Custody (17 page)

With shaking fingers she dialled her daughter’s number.

‘Raman phoned.’

‘And?’

‘He is going to put you in jail – he is very angry.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Tomorrow he wants to talk to the children, otherwise he will file a criminal case against you.’

‘Empty threats.’

‘Beta, he can hire goondas to attack both of you. He can have a private detective trail your movements, gather more damaging evidence. I keep saying, till things are settled stay with me.’

‘Calm down, Mama. He is trying to frighten you – now go to sleep and don’t worry. We will come tomorrow, OK?’

Did Shagun really think that anxiety, her constant companion, could be erased so easily? Was she that unacquainted with her mother’s heart? Bewildered, she remained seated by the phone, her hands helplessly in her lap. She had done her duty, relayed a message – the rest was up to other people. To calm herself she began to plan the next day’s menu to include her grandchildren’s favourite foods, rajma rice and fried potatoes with chaat masala. Shagun objected to anything fried but occasionally, where was the harm? Thank God she had baked a cake, in the morning she would make a cocoa-butter icing.

Eventually she closed her eyes and slept for some fitful, unrestful hours. In the morning she woke with a heavy head – another symptom of her daughter’s troubled family life.

They came, withdrawn children, waifs in the marital combat zone, Arjun, face pinched, Roo pale with wisps of hair across her eyes.

‘The children are looking so thin.’

‘They are all right.’

Mrs Sabharwal bustled into the kitchen, lit the gas and started frying. The smell of hot oil, the sound of its bubbles, the faint sizzle of potato slices filled the flat. As they were eating the phone rang.

Arjun picked up. ‘Papa?’

‘Son. Are you all right?’

‘Yes, Papa.’

‘I miss you so. When I came home and found you not there, it was like hell. Just hell.’

‘Sorry, Papa.’

‘Would you like to come and stay with me? I will take a few days off. What do you say?’

‘I don’t want to leave Mama.’

‘Am I asking you to do that? You can phone her, meet her as often as you like. I will never stop you.’

‘She says I will never see her if I stay with you,’ said Arjun.

‘That’s absolute rubbish. Does your mother think everybody is like her? Is she there?’

Arjun did not reply, and Raman tried to modify the hatred in his voice. ‘Beta, if you stay with me I promise, there will be no restrictions – no pressure to do anything. We will do fun things together – like – like . . .’

He stopped. He couldn’t imagine doing fun things with his children. Once upon a time they had gone on family outings, films, restaurants, friends’ houses, but that had been in another era and always collectively.

His wife came on the line. ‘He doesn’t want to talk. You are scaring him.’

‘Shagun, you know that is nonsense. Since when have my children been afraid of me? You are filling them with stories.’

‘Goodbye. And incidentally please don’t harass my mother. This has nothing to do with her.’

A click and silence.

This was worse than anything he could have imagined. It had been so artificial talking to Arjun like that – and Roohi – he hadn’t even spoken to his daughter.

He dialled his mother-in-law’s number again. Shagun picked up.

What?

Where is Roo?

A pause. Then,

She also doesn’t want to talk to you.

Let her tell me that.

Pause, indistinct voices. Then,

She refuses to come to the phone. What can I do?

You have manipulated her. She has always, always wanted to talk to me. Even when I was in office.

Well, things have changed.

And Shagun put the phone down.

The whole charade had accomplished nothing. He could exchange words with his children, but not establish the connection he was craving. This realisation drove him mad with frustration.

If only he could harm the mother without affecting the children, he would be so happy.

Telling the servants he wouldn’t be in for dinner, he slowly went to his car to begin the drive across the river to his parents’. As he hurtled over the bridge, taking advantage of every gap in the traffic, his cousin at that very moment was thinking of him. The interim application had come up and the other side had been granted one month in which to file a reply. The man who had appeared was a junior of an expensive lawyer in South Delhi. Clearly the other party thought that high fees guaranteed victory.

‘Calm down,’ advised Nandan. ‘You won’t be able to fight if you get so upset.’

