Custody (13 page)

With the international management head he had looked at his options. He could go to the Middle East – there was plenty of scope there for product development – or he could stay in India for a few more months, managing ad campaigns from Bombay.

Six months, maybe eight, but that would be it. He didn’t pay attention to the stuff she was saying about going back to her husband. That was inconvenience talking, that and her children. They could no more be parted than a hand from its arm, the sea from the shore, the stars from the sky. But what he did understand was that she could not continue with this strain. It was better to make a clean break.

‘I am not letting you go.’

‘Don’t be silly. It will be better for everyone. Even for you – see how you have to invent reasons for staying in India.’

‘I mean it. You can’t go home.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ she repeated, but he heard the wistfulness.

‘How am I being silly? It’s never going to be easy – you might as well do it now.’

‘But you are going to Bombay.’

‘So? Come with me.’

‘Come with you?’

‘Yes, why not? Now everybody knows. In the company, in your family.’

He drew her face between his hands, looked at the perfect features, the tears that he had helped put in those eyes. He too wished for an end to complications.

She stared at him, lost in his face, so close she could smell the minty fragrance of his breath. With him everything seemed clear, the way out simple. Never to decipher the reproach in Raman’s looks, to experience the guilt she knew was hers, to never have to deal with Mr and Mrs Kaushik – she would give anything for such a new beginning.

‘And the children? How can I take them after his heart attack? What will he have?’

‘Whether you bring them or not, you will always be their mother. Nothing can interfere with that. But from now on this is your home and I am your husband.’

He kissed her on the lips, drew her close and whispered ‘little wife’. She sank down next to him; she knew she would have to pay heavily for this happiness, but at least, dear God, she would have a happiness she never had before. If she were to die tomorrow, it would be as a fulfilled woman.

XI

Mrs Sabharwal was given the task of explaining to a bewildered son-in-law that Shagun did not intend to return. She would call him later to sort things out. Raman was left with his hopelessness and two suddenly motherless children.

He was back at work and every day when he came home he had to first deal with his despair. He knew he was expecting that away from him she would realise the value of years of devotion and a home that was waiting for her. If he were in her place he would have realised these things by now.

In the beginning Raman prevaricated with the children. Their grandmother was ill, Mama has gone to look after her. Roohi accepted this, while Arjun just stared doubtfully at his father.

He distracted them with lies, then, as the days passed, brought himself to say Mama loved them, but she had left of her own accord. One day she would probably get in touch, but from now on it was just the three of them. They would have to be brave and learn to get along without her. He put his arms around his two young children and they huddled together for a long time.

Weekends brought company. There was no point in keeping his situation a secret from his friends any longer, and once they knew they arrived with sympathetic wives who came along with food and family. There was much toing and froing between parents and other relatives as well, everybody was determined that no free time should be allowed for sad and lonely thoughts. Eventually time would soothe his loss. Thank God, they said at various intervals, as Raman’s fate was discussed outside his hearing, thank God she left the kids. They shuddered to think of his condition without them.

One month later the phone rang, and it was Shagun asking for a divorce by mutual consent. She also wanted some arrangement by which she could visit Arjun and Roo.

‘What right did you have to do this to me?’ he said, one of many prepared lines bursting forth. While the words had sounded strong during rehearsals, the moment they left his mouth, he felt like a pitiable beggar, bewildered by circumstances.

Her voice, quick and light, said how really really sorry she was.

‘What about your children? Even if you don’t care for me, you should be concerned about them. Suddenly no mother. Gone. Vanished.’

‘Don’t make this harder. I have left you the best part of the marriage. Surely my freedom is not too much to ask in exchange?’

‘I will think about it.’ He put the phone down, only for that word ‘freedom’ to hurtle around his head with all its implications, suggesting the prison their marriage must have been for her.

The digital numbers of the clock showed 11.30. He had not realised how strong his hope had been until this minute. Tomorrow he would wonder what kind of man would long for a wife who didn’t care for him, but tonight in the darkness he let his grief overwhelm him and cried undisturbed, tears running off the side of his face into the pillow.

