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  As soon as he possessed her, this strange hiatus in his life would be over, and he would be able to focus better on his Indian mission, that is, help the company recover the millions it had invested.

  VI

  It was Mrs Sabharwal who first realised something was wrong. It started with Raman’s departure, a usual event, but one of deep concern to the mother-in-law.

  ‘Beta, did he go off all right?’

  Shagun snorted. Here she was talking about her portfolio and all her mother could think of was whether her husband had managed to catch a plane. Which any birdbrain could do.

  ‘Why are you always so worried about Raman? You should be the one married to him, not I.’

  ‘Is this any way to talk about your husband?’

  Such useless questions. That was the trouble with mothers. Their eyes were like those of a lynx, their gaze tried to pierce your being, their interference in your life knew no limits.

  Mrs Sabharwal was thinking. Did her daughter’s indifference to Raman’s welfare suggest a deeper malaise? Shagun was too innocent, that was the trouble, and her husband too busy. Always travelling, leaving a young wife largely to her own devices.

  Shagun raised her marvellous green eyes, eyes that established her as a rarity from the moment of her birth. ‘Why can’t I talk of my husband in any way I like?’

  ‘Has anything happened? Tell me.’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You and the children should stay with me for a few days while he is away. I hardly see you. Whenever I phone, you are out.’

  The daughter looked through the window at the two feet of cemented space next to the gate of her old home. Here her mother’s plants surrounded by concrete on all four sides slowly wilted and gradually died. The pots that contained these pathetic specimens were chipped. Yesterday’s storm had broken some of them, exposing white, densely intersecting roots, raw against the mud.

  ‘You know I can’t just leave, Mama. There is the children’s routine and the household.’

  The logical thing to do would be to invite the mother to her place, but for this Mrs Sabharwal had to wait another two days, and then it was worse than not being called at all.

  ‘Mama, please come and stay – I have to go out of town.’

  ‘Good heavens, why?’

  ‘You remember my friend – the one who settled down in Bareilly?’

  Mrs Sabharwal remembered no such friend – but her memory was bad and she said nothing.

  ‘Well, Mama, do you? Anyway, they have just discovered her husband has cancer – poor man, he is only in his late thirties, she called me in a total flap, they have to go right away to Bombay – and she has asked me if I can come – only till her parents manage to get there – so can you, Mama? Just for the weekend – two nights? Not even two days? I’ll be leaving tomorrow afternoon.’

  There were many things Mrs Sabharwal didn’t know, many, many. Why you had to go to Bombay if you had cancer, who Shagun’s friends were, and whether they were married in Bareilly or not. But she could read the minutest change in her daughter’s voice and now suspicion unwillingly filtered through her mind as she agreed to spend the time required with her grandchildren in their mother’s absence.

  Once in Shagun’s house she was reassured. The children were as loving as ever, the servants gave no dubious replies to any of her oblique questions. But when Shagun returned two days later, the glow on her face, the radiance emanating from her made the mother’s alarm wearily rise to do more duty.

  She might as well rush in where angels fear to tread. ‘Who is he?’ she asked.

  Shagun blushed. ‘What are you talking about, Mama?’

  ‘You weren’t really in Bareilly, were you?’

  ‘Of course I was. Phone Rita – I can give you her number – and ask her.’

  ‘Phone a stranger to enquire about my daughter? No thank you.’

  ‘Mama – if you don’t trust me, you shouldn’t have agreed to come. I am tired now – and I want to spend time with the children. I am sure they missed me more than you did.’

  Quietly Mrs Sabharwal left the house. Her intuition made her wretched. She would have given anything to not know that Raman was no longer the centre of Shagun’s life. For the first time in twelve years, she felt irritated with him. He must be to blame in some way, her daughter would not jeopardise her home so easily. If that was not true, her life’s work had failed.

  All night Mrs Sabharwal tossed and turned, desolately seeking sleep. The electricity went. The inverter came on, and with it the fan. Again and again Raman’s face rose before her with all the urgency of a threatened species. Was this her fault in some way? Since her teens, Shagun had had an infinite number of unsuitable boys after her – she had needed to ensure her daughter’s safety before the fruit was snatched and a tender life ruined. Raman was the antidote to every fear.

  All that anxious care had apparently served no purpose. This was a worse situation to be in. Such transgressions seldom remained hidden. Some servant, some overheard phone call, some casual reported encounter. Raman might resort to violence against his wife, hard to imagine, but till yesterday it had also been hard to imagine her daughter going astray. And what about Raman’s safety? Stories of lovers murdering husbands appeared regularly in the newspapers.

  She got up to start reciting the Gayatri Mantra, praying for protection for her daughter and grandchildren. She prayed for Raman too as she had done all these years. How often had she told him that he was better than any son because she would never lose him to a wife. Now a wife was coming between them.

  Next morning found her at her daughter’s door. ‘Why do you want to destroy my peace?’ she demanded. ‘You have to tell me who he is. What kind of person will take you away from your husband, such a good man?’

  ‘You always take his side.’

  ‘You never said that was a problem.’

  ‘I was so young, what did I know?’

  ‘You were of marriageable age, twenty-one, same as me.’

  ‘Have you come all the way to tell me this?’