‘She didn’t even let me talk to them on the phone.’

Nandan looked sad. His younger cousin’s distress brought out the pity he was usually careful not to feel. Years of litigation lay ahead and Ramu had to realise that now, otherwise the inevitable delays would destroy him. ‘She is using the children to get what she wants. It’s not surprising – that’s what people do.’

‘What does she want?’

‘You mentioned a divorce,’ said Nandan patiently.

‘What kind of mother is she? To make the children pawns in her larger game plan – I would never do it, never.’

‘There are not many like you.’

Raman felt vaguely soothed. It was true, in this dog-eat-dog world there were not many people like him.

‘When will all this be heard?’

‘Soon. Today they were given a month by which to file the reply for visitation rights. So at least the process has started. And judges generally keep the interests of the children in mind.’

Raman remained sunk in his own despairing thoughts. His cousin’s wife was knitting some everlasting garment. He looked at her; a dab of red lipstick across her unpretentious face, her hair always in a loose plait. In the years following his own wedding, he had pitied Nandan his wife. The gods were punishing him now.

But, continued Nandan, if they were playing on his nerves the worst thing he could do was to succumb. This was essentially a waiting game. They were all behind him.

Involuntarily Raman yielded to the sympathy. When his mother suggested he stay the night, he gratefully slept next to his parents’ snoring forms in the single air-conditioned room, remembering how he had studied on this bed for his IIT entrance exams, in the belief that with good marks you could achieve anything.

*

In Madan Singh’s office.

‘Hey, Shakes, making up for the absence of all these years?’

‘What to do, yaar? Stuck in such a situation.’

‘Where’s Shagun?’

‘I wanted to see you without her. She gets very emotional and I need to understand exactly what our options are.’

‘In matrimonial disputes the options are usually few.’

‘How long will this thing take?’

‘For ever.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously. Unless you can bring the other side to the bargaining table. If they don’t come, harass them until they do. Then of course there is the divorce petition.’

‘Are we going in for irreconcilable differences?’

‘These grounds do not exist in India.’

‘How is that possible?’

‘After living apart, if both parties agree, then a divorce by mutual consent can be initiated.’

‘Shagun still hopes that Raman will eventually come around.’

‘The fact is you have leverage as long as you have the children. But he is going to get visitation rights – six months, ten months, and after that the pressure will ease.’

‘And then?’

‘Then what? You live your life.’

‘It’s not so easy. She is petrified of being followed, that they will get evidence to link us, which will prove she is an unfit mother. I can’t believe choosing another man suggests that, but she says I don’t know.’

‘Well, the courts take a conservative view of sexual morality.’

‘It’s the nineties. Don’t Indians change partners? Or are we still living in Vedic times?’

‘Indians do everything. But the legal position is another matter.’

‘What about bribes?’

‘The case has to come to that stage first. You can try and bribe the judge, you can bribe for delays – but what else? Bribes won’t make the system speedy and efficient.’

‘I hate this country.’

‘It has its own dynamics. You just have to know how to work them.’

‘That’s what I do at office – all day long. Now it’s particularly bad.’

‘So I’ve heard.’

‘Trust an NGO to discover that we, and we alone, are responsible for farmer suicides.’

‘With what proof?’

‘What proof is needed if you are a foreign company? All that is necessary is a few reports and a receptive press. Never mind farmers were committing suicide anyway. Now it’s our fault because of the groundwater situation. We have to be holier than any national manufacturer.’

‘Didn’t you face something like this in Brussels?’

‘Yes – but here the damage control works differently. You will be amazed at the number of water conservation programmes we are funding. Sponsoring environmental education in schools and colleges, cleaning up bawaris and lakes in affected districts, announcing our commitment to rainwater harvesting, sustainable development, and zero water balance in five years. Every effort is publicised – through ads in the media, TV, print, regional, national, the works. It’s costing us millions of dollars.

‘Bad for you personally?’

‘It’ll pass. The wretched thing is that the rest of the world gets to know, and such negative publicity takes a while to subside.’

‘Well, you were always up for a challenge, Shakes.’

