Custody Read online

  ‘The teachers say she has become quite withdrawn. I had to tell them what has happened at home – so they can be on their guard in case Raman tries to kidnap her.’

  ‘What did they say to that?’

  ‘What would they say? My situation is not so uncommon, you know.’

  Mrs Sabharwal did not know but said nothing.

  ‘Anyway, the child is happier, that is what matters.’

  ‘Of course.’

  They had lunch and waited for the server. ‘I wonder what it is,’ said Mrs Sabharwal, to fill the awkwardness between Shagun and herself.

  ‘Couldn’t be a plea for divorce,’ said the daughter dryly. ‘Must be custody.’

  Mrs Sabharwal looked blank.

  ‘Mama, I wish everybody were as sweet and simple as you. You think once the marriage is over everything naturally follows? No such luck. Divorce takes a lifetime and if you are not living together where do the children go?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Exactly. They can only be with one of us at a time. The question is who, how, where and when? All that is custody.’

  This information made Mrs Sabharwal so sad she could hardly speak.

  ‘I’ll be the one to file for divorce,’ continued Shagun. ‘We are working it out with Madz.’

  ‘Madz?’

  ‘Ashok’s lawyer friend.’

  ‘What will you do if he doesn’t divorce you? He may not want to.’

  ‘Don’t I know that? Punishment is what he is after.’

  ‘Beta, he must be very upset. You know how much he loves his children.’

  Shagun’s face hardened and Mrs Sabharwal understood she must not say things like this.

  All afternoon they waited. Shagun started fretting about Arjun coming home from school and not finding her.

  ‘Surely he is used to that?’

  ‘Things are different now, Mama. My children need me.’

  It was around four thirty, when Shagun was coaxing Roohi to drink her evening glass of milk, that the server finally came. Shagun grabbed the sheaf of papers stamped with judicial insignia, signed, called a taxi and departed, leaving the mother to feel a little slighted, a little ignored, a little unimportant.

  In the taxi Shagun flattened the thick wad with unsteady hands.

  ‘What is that, Mama?’ asked Roohi, taking her thumb out of her mouth.

  ‘Nothing, beta, let Mama read.’

  The thumb went back and Roohi returned her gaze to the city.

  Petitioner – Mr Raman Kaushik, Respondent – Mrs Shagun Kaushik – flip, flip to the end, what did he want? If only, only a divorce, but no, his meanness made that impossible, ah, here it was, that for the reasons stated above, the petitioner’s prayer was that the two minor children be restored to their father’s custody.

  Back went Shagun to the reasons mentioned above. She had guessed they would be awful, but this awful? One affair changed into licentiousness from the day they married, her own mother turned into a procuress, her uncaring nature in full display as she abandoned her children to co-habit with Ashok Khanna. Exposure to him threatened the minors’ psychological well-being, she herself was an evil moral influence. The paper slid from her lap to the taxi floor.

  ‘What is it, Mama?’

  She could not answer.

  The child shook her arm: ‘Mama, Mama, what is it?’

  ‘It is a little message from your father. He is trying to kill me.’

  The grip on her arm tightened.

  ‘You must never see him, or go to him, even if he calls you. He is a bad, bad man.’

  Roohi looked down. The mother gazed at the bits of scalp that showed through the fine hair of her daughter’s bent head. She put an arm around her, ‘Never leave me, darling, never,’ and the child bobbed reassuringly against her shoulder.

  Arjun was in the drawing room when they came back.

  ‘Where were you?’ he demanded. ‘I was waiting for you. Nobody knew where you were.’ His face was tense as he fixed his mother with an accusing stare. A glass of milk was sitting on the table next to him, a thickened layer of malai crusting its surface.

  ‘Beta, I was at Naani’s house. Some work took longer than I thought.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me where you were going?’

  ‘Papa is trying to kill Mama,’ said Roohi.

  Her brother looked at her with contempt. ‘Don’t talk rubbish, Roo. You don’t know anything.’

  ‘Mama said.’

  She is going to die, flashed across the son’s mind, while the daughter stared at her mother across the web of her spread-out fingers.

  ‘Not really,’ said Shagun hastily, ‘what I meant was that he is trying to take you two away and that will kill me. Kill me.’ She drew her children near and stared desolately out of the window over their heads. After a while she asked tenderly, ‘I will get your milk heated, all right, beta?’

  ‘My stomach is hurting,’ said Arjun.

  ‘Poor little babu. Would you like a banana instead?’

  He shook his head. Shagun sighed. Of course it was the recent disturbances that were causing her son stress. If only Raman could see things rationally, there was no reason why they both couldn’t continue as joint carers of their children. They had been so delighted when she came to get them, throwing themselves on her with hugs and kisses. That scene had replayed itself in her heart many times, even though it had been a little spoiled by Arjun’s assumption that she had come to stay. No, she had to explain, they were all leaving Papa, they would never stop loving him of course but things had changed and living together was out of the question. Some day he would understand. Now would he please be a good boy and help her pack his stuff?

