"I didn't ask for your assessment," she said.
"No," he said. "You didn't." He picked up his phone. He went back to reading.
She drank her chai. He drank his coffee. Outside, Lucknow was beginning to wake up — the first sounds of the city, the milk van, the distant call of a mosque, the specific morning quality of a North Indian city pulling itself toward the day. The kitchen was quiet in the particular way of a space that two people are sharing without choosing to interact, which was different from a space that only one person occupied, the difference in it detectable as a kind of atmospheric pressure.
"The northern ward data," she said. She hadn't meant to say it. It came out anyway. "I have the same data. The infrastructure deficit. I've been trying to cross-reference it with the state budget allocation schedule — but the schedule hasn't been published for this year."
He looked up. "I have it," he said. "My father still has contacts in the Finance Ministry. I had the draft allocation schedule three weeks ago."
She looked at him. "That's privileged information."
"It's a draft. It's not classified. It will be published in six days in any case." He paused. "I'm telling you because the northern ward deficit is going to affect every candidate's promises in this election, regardless of party. If both of us are making different incorrect promises about the same set of wards, we're both going to look like we don't know what we're talking about."
"You could just let me look like I don't know what I'm talking about," she said. "That would benefit you."
"Yes," he said. "But it wouldn't benefit the northern ward residents." He stood up. He refilled his coffee. He didn't look at her. "I'll share the document if you want it. Send it to your email. No conditions."
She said nothing for a long moment. "Fine," she said. "Yes. Send it."
He sat back down. He typed on his phone. Her phone, at the other end of the table, vibrated with an incoming email. She looked at the notification. It was the budget allocation document. She looked at him. He was already reading again, his attention back on his own phone, the gesture of someone who had done a thing and moved on from it and was not going to make anything of having done it.
She opened the email. She started reading. He read his own thing. The kitchen was quiet.