His friend smiled, at this tacit reminder of an old school saying, challenges are what make a man.

‘So,’ said Ashok, ‘you think we should file for divorce?’

‘Absolutely. The sooner the better. We will need to work with Shagun for instances of mental cruelty, abuse, withholding financial support, in-law trouble, physical mistreatment.’

Ashok blanched, thinking how difficult it was to associate Raman with these words.

‘Unless of course he comes to his senses and agrees to mutual consent. Then all this becomes irrelevant.’

‘What else can we do?’

‘Cause as much obstruction as possible on the minor petition.’

‘For how long?’

‘As long as we can. And hope they offer us a divorce as a way out of the situation.’

Shagun in Madan Singh’s office. Ashok is with her, she is trying to think of instances of cruelty in her marriage, but can’t come up with much.

‘Why do I have to say all this? It’s not true, and he can call witnesses to prove he never beat me, or denied me money, or insulted me in public.’

‘Why do you want a divorce, then?’

‘Because I love someone else.’

‘Not a good enough reason. You have to make a case that is valid in court.’

‘But I am the one that left.’

‘Because of unbearable mental cruelty. I am afraid this is how divorce works.’

As strong a case was made as possible and sent to Raman Kaushik’s residence.

Raman barely glanced at his wife’s allegations. Though love was dead, his sense of justice found such lies intolerable. Nandan, however, maintained that the very wildness of the charges proved she was just throwing accusations in the wind, hoping one would stick. It was a weak petition, he had expected better from her lawyer, who was supposed to be quite good. It was all strategy, that Raman had to understand.

Days passed. Raman’s whole soul was concentrated on August 10th when the reply to the interim application would be filed in court and the process of seeing his children would start. The night before, he phoned Nandan.

‘When should we meet?’

‘For what?’

‘Isn’t tomorrow the date for the interim application?’

‘It is a mere formality. Supposing they actually file a reply—’

‘Supposing? Don’t they have to? Isn’t that the purpose of the legal system, to make people do things they don’t want to?’

‘Yes, of course. However, the law likes to make allowances. And one of those allowances is time. Everybody knows this.’

‘Still, I want to come.’

There was a little pause.

‘Ramu – you don’t know how these courts operate. The other side will almost certainly try to delay, and you will have made a wasted trip.’

‘The judge will be party to this?’

‘If their excuse is good.’

‘My presence might make the judge realise I am a caring father. This is not just any old case. Both my children have been kidnapped.’

‘May I make a suggestion? Let me go and see where we are placed in the list. Then I will phone you just before our turn.’

‘I don’t want to miss it.’

‘Don’t worry, you won’t.’

Nandan put the phone down. From the beginning he had known that to take on Raman’s case would stress him out. To charge such a close relative was unthinkable, all he hoped was to avoid blame for the endless deferrals that were part of the system. It was a thousand-to-one chance that the other side would calmly hand in a reply tomorrow.

The tenth passed slowly. Mid-morning, still no phone call. By the end of the day, still nothing.

On the phone that evening: ‘What happened, yaar?’

‘Arre, hardly any of the applications got heard today. There was a bomb scare.’

The line was bad, Raman couldn’t hear properly, what had Nandan just said?

‘Bomb scare, bomb scare.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Some joker makes an anonymous phone call – says there is a bomb in Tees Hazari. The whole building is vacated, while the police squad does a search.’

‘Did they find it?’

‘Of course not. Somebody probably wanted a postponement.’

‘Tell me, does this happen often?’

‘Often? Not really.’

‘So, what are we going to do now?’

‘Wait, of course. A date has been set next week for today’s cases.’

‘Well, let me know,’ said Raman dully.

‘Don’t worry. This kind of thing happens – you can’t help it, yaar. It’s a matter of luck.’

‘Luck. Yes. Well.’

The conversation ended. Raman remained sitting by the phone, in a well of self-pity, listening to a house empty of all family, the only human sound the murmur of servants. He had a good mind to bomb the courts himself. How was the ordinary man to get justice?