Custody Page 16

  ‘It is, because I don’t like him.’

  Mrs Rajora was appalled: Ishu didn’t know what she was talking about, feelings grew between man and wife, look at her and Papa, nobody she knew started out with love, it wasn’t practical to expect it.

  But Ishita did not budge.

  She was very sorry for all the trouble she was causing, but she could not marry a man she didn’t even find interesting. If a lonely life was the consequence, she would rather be lonely.

  The sister took the rejection personally and Mrs Rajora was afraid she had made an enemy.

  ‘Avoid looking in the building, it can lead to this kind of trouble,’ said the father.

  So Mrs Rajora went on circling ads, sending Ishita’s bio-data and photograph, front and side, to the suitable-sounding at various PO boxes. Though there was occasional interest shown, the IPS man remained the best they had come across. If Ishita had known this would be the case, would she have behaved differently? mused the mother sadly.

  She wondered where Mrs Kaushik was. Poor Leela Kaushik. Things were going badly for her, it showed there was no certainty in life. Five days and nights she had spent outside the ICU where her son was recovering from a heart attack. Since then she had taken to disappearing for the whole day to his house, she who hardly used to go.

  Well, it made it easier to be her friend if she didn’t have to be jealous all the time.

  Meanwhile Mrs Hingorani’s fertile mind was also occupied with the question of Ishita’s future.

  ‘Have you thought of studying further?’ she asked. ‘It will get you a job with more income, and that spells respect and independence.’

  Ishita chewed her lip.

  ‘Why don’t you consider an MA in Social Work from DU, or from the Institute of Social Welfare in Bombay?’

  ‘I’m not sure History Honours qualifies me.’

  ‘You just need a graduate degree to sit for the entrance exam. Think about it. You are young, unencumbered, you can go anywhere, do anything. What is stopping you?’

  What was stopping her? mused Ishita on the way home. They were many job options in the nineties, she knew that. A girl down their corridor was an air hostess, she often saw her in her smartly tied sari, with her little wheeled suitcase – going places, being adventurous.

  Her parents would be delighted if she suddenly developed a burning ambition. They wouldn’t even mind if she went to Bombay, unthinkable before her marriage.

  Jeevan was a full-time occupation, but she and the itinerant Germans were the only young people in it. Social service in India was often a post-retirement choice.

  She decided to try for the Institute of Social Welfare. What did she have to lose?

  Painstakingly she filled in the admission forms, attached her recommendations, and was surprised when she qualified for the entrance test. Easily she answered the questions concerning general knowledge, confidently she wrote the essay concerning the future of social work and was not surprised when she was called for the interview.

  It became a holiday with mother and father deciding to accompany Ishita to Bombay. Relatives in Bandra were dug up, train tickets bought and the planning done with a gaiety usually absent from their home.

  On the day of the interview they all left early for the Institute, housed in a pillared colonial building with deep verandas near the Oval. In a room with narrow, tall windows, five people sat across from Ishita asking questions. This was the first time she had ever been interviewed, and she was so nervous her hands were sweating.

  When she described her work at Jeevan, she sounded young and foolish, when she described what she would do with this degree, she sounded uninteresting. They looked at her CV, how had she been occupied between the years 1991 and 1995? Married, oh, she had been married. No longer? What would happen if she married again?

  She realised the insult of that question but didn’t know how to counter it.

  Her rejection letter confirmed that she had been seen as a woman of no consequence. Why should they give her one precious seat if she had done nothing from 1991 to 1995 except be a wife? From the moment she had been born marriage had been the goal, and every choice reflected this.

  Mrs Hingorani responded to the rejection by cursing the Institute. Fools they were not to see her potential. Ishu didn’t have enough experience in presenting herself, that was the trouble.

  Mrs Rajora too was disappointed. In Bombay her daughter might have met a nice boy.

  ‘Just let her be,’ repeated the father for the millionth time. ‘She will find her way. Why do you keep on worrying?’

