Custody Read online

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He needs to accept this offer for his career.’

  ‘Is that what he is saying?’

  ‘Mama! Obviously not. Should he say he is leaving me and going to the US? He is too much of a man to do such a thing.’

  ‘But beta, how can you go? But if you don’t go, that also is not good. You must have thought something.’ It was one of Mrs Sabharwal’s fears that having chased too much love, Shagun would die alone and friendless in her old age.

  The tea tray was now on the little round dining table in one corner of the living area. Shagun poured her mother’s tea, pushed the chocolate pastries closer, shook some savouries onto a plate and slowly started nibbling. Her eyes fell on the worn sofas, the lamps with their permanently tilted shades, the cushions bought when she was a college student. The posters she had put up on the walls, those too were still there, and from where she sat she could see the thin film of dust on the curling bottom edges.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ asked her mother.

  ‘Of how my life has turned out.’

  There was no response the mother could trust herself with.

  ‘You must think it’s all my fault.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Mrs Sabharwal bravely.

  Her mother was such a bad liar, thought Shagun. But once everything was settled she would find it easier to accept her broken marriage. As of now the simplest things caused her worry.

  ‘So if Ashok goes, what about you, the children? Their schools?’

  ‘When parents have a transferrable job, children end up in boarding school. It’s not so uncommon, you know.’

  ‘But Roo can’t go to boarding school. And will the courts allow you to take her?’

  ‘Raman will make sure I can’t take her anywhere. Once he gets to know about the US posting he will promptly get a stay order. Until custody is decided I am stuck. Ashok says he is willing to stay in India as long as necessary, but I can’t allow so much sacrifice, can I?’

  No, agreed Mrs Sabharwal. Temporarily he might be blinded by passion, but it was wiser to plan for the moment when his vision returned.

  Shagun was silent, her thoughts in Judge Mathur’s chambers. Everybody said that in a custody dispute, the father was awarded the boy, but effectively she had got her son. With each visit to the Academy, Ashok and Arjun bonded. She could see things continuing this way till he finished school at eighteen. After that he would probably study abroad, especially if she was there. Even if Raman did get to see Arjun, the boy was essentially hers. Home, safe and plain.

  But Roohi? Roohi was not even three. Suppose she gave her up in order to get a divorce? She could always claim her later. With visitation rights, she would be able to maintain contact, and it would be easy to get Roohi to say she wanted to stay with her mother.

  On being explained Shagun’s strategy, Mrs Sabharwal tried to look intelligent. It was of the utmost importance that Shagun get a divorce, but at such a high price?

  ‘If it will work, nothing like it,’ she said cautiously.

  ‘Of course it will work, Mama,’ exclaimed the daughter. ‘You don’t think I could give Roohi up just like that? You saw what happened with Arjun?’

  ‘Yes, I saw. But beti, Roohi is very small.’

  ‘And I am only going for a short time. I will come back to see her, take her there with me for a while. Raman won’t insist on this jurisdiction of the court nonsense when everything has been settled and he has what he wants. If there is any other way I can get a divorce, tell me.’

  There didn’t seem to be.

  If Raman was not agreeable, she would never get a divorce. She could go with Ashok, but without marriage the company would neither pay for her ticket (a comparatively small amount) nor for her health insurance (astronomical sums involved).

  She could give power of attorney to her poor mother to represent her in court, continue to fight her cases through Madz, but what would be the good? It would take a lifetime and then some. The Indian legal system stank. Justice delayed was justice denied, a truth experienced every day by countless litigants throughout the country.

  *

  The estranged wife phoned. ‘I want a divorce.’

  Raman knew that. She had filed a petition, kidnapped the children, fabricated myriad cruelties, committed perjury, for what but the freedom to marry?

  He held the phone tightly, longing to wound. ‘Why ask? It’s already in the court.’

  ‘I want one now.’

  ‘I am not going to give you a damn thing unless custody is decided and that too in my favour. If the children become too old, and the issue irrelevant, I will never free you. Never.’

  ‘So take the children and give me a divorce.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Take them.’

  The voice on the other end thickened and the phone was put down. Was this another trick? He didn’t trust her a millimetre, not a millimetre. He dialled Mrs Sabharwal’s number: Shagun is in the bathroom – I will tell her to call you as soon as she comes out.

  Ten minutes later the phone rang.

  ‘So how was your visit to the bathroom?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Were you serious?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why should I trust you?’

  ‘Ask my lawyer.’

  Again the phone was put down. He knew she couldn’t bear to talk to him, but that was all right. Superstitiously he tried not to hope, but hope came nevertheless in the thought of his children restored, in the freedom from court and the anxiety of its transactions.

  Through the day the conviction of her desperation came. Obviously she wanted to marry fast. So, the rumours he had heard were true, Ashok was posted to the US. So far as visa, insurance and ticket was concerned, he knew it was easier to leave India married, but was marriage worth the price of custody? Roohi, who would have almost certainly been awarded to the mother, yes, she would be a gift indeed. Even if it meant Shagun getting what she wanted.

