Custody Read online

  How deceptive prettiness could be. And she hadn’t even managed to give her looks to Roohi, the boy had got them all. Handsome, intelligent, an achiever in school, he spent all his time sulking. Truly his mother’s child.

  In her frustration she turned to the children. They had to look after their father, he had no one but them, and they must be very careful not to grieve him, they didn’t want their father to die, did they?

  Roohi’s tears, Arjun’s fear, Papa is going to die, Shagun’s anger, control your mother, she is frightening the children. Things became so bad that Raman had to beg his parents to go away.

  Mrs Kaushik was extremely reluctant to leave her son. Death by poisoning, the wrong medicine wilfully administered, or a push over the balcony filled her troubled mind. Consultation with the servants followed. Should anything suspicious occur, they should let her know whatever the time, day or night. There would be plenty of rewards for them, they could see for themselves how liberal she was.

  ‘Shagun may have many faults but murder is not one of them,’ said Mr Kaushik as they prepared to leave. ‘If Raman trusts his wife, we should respect that. And what is more, if you call her a whore, a cheat, and selfish to the core, you are going to make him feel worse.’

  ‘Who gave him his heart attack? Answer me that.’

  ‘I am talking about your tongue, not your emotions. But you will never learn.’

  Mrs Kaushik looked upset, but valiantly sniffed to suggest that her husband did not know everything. When she talked to Raman he seemed to have put himself beyond her reach. Why was the boy so sensitive? Would he ever receive the love he deserved?

  With the distracting presence of his parents removed, Raman bleakly acknowledged that the situation between his wife and himself was intolerable. What greater sign of his devotion could he give than a heart attack? There must have been a fault in him as well, that had driven her to do what she did. She was basically a good woman, he knew that, and now he tried to think of a way to draw her closer. We have to talk, he said, and commenced on his prepared speech, starting with love, moving on to the children and ending with forgiveness.

  ‘Give me a little more time,’ murmured Shagun, eyes on the floor.

  As he stared at her glossy hair, the awareness of what a decent man he was flooded him, followed by self-disgust. Miserable dependent fellow, to be so enmeshed with his wife he was forced into a magnanimity she didn’t even care for.

  ‘I am approaching you with an open mind,’ he said coldly, ‘but if you need so much time, perhaps there is no point.’

  ‘I only need to think,’ protested the wife.

  ‘Are you seeing him?’

  ‘He is not here.’

  Deprived of the distractions of office, with thoughts that fed compulsively on infidelity and treachery, Raman was forced to be more businesslike. Should she stay in this house, he told Shagun, it would have to be as his wife. Living like this was painful for him. He was a simple, straightforward man. If she found she had made a mistake, he was willing to overlook it. But if she refused to give up her other relationship, it was better to end the marriage.

  Shagun looked inscrutable. There was a time when the words between them had flowed, now every sentence was blocked.

  ‘Do you have nothing to say?’ he asked.

  ‘Why do you want to live with me? You will always think of what I have done, certainly your mother will bring it up for the rest of my life.’

  ‘Leave my mother out of it, please. She is not me, neither does she live here.’

  ‘She influences you.’

  ‘If she really had influenced me, you would be out of the door by now.’

  Shagun’s face twisted. ‘See. You may not say anything, but you can be sure that she will. As it is, she spent so much time worming information out of the servants. And of course she tells the children how bad I am. Why doesn’t she publish it in the newspapers and have done?’

  ‘When her son has a heart attack, naturally she is concerned. Imagine Arjun in my place.’

  A silence in which both of them hoped Arjun would never be in a similar situation.

  That evening Shagun walked slowly to the colony park. She needed to be away from the house, it was too full of her husband. Raman must have struggled to forgive her; how many men would have been so generous? Ashok did not have this gentle, forgiving streak, he would rather kill both her and himself before he let her go. She was a fool for preferring him, a fool. One day she would be punished.

  How many times had her lover told her that women had a right to their own lives? Had the right to start again if they found they had made a mistake? But didn’t leaving husbands screw up the children? she had asked. Not at all, he said, it depended on how you handled the situation.

  Clearly she was not handling it well. Roohi’s face had assumed a pinched look that made her big staring eyes seem glassy and unattractive. Every day she redefined the word ‘clingy’. Only her mother could read her a bedtime story, only her mother could feed her, bathe her, change her, put her on the pot. When Shagun tried to reason with her, she would whimper – back to being a baby, anyone could read the signs.

  Arjun swung between snuggling against his mother when they were alone to studied indifference in front of others. Once, when Raman was in hospital, she had tried talking to him about how he would feel if Papa didn’t live with them, only to have him ask worriedly if Papa was going to die, so instead of preparing him she had left him more anxious.

  She sat on a stone bench in the corner under a bougainvillea trellis and stared blankly about her. Walkers each brisk in their own way were going round and round the paved path, small children wobbled on their tricycles, there was a cluster around the ice-cream man, a vendor selling fruit chaat was passing out his wares in little donas with a toothpick sticking up from the sliced apples. The air was fragrant with the waxy white flowers of the champa tree. Absently she picked a fallen blossom, putting it to her nose, remembering the pleasure she used to take in its scent. Nothing. Her tangled life was taking away her sense of smell. She wondered how many more years she had to live.

  She picked another flower from the grass and mangled it. If only she could wake and find herself with Ashok, why was that not possible? She could just leave with a note – people in books were always doing that. I have gone, don’t bother looking for me, goodbye . . .

  Marriage over, finished, done with.

  Eyes closed, she slouched lower, until her head rested against the stone back of the bench. Her weary mind drifted about, trying to find a lifeline out of the morass that seemed to only get worse with every passing day.

  Sometimes she believed Raman had had a heart attack just to spite her. If she should stay in the marriage it would have to be without ever sharing his bed again. The consciousness of her obligations filled her with a dreary sense of duty.

  ‘Memsahib?’

  Ganga was standing before her. Roohi had been screaming hysterically for fifteen minutes, not even Sahib could quieten her, she had better hurry back.

  On the day of Ashok’s arrival, Shagun left the house with an overnight case. She had to meet him one more time, she had to say goodbye in a way that wouldn’t hurt him, then go to her life with Raman, that joyless, dismal, uninteresting life.

  Everything was magic the moment she stepped into the airport, the intensity of the last minutes of waiting, the ecstasy of reunion. This was where she belonged, this was where she was most herself.

  They spent the night in his house, and the next morning she cried as she described the horrible guilt, the children’s behaviour, her mother’s pressure, Raman’s unspoken hopes. Everybody involved with her had suffered. She had come to say goodbye, she said, wrapping her long white arms around him, bringing his face close to hers, feeling the dampness of his breath upon her skin, breathing in his sophisticated scents.

  Ashok listened carefully. Going to New York had been difficult. For the first time in his career, he had behaved in a way that requ
ired explanation. Though enough in love to pay the price, he was worried. His time in India was limited, in Delhi it was practically over.

  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.