Custody Page 22

  ‘Nothing. Why don’t you ask her?’

  Later they told themselves that the boy had become very proud, very stand-offish.

  Eventually Raman became firm enough for the questions to stop, while Arjun grew wary of his grandparents.

  Back in Delhi, the boy was at his most eloquent when confronted with Roohi. ‘You are so stupid, you don’t understand anything’ was the burden of his song.

  It hurt Raman, this dismissal of the little sister. Who else did these children have but each other?

  ‘Be nice to Roo, she could hardly wait for you to come,’ he repeated to the boy’s scowl, and a repetition of how retarded she was. ‘You have to be tolerant, she is still very young,’ but the baiting continued.

  Arjun had behaved so well in Goa; was it something about this house or the memory of his mother that triggered such aggression? He could think of no other explanation.

  At night when Roohi was asleep, and things were peaceful, father and son watched the Cricket World Cup, the event that was to have brought Raman and Shagun closer. Now they discussed the likelihood of India’s winning, went through the A and B team rankings, discussed players, their scores, their merits.

  ‘Do you miss your mother?’ Raman once asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, son – only don’t say you don’t know when you do.’

  ‘She keeps travelling, Papa, how should I know where she is?’ The child had begun to whine and Raman told himself never to ask about his mother again. The secret desire to be assured of her unhappiness was a sign of weakness, besides which it was really none of his business.

  The only topic of conversation Arjun was enthusiastic about was school. In a mere two months he had become a proper Academy boy. Won’t you like to go back to VV, beta? the father had tried asking, but the answer was such a clear no that Raman had to reconcile himself to DPA being Arjun’s school.

  All too soon the children’s time with their father was over. Shagun phoned: please pack Roohi’s things and drop the children at my mother’s place.

  How convenient it was to have her mother as a postbox.

  Gloomily he drove them to Alaknanda. With Roohi at least things would change after the divorce, but the separation from Arjun would continue now that he was in boarding school.

  ‘Bye, beta, write once you reach Dehradun. Remember to phone. I will come to visit you, all right? Papa loves you, beta.’

  ‘It’s all right, Papa,’ said Arjun, by which mysterious statement Raman could imagine anything he chose.

  *

  Over the summer the nation flexes its muscles as it goes to war with Pakistan.

  Everybody is glued to the TV. Patriotic feelings run high.

  Kargil becomes a household word.

  Collection drives for our brave soldiers take place in every colony of the city.

  Companies donate, NGOs donate, schools and colleges donate, politicians and civil servants donate.

  Certain very old people whisper their desire to see the country united as it was in their youth, before Independence and Partition snatched it all away.

  Parks and roads are named after martyred soldiers. Five hundred and twenty-two of them have lost their lives around the mountains near Kargil in Ladakh.

  Indian cricketers visit the wounded in hospitals, movie stars turn up at railway stations, singers and actors give charity shows.

  In July 1999, India declares victory, the Pakistanis have been pushed back to the Line of Control.

  India increases its defence spending.

  Ordinary life resumes.

  So far as The Brand was concerned, it was a good time to have the nation distracted. After the groundwater fiasco, it was the turn of bottled water. Some samples had been found to contain E. coli. More NGO reports. These reports must have been instigated by Indian manufacturers who hate our presence here, said Ashok, but for once they have picked their moment badly.

  Shagun could see how much dealing with problem after problem was beginning to tire him, and how much he really wanted to leave. In that sense her divorce could not be better timed.

  With Arjun back in school and Roohi with her mother Raman felt lost. It was useless confiding in his parents, they thought cursing Shagun was the way to make him feel better. With an empty heart and an empty house, the office was the place that seemed most natural to him. Anyway, he had to compensate for his time away from The Brand.