All next day her request echoed at the back of his mind. It was clear she had left the children behind so that he would recognise her generosity and be generous in return. A divorce was a precious, precious thing. If one partner didn’t want it, it was practically impossible to get. People fought for years – years spent in lawyers’ fees, postponed dates, lost in the agonising slowness of the judicial system, dreams of a new life slowly wasting away in the sourness of legal reality.

Why should she be the one to escape this fate? Let her be punished, never know happiness and be miserable till she died. These thoughts caused him uneasiness. He was not used to thinking viciously about Shagun, it would take a little more practice.

That night she phoned again. ‘So what is your decision?’

Once more her call took him by surprise. Clearly the breakup of a marriage operated on a different timescale for each of them. He needed to go through a period of mourning, for her it was a past that had to be forgotten.

Rage filled him.

‘Well?’ she asked.

‘The answer is no.’

It was strange how exhilarated this word made him feel. For the first time in the whole sorry matrimonial mess he felt in control. He would not divorce her, what could she do?

She came next day and took away the children.

He was met with the worried faces of his servants, who started justifying, excusing, explaining as soon as they saw him.

‘Memsahib came – packed their suitcases – their school bags. What could we do?’

‘You could have phoned me,’ he snapped, not wanting to see the glee on their stupid faces. Ultimately it was not their tragedy, their interest was involved but not their feelings. Well, the help was hired, what could you expect?

‘It was all so sudden. She had a taxi waiting,’ said Ganga.

‘I asked her to stay until Sahib came home, but Memsahib said she would get in touch with you later,’ explained Ganesh.

The fight was on, and any means was fair. Ever the good woman, his wife was clearly trying to help him see things in perspective. He looked around the empty house. His parents, he would go and see his parents.

‘Sahib, where are you going? The children will return, I am sure. God sees everything. He will not let you suffer.’

Should he aid Ganga’s cinema-induced dialogue by informing her that he was going to throw himself in the river? He slammed the door on his way out.

‘What will he do?’ Ganga asked Ganesh, the house to themselves, TV and all.

‘How should I know? What about dinner?’

‘Better to cook – he may just have gone to the market.’

And they would have huge quantities to themselves should he decide to not eat.

Blindly Raman drove out of the colony, trying to review his options through a breaking heart. As he made his way to East Delhi the rush-hour traffic on the ITO bridge slowed him down. Inch by inch he edged around aggressive cars, darting, weaving scooters, and chugging asthmatic two-wheelers. The AC collapsed midway across; he switched it off and rolled down the windows. The hot, humid air infused with the exhaust fumes of a million vehicles made his headache worse.

As he approached Vikas Marg, the slight elevation of the bridge allowed him to see the conglomeration of cars, scooters, scooter-rickshaws, buses backed up before the traffic lights, honking, jostling, bad-tempered and trapped. Rayri wallahs and parked vehicles before shopfronts distributed commerce and misery along the road.

The light changed. He estimated at least three more cycles before he was within hailing distance of the crossing. A quarter-hour at least. His fingers travelled to the Sorbitrate in his shirt pocket. In this traffic death could reach him before an ambulance.

Again the light change and inches gained on the road. What would his parents think? The grief would be his father’s, while his mother would feel vindicated.

Another light change. He turned around, at last the line was longer behind than in front.

Light change. He revved the engine, crawled through the crossing, slowly crept up the Shakarpur bridge. Finally, the traffic lights at Mother Dairy, and left onto Society Marg, skirting still more cart sellers, and finally one more left and one more right and there he was at Swarg Nivas.

The gatekeeper recognised him and let him in. It was almost seven – it had taken him an hour and twenty minutes to do a twenty-five-minute stretch. If his parents ever fell ill, he hoped it would not be in rush hour.

*

Mrs Kaushik prayed a lot these days, tottering down to the little temple near the gate, to sit in front of Lord Ram, an ideal husband like her son, who when his people insisted he take another wife in place of the banished Sita, ordered a gold statue in her image, rather than marry again. Of such integrity was her son, of such a sacrificial nature.