  This was one of the phrases that periodically laced their marriage; necessary for Mrs Rajora to feel her efforts had registered, for Mr Rajora to feel he had done all he could to control his wife’s behaviour.

  A few months later Mrs Hingorani said, ‘Ishu, I wonder, have you ever thought of adopting?’

  A blank look.

  ‘What is it that makes a child your own? The time, the care or the genes?’

  ‘But people like to make sure there are no evil influences in the background, no abnormalities. And don’t you bond more if you go through pregnancy … ?’ offered Ishita in a small voice. She knew Mrs Hingorani would disapprove, but weren’t these facts?

  ‘As though you can ever be sure of these things. Look at our children, do they seem abnormal? Incapable of loving?’

  Ishita thought of little Tulsi, dark, sharp-featured, thin pink lips, big alert eyes, high cheekbones, the daughter of Rajasthani migrant labourers, who followed her around, saying didi, didi, take me to your house. What would it be like to care for such a girl, watch her grow, send her to school?

  It is a wonder what examples can do. This one came from a six-month-old baby girl adopted by a university couple. They were having a small ceremony, changing the infant’s orphanage name to one chosen by their pandit. Come and see, Ishita, said Mrs Hingorani. Ask the mother questions.

  That Sunday found the two of them driving along Ring Road. The overhead sky glared a pale translucent grey, dust hung in the air. At every traffic light, perspiration dampened their faces. Ishita knew she would look like a hag at the naming ceremony and this distressed her.

  ‘This is a great day for them,’ said Mrs Hingorani, dabbing violently at her face with her palla.

  ‘Why so great?’

  ‘It took them three years to get Sanjana.’

  ‘Three years! I thought the city was crawling with unwanted children.’

  ‘It’s a crime, but that is the bureaucracy. And this is for a girl – boys are a thousand times more difficult.’

  Ishita fiddled with her dupatta. ‘Is it the same if you are single?’

  ‘Almost. A bit more paperwork with the agency, but I know mothers who have done it.’

  Mrs Hingorani withdrew into strategic silence. Ever the teacher, she wanted Ishita to realise the different ways in which women could fulfil their desires, while Ishita, mired in uncertainty, could not decide which suggestion to nurture in the stony ground of her life.

  They arrived. Flowers were everywhere, presents heaped on a sideboard, the dining table laden with covered dishes. The centre of attention, Sanjana, was a tiny thin baby, dark-skinned with thick black hair. Her mother held her in her arms and from time to time stroked the downy cheek with a tender finger. The child’s father hovered about, looking proud.

  Why hadn’t she and SK ever considered adoption? She had just endured whatever had been dealt to her. Young and the owner of a substandard body, she had been blinded by fear.

  This woman, instead of being punished for her barrenness, was beaming with happiness. Her husband instead of looking for a new wife was content to beam with her. It wasn’t fair.

  Chandrakanta, Tarakanta, SK, her parents-in-law, how could she, young as she was, realise that their tenderness had strings attached? Maybe she and SK should have fought for the right to decide the major issues in their marriage, fought not towards the end when all she saw was his bac
k – but earlier, when he still cared for her.

  She would never understand love, its presence or absence altered you so fundamentally. And the loved Ishita was as far from the unloved one as the sun from the moon.

  Mrs Hingorani noticed Ishita’s withdrawn look.

  ‘Have you met the mother?’

  ‘Well, I … not really … she seems busy.’

  The new mother was summoned and told to explain adoption to Ishita.

  ‘Are you looking to adopt?’ she asked.

  Ishita shook her head.

  ‘Arre, just tell her,’ said Mrs Hingorani.

  ‘Well, both of us always thought it’s such an ego thing insisting on your own flesh and blood. The tyranny of biology is what’s wrong with society – not only ours, but everywhere.’

  Mrs Hingorani nodded.

  ‘You mean you adopted despite being able to have a child?’