  ‘My stomach is hurting too,’ said Roohi, picking up her brother’s illness as fast as it takes an idea to travel from one sibling to the other.

  ‘Copycat.’

  ‘Beta, be nice to your sister.’

  ‘She is so stupid.’

  ‘Arjun! Please! You two must love each other, not fight all the time.’

  She pushed them away, the reality of having to deal with thirty-two pages of lies making her suddenly impatient. Arjun stared at her. In his school bag lying on the floor next to his feet was a maths test which he had failed. His father had always sat with him during weekends, guiding him through many practice sums. ‘In this subject the secret of success is practise, practise. Practise so that you will not make a mistake no matter how pressed for time in an exam or how nervous. Don’t forget it’s easy to fall behind, hard to make up.’

  Now for the first time in his life he had done badly. Nine on 25. What would his mother say? She hadn’t even remembered that tests were fixed for the first period on Wednesdays. His teacher had asked him to get the test signed. He would forge his mother’s signature and hand it in tomorrow.

  Next week was English, he could handle that. But the week after was science, again a subject his father had taught him. He could try asking a friend for help, but till now he was the one his friends turned to. What on earth would they think?

  Shagun put away the ghastly court papers, then spent a long time on the pot, expelling the tension from her body. Once done, she stood looking at her face in the mirror. Nobody would have said she was in her early thirties, in certain lights she looked a young girl, and according to Ashok she had the body of one too.

  Today, unfortunately, she would have to greet him with news of the case, another thing he would have to deal with. As though he didn’t have enough on his plate already.

  These days Ashok Khanna was a beleaguered man, but as he was fond of saying, he was used to fighting fire. Every morning when he opened the newspaper it was to find The Brand being accused of fresh instances of callous capitalist behaviour. An NGO had objected to the fact that it took 2.5 litres to make 1 litre of a drink of no nutritional value. On purely circumstantial evidence they were being linked to depleted groundwater resources and debt-ridden farmers.

  Unfortunately nob
ody waited for allegations to be proved before multinational-bashing took place. The issue was serious enough for head office to extend Ashok’s stay in India.

  It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good.

  That night as Arjun lay in bed, he could hear his mother and Ashok Uncle talking in the next room. At home comfort had flowed from the voices of his parents, here adult conversation seemed more ominous. He wanted his mother. If he pinched Roohi she would cry and that would bring her, but he knew she didn’t like being distracted by her children in the evenings.

  What was his father doing now? Should he phone him? No, better not – he might remember about the Wednesday tests, and ask him questions. In his father’s place there was instead this stranger hovering around Shagun. It made Arjun uncomfortable, the man’s fingers running up and down her arm, his hands reaching out to pull her close, the little kisses he dropped on her forehead. She never resisted as she sometimes had with Raman.

  Otherwise too his mother was different. For one, she was around much more. He liked that she was waiting to have lunch with him when he came from school, that she was so interested in everything that concerned him. To reward her the previously taciturn Arjun began to tell stories of what his friends had done, how they had competitions as to who could hit the fan with their tiffins, whose ruler could be broken by the other’s ruler, who could harass the teacher the most without getting into trouble. She would laugh, ruffle his hair, tell him he had become a really naughty boy.

  But when the man came home, the centre of attention shifted. Then he was treated on par with Roohi, to be fed, put to bed and otherwise ignored. Though he had only been in this house two weeks, he knew the pattern.

  Sometimes the mother would say, Guess what Arjun did in school today. And the uncle would say ‘What?’ but his look was directed only at her, as was his smile, and soon she would forget what she had meant to tell him.

  When Arjun left the room, his mother’s footsteps did not follow him, as they so often had in the old house. Once as he loudly dragged his feet he heard the man say, Let him be, he is growing up, you have to give him space.

  Roohi was not part of these exchanges. The maid who had appeared two days after their own arrival would be feeding her and then she would go to sleep.

  A week after the notice was delivered Raman phoned his mother-in-law: ‘Where are my children? I want to talk to them.’

  Mrs Sabharwal could hear the anguish in his voice. She knew the pain this caused her was of interest to nobody.

  ‘Beta, right now they are not here,’ she said carefully.

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Safe and well, don’t worry.’

  ‘Make sure they talk to me tomorrow, otherwise I will file a criminal case in addition to the civil. She will be put in jail where she belongs.’

  Melancholy triumph invaded the darkness in Raman’s heart. He could picture the anxious Mrs Sabharwal, always so attentive to the children and himself, wondering how things had gone this wrong. Was she trying to make sense of all the lies Shagun must have fed her? She sounded scared; he was glad, now the daughter would have to deal with the consequences.

  It was late but Mrs Sabharwal didn’t care. She could feel her dreaded palpitations – avoid stress, her doctor had said, but how was that possible? She didn’t doubt Raman’s threats for a moment. In all these years, she had never known him to say something he did not mean. How separating the children from their father was going to help matters, she didn’t know, but everything Shagun did now was with divorce in mind, and she herself was just beginning to appreciate that this dreaded state was in fact a sundering devoutly to be wished.

  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 servant
s 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.