  A new regional requirement from Hong Kong demanded his full attention. He had to work out an assessment of how India was doing based on six months of figures from thirteen different Asian countries. The data he had to deal with was considerable, and he spent hours and hours in office, relishing the freedom of being so involved in fruit drink analysis that there was no room for anything else. He began to use the nearby guest house to shower, eat and sleep. What was the point in going home anyway?

  By the time he left the building it was dark and the traffic noise had dulled to more bearable levels. His mind was full of numbers and the story they told. He flexed his hands as he walked and moved his shoulders. His neck felt stiff – he knew he should take more breaks from the computer, but once he started it was hard to stop. He was reminded of his time at the IIM. Days of intense work, snatches of sleep and food, and the hope that all this would lead to a gilded future. And in terms of money and prestige it had.

  But he was still the home-grown produce, still Mang-oh! compared to the international bestselling drink.

  A few more weeks and the second divorce petition would be signed. He would be married no longer, a phase of his life over. Soon he would have to figure out what his world looked like with Shagun inexorably out of it. Till now, absent or present, she had dominated the scene.

  *

  In September, a month before the final signing, Mrs Sabharwal made her daughter take her to Tirupathi. Here she offered prayers, here she paid for fifty Brahmins to be fed, here she gave a donation of a thousand rupees.

  ‘I don’t think we need worry so much, Mama,’ said Shagun. ‘Raman is not the type to agree to divorce one day and refuse the next.’

  ‘He is not the Raman you knew, beti. Cold, hostile, angry – I feel he is now all these things. His mother may influence him, anything can happen.’

  ‘Well, if he reneges on the agreement, he will never see Roohi. Or as little as I can help it. Arjun too. The boy is old enough to be asked his opinion – and in front of the judge he can say, I do not want to meet my father. What will he do?’

  ‘I hope it doesn’t come to that. He loves the children, whatever his faults as a husband.’

  (That Raman Kaushik had many faults as a husband was now the party line, and Mrs Sabharwal obediently echoed it.)

  Shagun stared at her mother, this woman of mean intelligence. ‘Well, he’s not doing me any favours by being a caring father. I am giving him an opportunity to look after them, let’s see if he takes it.’

  Mrs Sabharwal in turn stared at Shagun. Nothing good could come of a mother giving up her children, but to continue to live with Ashok without marriage would in the long run be even worse.

  Now that the end was near, Shagun allowed herself to fantasise about being Ashok’s wife. To have that happiness legitimised! She only had to look around her to see divorcing couples, fighting over money and custody, forced to spend their lives in courtrooms, till the children were grown up, the money spent, and any chance of other relationships gone. Her freedom was miraculously around the corner, seducing her with its nearness.

  So far as the children were concerned, Raman was a better and more magnanimous person than she. He would not stop contact between them, if only because it would be in their best interests.

  A week before the final signing Shagun hauled Roohi onto her lap. She loved her little girl so much, but her hands were tied, tied so hard she felt the knots chafing at her skin
. She longed to leave this terrible city, go far, far away.

  ‘Babu?’

  The child continued to suck her thumb.

  Shagun pulled at her hand. Roohi was too old to be doing this, but she had not worked at stopping her. In all the recent upheavals, let the thumb at least be constant.

  ‘Roohi? Listen to me.’

  Raman’s face looked up at her.

  ‘Beta – how would you like to spend some time with your father?’

  The child looked puzzled. She did see her father. Every weekend.

  Shagun rephrased the question. ‘Not like now. Longer. Go to school from there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Mama has to go away for a bit.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Some work.’

  ‘I want to come.’

  ‘Children are not allowed. Now wouldn’t you like to spend more time with your father? You really like being in that house, don’t you?’

  ‘No,’ said Roohi and put her thumb back in her mouth.

  ‘Why?’

  Roohi couldn’t say. She looked around quickly into the small history of her life and came up with her brother. ‘Bhaiyya said to look after you. I promised Bhaiyya before he left for school.’

  ‘Bhaiyya did not know what he was talking about. He was just anxious about leaving. How can a small baby look after a big mother?’