  ‘Yup. We had to fake an infertility certificate. I suppose the idea is that if you do end up having your own child, you are incapable of caring for another.’

  Both she and Mrs Hingorani looked disgusted.

  That night Ishita lay awake for a long time, staring at the slivers of moonlight that sliced through the curtains. In everybody’s life there had to be a focus for the love in one’s heart. Without that, what was the use of living? Her involvement with street children did not extend beyond the school. She had her parents certainly, but eventually they would die.

  She thought of the baby she had just seen. Her destiny had changed because an academic couple with a strong ideological position had hearts large enough to fake an infertility certificate. How would she turn out? Could Mrs Hingorani produce samples of older adoptees?

  Mrs Hingorani could.

  ‘I’m going out tomorrow,’ said Ishita to her super-vigilant mother.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘With Auntie.’

  ‘It’s not enough you spend so much time with her during the week?’

  ‘I asked her to arrange this visit.’

  ‘Well, I don’t mind coming.’

  ‘It’s to see a woman who has adopted a child. The girl is in high school.’

  ‘Hai, Ram, what has got into you?’

  To prevent the inevitable argument, Ishita quickly got up. Four strides took her to the front door and into the corridor, then into the rickety elevator, out the narrow entranceway, past the parked cars, past the dhobi wielding his heavy iron. They smiled at each other, united by the friendliness of long association, divided by their social class. She picked her way through his many children eating, studying, sleeping, playing among massive bundles of clothes.

  Slowly she walked out of the gate towards the ice-cream wallah. ‘One choc-bar,’ she whispered.

  Briskly he threw open the lid of his box and rummaged inside. Vapour rose from its depths and a faint cold smell. Choc-bar in hand, she sat on one of the benches in the housing society’s green squares and breathed in the night jasmine. If she had had a wish in life it was to be a home-maker, with husband and children, something every girl she had ever known effortlessly possessed.

  She finished eating, crumpled the wrapper and rose. It could be worse, she could have cancer, she could be fighting for her life, instead of just its meaning.

  Sunday morning. Ishita and Mrs Hingorani were driving towards the proof, proof that adopted children were normal, proof that a warm heart need not also be a self-sacrificing one.

  ‘Does the child know she is adopted?’

  ‘Oh yes. You were chosen, Urvashi tells her, you are special.’

  So much depended on how you looked at things. In her entire life Ishita had neither felt chosen nor special.

  Mrs Hingorani turned the conversation to work. Their numbers meant they would simply have to find a larger place and spread their donation net wider to cover the extra rent. Her friend in Boston had suggested that Aid USA put them on their website. They were going to send some of their local representatives to inspect Jeevan; hopefully this would lead to greater funds. Meanwhile two more German kids were coming as volunteers, it was lucky that their experience here counted towards their school grades, would Ishita show them around?

  Yes, of course, said Ishita, dragged from her useless thoughts.

  *

  The proof was completely charming. Small-built, with light brown skin, straight black hair, slightly buck teeth, a dimple, she perched possessively next to her mother, leaning against her.

  The mother, typically, was boasting of her child’s achievements, above all of the 92 per cent in the class X board exams. For one year the pressure was so intense, the poor girl couldn’t pursue her painting, dancing or singing.

  She must be very talented, said Ishita as she looked at certificates that primarily attested to maternal devotion. Perhaps love so dearly bought had to be constantly reaffirmed. Or was it her own limitations that made her think it dearly bought?

  It took a few more weeks, but eventually Ishita did decide to investigate adoption. The agency she phoned gave her some starting points. First she had to register, then there would be a home visit. Her parents’ support was absolutely vital, especially because she was a single woman. For the home study, it was important the family appear united.

  Ishita informed her parents of all this over dinner. God willing, they would become grandparents.

  Mrs Rajora took to her bed.