  It was a genuine offer. The other side’s lawyer contacted Nandan with a settlement so good that he could not believe his cousin’s luck, nor incidentally his own. He had given him free time, free attention, free advice; everything family loyalty demanded. Moreover, Raman’s misery made it easy to pity the man. Now the light at the end of the tunnel.

  That evening the family gathered together in muted triumph. Right had prevailed, the vice-ridden had given in, now to discuss the details, further strengthen their position, and to secure what was theirs.

  Mrs Kaushik sat cross-legged on the sofa, raised her nose to the winds and smelt blood. Her hackles rose, her eyes gleamed and the knife she had in her heart, so far too little used, came out. ‘This boy really loved her. He was a generous, good husband. We will see to it that she gets nothing. Nothing. Everything that was joint must be returned to Raman.’

  ‘She is willing to give up all claims to his property, all maintenance for herself. All she wants is divorce by mutual consent, the custody case dropped and visitation rights. Half the holidays and weekends. Just what the father had.’

  ‘What about jewellery? She hasn’t said anything about returning that. We gave her so much when she married,’ snapped Mrs Kaushik.

  It would have enraged the mother beyond words to know how many more gems Raman had hung on Shagun over the years. Any occasion had warranted a trip to the jewellers. Now he didn’t want to think of those times or that love. He was ashamed of his devotion to his wife, so little had it been returned. In future he would be a different person, harder, wilier, less easy to deceive.

  ‘Eventually the jewellery will go to Roohi. Let her keep it,’ he now said.

  ‘Suppose she has another child,’ demanded the vigilant mother.

  ‘Mummy, Papa, I do not want to discuss this. All I want is to make sure she will not kidnap the children.’

  ‘If you have custody, where is the question?’

  ‘You never know – they have already b
een taken away by force once – I don’t want it to happen again.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the mother excitedly. ‘She may only be pretending to give the children for the sake of divorce. Once she is abroad it will be easy to just keep them. In this building alone, Mrs Sharma’s daughter-in-law left her husband and quietly took a flight to her sister’s in America with their baby. Mrs Sharma’s son can do nothing.’

  This fresh possibility generated a lot of discussion and the evening passed with many scenarios mulled over, as the family united in speculation that covered as wide a territory as possible, physical, financial and emotional.

  ‘If she can take them out of the country, I will not agree to a divorce,’ Raman eventually said. ‘Even if it means I don’t get Roo.’

  Two days later she called. ‘What are you so afraid of?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘How can you prevent children from meeting their mother? I did not stop them from meeting you.’

  ‘After I won visitation rights.’

  ‘Well, now I am offering you custody, what more do you want? That I should never see them? No judge will agree to that. And if I am abroad, I should be allowed to bring them on a visit.’

  What did it matter what the court allowed or disallowed? In the end it was a question of endurance. Of who had the edge over whom.

  ‘Raman? Are you listening? We can both benefit, is that so hard to understand?’

  ‘When have you tried to benefit me?’

  ‘If that is your attitude, no point talking.’

  Next week Shagun’s mother phoned him to say that Roohi was ill and could not see him. If he so desired, she could produce a medical certificate.

  They both knew a medical certificate was not worth the paper it was on, any quack doctor would sell you one.

  That he could not live without Roohi was something Raman had become conscious of only recently. He had been so used to associating his children with each other that after Arjun left for Dehradun he had found himself, to his surprise, enjoying a totally different parent–child experience. The things he did with his daughter had an added pleasure, partly because there was no attack and counter-attack from an older sibling. He hadn’t realised how much of his attention had been taken up with the more complicated equations the elder brother invariably generated.

  Now with Roohi he felt some of the completeness that had been so unthinkingly his for twelve years. He was in bliss when he held her on his lap while he read stories at night, lay next to her while he watched her eyes slowly close in sleep, sat by her side while she ate, stood at the corner of the neighbourhood park watching her play.

  Once, twice, thrice. Over three weekends Raman was told that his daughter was sick and couldn’t see him.

  ‘What is the nature of this illness that lasts so long?’ he demanded of the lying, uneasy grandmother. ‘I have given her the benefit of the doubt, but one more week and I am going to file another application.’

  ‘Beta, she is really keeping unwell. Nothing serious, though. Just cough, cold, fever, sometimes it gets OK, then again it comes. She is quite weak. The doctor says it is in the air.’

  Something or the other was always in the Delhi air.

  ‘I suppose Roohi is not going to school either,’ he enquired sarcastically on the phone.

  ‘No, beta,’ said Mrs Sabharwal. ‘Only one day – two days.’

  Shagun was not the only one to know that Mrs Sabharwal was a terrible liar.

  Eventually he gave in, as his wife must have known he would.

  Take your divorce and fuck you. But the children are mine. If you dare mess with them, you see what I will do.

  Nandan was very pleased at this happy outcome. You are a lucky man, he informed his cousin – I wish others could have their affairs resolved as quickly. From start to finish not even two years.