  ‘I want to come with you.’

  ‘Beta, your school is here, your friends are here, your grandparents are here. And your Papa will miss you.’

  By now Roohi was looking thoroughly alarmed. ‘No, Mama, no.’

  Impatiently Shagun gave her a little shake. ‘Beta, where I am going, children are not allowed. How will I take you? The police will send you back, and it will all be your father’s fault.’

  At this unexpected information Roohi began to cry. Shagun instantly regretted all she had said, but Roohi could sometimes be slow to understand. ‘Shush, beta, shush, Mama loves you. Don’t worry – I will come back quickly quickly – make a home for my Roohibaba. Everything will be all right, I will find you a wonderful school – don’t worry.’

  ‘But I want to come with you nooooow.’

  ‘Beta, you can’t. Your father has made the court stop it. I will be put in jail if I take you.’

  Roohi went on sobbing.

  ‘Nothing will change. You are still my baby girl. Remember that I love you. Always, always. Now stop, stop this crying. Come, let’s see what cartoons are on TV. Let me carry you, my, you are getting such a big, heavy girl – soon Mama won’t be able to lift you. Come. Come.’

  Shagun carried her to the drawing room and settled down in front of the TV. She hoped that the child would be in a better mood by the time Ashok came home. Though he never complained, the sound of children’s programmes gave him a headache and Shagun tried to protect him from the noise.

  It was raining a few days later, an unseasonable late September rain, when Raman came to pick up Roohi from her grandmother’s house. Unlike other times there was no Shagun standing theatrically at the entrance. When his daughter emerged it was with the grandmother struggling under an umbrella, clutching a suitcase, with a school bag slung from her shoulder. In the transaction involving the child, the suitcase and the school bag, no look was exchanged, not a word uttered. The door slammed, the car reversed and sped out of the central parking lot, while the grandmother stood, holding the hem of her sari up with one hand, watching her grandchild go. Once the car was out of sight she turned and walked heavily back to her apartment where her daughter was waiting.

  Did he say anything? Did Roohi cry? Did she go willingly? No, no, yes.

  For the rest of the day Shagun remained sunk in apathy. It would take time to get used to her new status as part-time mother. Once they were in their own apartment in New York she would regain her equilibrium. Ashok had said they would find one overlooking Central Park. Just the name was enough to distract her. The real Central Park, not the falsely named builders’ creation in Gurgaon.

  Yes, she couldn’t wait to start her new life. They would keep house together, they would have no servants, they would do everything by themselves, just the two of them, laying the blocks of a happy, successful union.

  A week later Raman and Shagun were divorced. Thirty days had to pass before either was free to marry.

  Great was the relief in the Kaushik household. At last their son was out of the clutches of that woman. Raman had been generous, very generous, he had not made his wife suffer, nor had he punished her by refusing a divorce. Such men were rewarded in lifetimes to come.

  As for the jewellery, Shagun herself offered it, bringing it to court in a little attaché case: ‘Please keep this for Roohi.’

  Clearly, thought Raman, she wanted nothing from him – nothing except her freedom. Not a shred, not a pin, not a rupee would she keep of their former life.

  It would be prudent to forget her existence as quickly as possible. From now on he would devote himself to his children.

  *

  Thirty-one days later Shagun returned to Tees Hazari, this time to sign the marriage register. She had sacrificed so much for this love of hers, she felt like the Heer of Heer-Ranjha, the Laila of Laila-Majnu. Only their love was not doomed, it was going to flourish. Neither Ranjha nor Majnu had had the canniness and sagacity of Ashok Khanna. Everything he touched succeeded, every step he took was imbued with thought and purpose.

  She felt guilty about Raman, but she had made all the amends she could. He could hold no grudge against her, nor blame her for any misfortune. She had returned the jewellery he had not asked for. She had given him the children.

  It was one in the morning, foggy outside, with rain splattering against the windshield when Mrs Sabharwal accompanied her new son-in-law and daughter to the airport.