  She lay awake for a long time, sighing so loudly that at last her husband relented. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Ishita,’ moaned his wife. ‘Adopt. Who will marry her if she comes burdened with a child?’

  ‘Who is marrying her now?’

  ‘That’s not the point. She is still so young, only just turned thirty. There is at least a chance.’

  ‘We have been looking for three years, who have we found?’

  ‘But there is still hope. You want that that too should go?’

  ‘Adoption is a noble, compassionate act. More people should do it.’

  ‘But they don’t, do they? Why should only our daughter be noble? Let married couples who can’t have children, let them be noble.’

  ‘You used to say she was like Mother Teresa.’

  ‘Mother Teresa was a nun. How can their personal lives be the same? Besides, she’s dead now.’

  ‘And still remembered.’

  ‘Beti, are you very keen on this adopting business?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Papa. It’s a way of having something to live for, to plan for. Otherwise – otherwise – what is there?’

  Pity coursed through the father as he was confronted with this idealistic solution. No one could ask for a better girl. But some are not destined for a normal family life – it was his tragedy that Ishita was one such.

  ‘But are you absolutely certain? I know of no adopted child.’

  ‘No one here. But in other places . . .’

  ‘And you have met them?’

  ‘With Mrs Hingorani. A very sweet girl. Just finished class X. Remember I told you I was going?’

  ‘And meeting that child convinced you?’

  ‘I am still not sure. But one day I will be all alone. Why should I go on waiting for some man to marry me? Can you guarantee that will happen?’

  ‘There is time. We will find someone.’

  The hollow words filled the room with their lack of conviction. Ishita merely looked at him, then went back to staring at the clothes line strung across the small veranda. Hanging there were her faded pink panties, from which just this morning she had washed the menstrual stains. Menstruating, month after month, year after year, her hopelessness somehow accentuated by the blood.

  Whenever Ishita fell silent like this, her father imagined her to be brooding over her lost husband.

  ‘Beta, you know we will help in any way. We want you to be happy,’ he said somewhat hastily.

  ‘I will be, but not in the way you think.’

  ‘Come, come, you are still young.’

  ‘I
wish you would understand how sick I am of this whole marriage business.’

  ‘We want the best for you.’

  ‘That’s why I agree to go on seeing these ridiculous men.’

  The father had had no idea that Ishita was seeing suitors just to please them. He had always thought her disinclination was the result of bitter experience that could be overcome with the right man. But if she planned to adopt she was quite clearly shutting the door to one particular future. For the first time since her divorce he began to believe her.

  He started to bargain. The year she turned thirty-one, they would both come with her to adoption agencies. He too would love a child in the house. ‘But if you are going to be a single parent, you will need more money. It is a lifelong responsibility. Of course you will have the security of this house, but that is not enough.’

  ‘I know, Papa.’

  ‘Maybe do an MA in History – that means you can teach in the university, better salary, more free time. Later on you can do an M.Phil., to qualify for a permanent job, but meanwhile you will be earning.’

  ‘Auntie will be happy if I better my prospects.’

  ‘How long for this adoption process?’

  ‘Two or three years.’

  ‘In which time you should have your degree.’

  ‘At least it will be nice to choose my fate instead of just waiting for some husband to appear.’

  At the brightness in her face, Mr Rajora wondered whether independence could go so far in making his daughter happy.

  He had a lengthy conversation with his wife. ‘If this is what she wants we have to help her.’

  ‘But what about her marriage?’ wailed the mother.

  Mr Rajora grabbed the bull by the horns. Their daughter was not very pretty, not fair, not rich, not fertile, not virginal. It was possible she would never remarry. And then? Who would she have when they died?

  His wife bridled. Their daughter had regular features, was slim, wheatish, not badly off, caring, it all depended on your perspective.

  ‘You can’t go on building castles in the air and expect others to do the same,’ said Mr Rajora. ‘Otherwise she will go ahead and do what she wants and we will be estranged. She has been a good girl, now we must be equally good parents.’