Her thoughts grew vague as she moved to her own sacrifices. She would give her life for her child; if only he would rely on her, he would see how some women can love.

Prayers over, she stood at the doorway gazing at the evening’s brisk walkers, searching hopefully for Mrs Rajora, or even her sister-in-law, when she saw Raman drive in and park in the visitors’ parking lot. He was alone, something had happened to the children, he would not be here otherwise.

‘Beta,’ she called as he started towards their apartment block.

He didn’t hear.

‘Beta.’

Deaf to his mother’s voice, he kept on, his walk strangely jerky. It was the children. Forced into a slow run she caught his arm, too afraid to say anything.

He stared at her for a moment blankly and she looked back, her face pinched in terror. ‘She’s taken them.’

They fussed over him, listened, advised. The father took immediate charge, while the mother gave Raman hot sweet tea, along with biscuits to dip in it. ‘I am going to phone Nandan,’ he said. ‘Right now he will be in his office in Mayur Vihar.’

‘I don’t want to meet Nandan,’ objected Raman.

‘When there is a lawyer in the family, why don’t you want to meet him? You would rather go to a stranger and get God knows what advice?’

‘I don’t want anybody to feel sorry for me.’

‘Beta, why do you keep such tension in you? His will be a professional opinion, what is the use of our suggestions? He won’t tell anybody, he is a very good boy.’

‘But why Nandan?’ went on Raman, in a monotone, as he watched his father bending over the telephone, his neat grey hair shining with pomade.

‘Han beta,’ said the father, ‘Raman is here. You know, the situation has suddenly worsened, and we were thinking—’

A silence as his father’s thinking was interrupted. ‘All right, we will be there. Thank you, beta, thank you very much.’

‘What does he say?’ asked Raman, already feeling a little hopeful as he saw his problems winging their way to Nandan’s office in the Mayur Vihar Phase II market.

‘He said he will see us at once – as family we shouldn’t even have to ask. Now come.’

‘I just hope he won’t gossip. I don’t want the whole building talking of this.’

‘Why will he gossip? He hears such stories all the time. And he is like your brother – you can trust his guidance. Otherwise which lawyer cares for their clients? They are all out to make money.’

‘Is Nandan good?’ asked Raman on the way down. ‘If I go to him I want results.’

‘Arre beta, he is famous for his results. With his reputation he could move to South Delhi to a much bigger office, but he wants to stay where his parents are.’

‘And you think I should have done the same thing?’

‘Nobody thinks anything, all right? Go to a fancy lawyer if you feel Nandan cannot help you, but at least meet him once.’

They drove the short distance to Mayur Vihar, Phase II, Pocket I.

‘Now your brother will know all the details of everything,’ remarked Raman again, his unhealthy obsession with keeping things secret striking his father as a reflection of his son’s extreme sensitivity.

‘Beta, when you had your heart attack, they obviously figured out something was wrong.’

‘You told them about my marriage?’

‘Arre, when they came to visit you, they themselves asked where is Shagun? How is she coping? It was very difficult to keep silent. Especially for your mother. Your friends know, don’t they?’

‘That’s different.’

They parked in a side lane and walked the rest of the way, stopping before a board that said ‘Nandan Kishore Kaushik, LLB’. Inside, the room was divided by a small screen partition: an office, and a waiting room with chairs lined against the wall and a coffee table with magazines.

As relatives they got almost immediate access. Nandan stuck his prematurely balding dyed head out and said, to a couple waiting patiently, ‘Just two minutes please, these people have an emergency.’ Nobody believed him. A lawyer could never take only two minutes, their profession forbade it, and as for emergencies, nobody who did not feel their case was urgent would be found there.

In the office there was a cooler standing in the corner, water trickling down its khus-lined metal sides. Against the wall behind the desk was a ceiling-high bookcase, lined with thick red legal volumes.