  Ashok had expressed some inadvertent astonishment at the requirement that they spend their last night in India at his mother-in-law’s place. ‘Please, darling,’ said Shagun, ‘she is very upset we are going. She really wants to come and drop us.’

  ‘Why is she so upset? You know she is always welcome wherever we are.’

  ‘She says she will wait and see how things go before she visits.’

  ‘All right,’ said Ashok, not quite aware of the dimensions of Mrs Sabharwal’s loneliness, nor intuitive enough to suggest alternative solutions.

  To herself Shagun wondered at the difference another marriage could bring. Had she been going to New York with Raman she knew he would have spent hours with her mother, convincing her to stay with them.

  Now they were driving slowly, negotiating the fog that had suddenly thickened as they left the more built-up areas of the city. Ashok, sitting in front, looked impatiently at his watch. There is plenty of time, darling, murmured his wife from the back seat, her hand in her mother’s.

  They reached Indira Gandhi International Airport, their car inching along with others up the ramp. In front of the long entranceway they stopped abreast two other vehicles, adding to the chaos. Ashok jumped out and darted towards a free cart, the driver pulled the suitcases from the dickey, and there stood husband and wife in the line inching towards their designated door. Mrs Sabharwal was stopped at the barricade, passengers only from this point. With a last hug, a last kiss, I will phone you, Mama, take care, and Shagun disappeared inside. Mrs Sabharwal remained some few moments standing next to the guards as she watched her daughter exit in pursuit of happiness.

  XXIII

  ‘Such good news,’ said Mrs Rajora, beaming with excitement from news so good that even the difficult child would rejoice.

  ‘What is it?’ asked the difficult child, sitting in the veranda looking at the strings of coloured lights that decorated the balconies of the buildings around them. Down below children were letting off firecrackers. It was Diwali and Ishita had just delivered a box of sweets to Mrs Hingorani. Now all she wanted was to be left alone, prey to an unaccountable depression.

  ‘Raman is divorc
ed!’

  Raman?

  Mrs Kaushik had revealed this when Mrs Rajora had gone to give her some Diwali dry fruit. Seeing her friend looking so sad, Mrs Rajora had scolded her for keeping secrets. Privacy and discretion were all very well, but a friend’s concern also had to be given value. Why this permanently worried expression? Hadn’t she herself told Leela everything about Ishita as soon as she was asked? Hadn’t she?

  Then Leela cried and said it was much worse than anything that had happened to beti Ishu – here there were children involved and the fear that Raman would die.

  Ishita listened silently. She remembered the younger Mrs Kaushik by reputation; so fair, such unusual green eyes, so foreign-looking. But living as she did, away from Swarg Nivas, she could not be interested in her mother’s gossipy nuggets. Now she was given a quick recap of those unnoticed years: Raman, so brilliant, all the Mang-oh! sales in the country due to him, marriage always considered so perfect, now look what happened.

  A woman with such looks might use her face to travel further than the PPG-emerged Raman, thought Ishita. If she had possessed amazing beauty, she didn’t think SK would have been so keen to leave her. It all boiled down to externals.

  ‘You can share divorce stories with Auntie now,’ she said.

  ‘I never share stories about you with anyone.’

  ‘Well, you should. What happened to me is nothing to be ashamed of.’

  ‘People are very narrow-minded. They don’t understand how misfortune can come.’

  ‘Explain it then. Tell them I am barren.’

  ‘I came to give you some good news, and you talk like this about yourself. It hurts me.’

  ‘But why do you consider this good news? Do you imagine we should get married?’

  ‘O-ho. It’s just news. Can’t I share it?’

  ‘Not if you have something else in mind.’

  ‘Why are you always so negative?’

  ‘Because I know you always think of one thing.’

  ‘He is known, he is a neighbour, a man from a decent family, people like us. Perhaps, sometime in the future—’