  XXII

  Divorce by mutual consent was initiated. The couple appeared in court, swore that it was impossible for them to live together and that they were not acting under duress. Six months later, they would reiterate the same thing, upon which divorce would be granted. Shagun was to give up all ownership of their joint assets, all claims to maintenance, the legal guardianship of the children, only demanding visitation rights in the holidays.

  ‘I hope my generosity, my willingness to settle, give Raman an inkling of where I am coming from,’ Shagun said to her mother. ‘He needs to see we have common interests, despite the fact that I have left him. Estranged partners have to keep mutually acceptable goals in mind for the sake of the children. That is the way to handle divorce. Not all this ugly fighting business.’

  ‘Is this what Ashok thinks?’

  ‘Ashok feels equally responsible to my kids, Mama – you should know that by now. Look at all he did for Arjun. Obviously he wants them to be well adjusted. Our objectives are the same.’

  ‘And Roo?’

  ‘When the time comes he will attend to Roo. He doesn’t discriminate between them.’

  ‘I hope he continues so involved, beti. People change after marriage.’

  ‘If I didn’t have absolute faith in Ashok, I would not have given up everything for him. My children are his, he has said so a thousand times. You’ll see.’

  Mrs Sabharwal could find nothing to say to all this reasoning. Increasingly she had become the person her daughter confided in, and the ebb and flow of information about divorce, custody and Ashok was almost more than she could bear. Nothing was clear in Shagun’s life, she didn’t even know in which direction to turn her prayers any more.

  ‘Ashok is already planning our holidays for when we are all together. He feels we need to bond together as a family. We will go somewhere, perhaps Bhutan, and maybe Arjun can get a few archery lessons. Ashok will no doubt arrange things down to the last detail, he is so used to multitasking, he does it even at home.’

  ‘I’m sure he does.’

  June.

  It was going to be Arjun’s first trip home after DPA. He had been away two months, his father thought, long enough for him to know whether he liked the school or not. And if he didn’t he would record that on tape and produce it as evidence in court in order to protect him.

  For now, eager to restore the sense of family his son had lost through the desertion of the mother, Raman planned a Goa holiday that included his parents. He would pick his son up from Alaknanda and after a day of preparation they would leave. Roohi’s birthday would be celebrated on the beach – he bought some knick-knacks from Khan Market for a little party he planned there. It would be a surprise for her, different from anything she had ever experienced.

  As the Goa Express left Nizamuddin Station Raman felt the nightmare of the past year easing with the gentle rocking of the train. This compartment contained what he loved most on earth, and as he looked at the four he thought it could have been worse. He could have lost a child, for instance, instead of a wife who, all said and done was replaceable. One arm tightened around Roohi sitting on his lap, the other stretched out to stroke Arjun’s hair. The boy was looking good, clearly it had benefited him to be away from the harmful atmosphere of his mother’s home. Right now he was laughing at a story his grandfather was recounting, a story of his father as a kid, one new to Raman himself.

  Panjim. From the station they hired a Maruti van that would take them straight to Vagator. As they drove Arjun focused on the newness of the landscape. Initially he had resisted Goa, all he had wanted was to stay at home, eat, watch TV and sleep without a bell ringing in his ears every twenty minutes. Now he relished this first encounter with the sea.

  Finally Vagator. The hotel was a long low white building, with rooms on three sides of a pool, criss-crossed by red-gravelled walkways flanked by overarching green palms. Raman had booked a villa with rooms upstairs and down, and how the children loved the novelty of the little internal staircase! The grandparents had never stayed in such luxury before, and if breakfast and dinner was not included they would probably have starved to save their s
on money.

  Everybody was charmed by everything. Mornings and evenings were spent at the beach, playing, walking along the shore, the rolling water and crashing waves imparting joy to all. Raman wondered sadly why he had waited to lose his wife to take this kind of holiday, but there had never been any time. Now every moment with his family was precious, and he went to sleep each night thanking God for his children, and for the medical intervention that meant he was still alive to enjoy them.

  The highs lasted all the way back to Delhi. Even the train being late didn’t matter so much, thought Raman, when they were together. His mother told Roohi stories from the Mahabharata, and he saw that Arjun was listening too. After all, his name was from the Mahabharata: how come neither he nor Shagun had ever told their son about the Pandava Arjun? Too busy, that’s why, and not enough time with grandparents.

  Unfortunately Goa had also liberated the grandparents’ tongues. They were mindful of their son’s interests, and in that connection thought it vital to know what was going on in the boy’s head. They couldn’t trust Raman to give the child an adequate idea of his sufferings.

  Now they seized this opportunity. What was school like?, didn’t he miss his father?, his father loved him so much, kept thinking of him all the time, had been so eager about the Dehradun trip, remember, beta, when he came to see you. We all wanted to come, but your father said no, that might be too much for you, would it have been too much, beta? Do other grandparents visit?

  Raman said, ‘Leave him alone,’ but the grandparents knew nothing of child psychology, they were willing to allow their curiosity all the room it needed to flourish.

  ‘Does your mother write to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘Different places.’

  ‘What does she say?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘She must say something.’

  ‘How are you? That’s what she says.’

  ‘And?’