman who had been cooking for the Khanna family since before I was: born.

"He doesn't like: me. He likes: tax efficiency."

"He memorised your retention: statistics. He increased the donation by: three crore. He writes in a: notebook."

"What does the notebook have to do with: anything?"

"Men who write in notebooks are: romantics. It's: science."

"That is: not science."

"It's: Mohini science. Which is: better."

I ate the rajma chawal. The dal was: perfect — the specific creminess of Bimla aunty's rajma, the kidney beans softened for: six hours, the masala: dark, the rice: Basmati from the Khanna farms in Karnal, the rice that Papa insisted on even though you could buy: perfectly good rice from the market. "Our rice," Papa said. "From our: land."

"The issue," I said, "is that Papa wants a meeting with: Abeer's father. Surender Malhotra. And if Abeer and I are: involved in a CSR partnership, and then the families: meet, and then the meeting becomes: something else—"

"Something else meaning: arranged marriage?"

"Delhi families don't do: CSR partnerships without: considering the full: portfolio."

"Gauri. You think Papa is using the: foundation as a: marriage matchmaking service?"

"I think Papa is: incapable of seeing any interaction with the Malhotras that doesn't end in: a merger. Whether it's companies or: children."

Mohini put down the: rajma. The gesture of a woman giving: full attention. "Do you: like him?"

"I met him: twice."

"Do you: like him?"

"He's: intelligent. He: listens. He has glitter on his: ear from a week ago."

"That's a: yes."

"That's an: observation."

"Gauri. You literally just described a man as: intelligent, attentive, and: persistent. In Gauri-language, that's: a proposal."

I threw a: pillow. Mohini caught it — the reflexes of a sister who had been: pillow-attacked for twenty-six years and who had developed: defences. She threw it: back. The pillow fight lasted: eleven seconds and ended with Bimla aunty appearing at the door with: chai and the specific expression of a woman who had raised: two girls and who believed that pillow fights were: acceptable until they knocked over: the lamp.

"The lamp is: fine," Mohini said.

"The lamp was not: fine last time," Bimla aunty said. "Drink: chai."

We drank: chai. The Khanna chai — made with: Assam tea, not Darjeeling, because Papa was: Punjabi and Punjabis demanded: strength in their chai the way they demanded strength in their: business. The chai was: sweet. The evening was: warm. My sister was: here.

And somewhere in Vasant Vihar, a man who wrote in notebooks was: thinking about borewells and biodegradable glitter and the: space that opened when a woman said "my mother is: dead" and the: person who stayed.