  ‘Does he suspect? He must know – or guess – something at least.’

  Shagun stared at her mother. Her face was drawn and tense, her hair dishevelled, her sari crumpled, the blouse even less matching than usual. For twelve years her mother had praised Raman for being the son she never had. Now she looked as though she had lost a child.

  ‘If I tell you, you will get more upset,’ she said, ordering the maid to make lemonade with lots of lemon and sugar the way Naani liked it, and to also bring the pista, still unlocked after last night’s drinks.

  No, no, let the pista be, it will be too heating in this weather.

  The daughter paid no attention. Her mother loved pista, and denied herself routinely. ‘If men can have pista with drinks that are already heating, you can have it with your lemonade, which is cooling.’

  ‘Shagu, I couldn’t sleep all night. What will happen to you? To the children? And Raman? His family is everything to him.’

  ‘Mama, stop going on. It is hard enough as it is. Am I to stay married to Raman because you love him so much?’

  That would not be a bad idea, thought the mother, but she said nothing. Her daughter looked perfect in her pale lavender embroidered organdie kurta with the purple salwar and chunni. Her small white feet were in delicate beaded jutti. She wore amethyst earrings, pale pink nail polish, purple glass bangles on one arm, a dainty gold watch on the other. The mother noticed a tiny diamond set in the dial. ‘Did he give you that watch?’ she asked.

  The daughter nodded, her blush rising from neck to face as she remembered his insistence that she carry a token of their love into her house: jewellery was too conspicuous, a watch had seemed ideal.

  Mrs Sabharwal renewed her attack. She promised not to blame, she would only try and understand.

  Shagun wrapped her arms around her, whispered how sorry she was, really she hadn’t wanted to do anything to hurt her husband, she too
was afraid, but now this thing had happened, she was already more deeply in love than ever in her life, more ecstatic, more miserable. She knew what her mother felt about Raman, but she herself didn’t care if she lived or died.

  What choice did the mother have? She had to agree to keep silent, without having accomplished her goal of making Shagun follow the path of virtue. Now she was an accomplice to the crime. Society could point its finger at her and say, she knew and did nothing. How would it look? she blurted, and her daughter replied, ‘Look to who?’

  To God, how will it look to God?, but this was not a response that would influence Shagun.

  Raman, for marketing reasons which Shagun found incomprehensible, had just returned from Singapore, and was anxious to distribute presents of cutlery sets, perfume and chocolate to both sets of parents. Shagun knew how transparent her mother was, and till her news had lost the capacity to shock, tried to postpone going to Alaknanda.

  ‘So much chocolate is bad for her,’ she said, looking at the small sack of Lindt Assorted.

  ‘She loves the stuff.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean she should eat it.’

  ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then? Why deprive Ma of a little chocolate? Besides, you wouldn’t want your husband to visit his mother-in-law empty-handed.’

  The visit was made, during which Shagun had to endure her mother’s awkward behaviour. To have the knowledge she did and behave normally was practically impossible for Mrs Sabharwal.

  ‘Ma, are you all right?’ asked Raman, noticing the frown, sensing the worry.

  ‘A slight headache,’ she quavered.

  ‘Maybe you should take Belladonna 200,’ said Raman. Since the birth of his children he had dabbled in homeopathy.

  ‘Thank you, beta.’

  ‘Do you still have the bottle I gave you?’

  ‘Yes, don’t worry about me, beta.’

  ‘It’s nothing, don’t fuss. You know she gets a headache sometimes,’ said Shagun curtly.

  ‘Shagu, I don’t think we can call Ma’s pain nothing. The headache could be an indication of some deeper malady. Homeopathy is a holistic medicine.’

  ‘Beta, please, I am fine – just a little tired.’

  Raman was forced to be content. Afterwards Shagun pointed out to her mother, who needed help in these matters, did she notice what a fusspot her husband was being? Going on about the headache, boring, predictable, she must have heard that stuff about holistic medicine a hundred thousand times.

  How could Mrs Sabharwal find Raman’s care boring? Comforting was how she saw it. If this was being scorned by his wife, what was left?

  Her headaches increased.

  VII

  In April Shagun reiterated her desire to put her daughter in kindergarten. She was older now.

  ‘Only by a few months. Why not wait till she turns two?’

  Because admission started now. Because Roo needed to prepare for the entrance test for a big school. Even though Arjun was in VV, siblings did not have automatic rights.

  ‘She is too young to start cramming for some entrance test,’ said the father.

  ‘Not cramming. Awareness. Toddler’s Steps gives children awareness through play items, paints, clay, picture books. It’s never too early to start.’

  ‘All this can be done at home. Why take away her childhood?’

  ‘Three hours a day is hardly taking away her childhood.’

  ‘Big school starts at four-plus, she will have ample time to prepare, even if you send her after six months.’

  ‘Then you will start talking of infections in winter.’

  ‘I’m just saying wait till after summer. What has happened to you?’

  Shagun’s voice grew edgy. ‘Things are more competitive now. Other parents think nothing of it, even if you can’t bear to let your daughter go.’

  Competition. The word that drove children from the moment they joined kindergarten till the moment they landed a job with a decent salary. No, there was no escape from competition. It had driven Raman his whole life, but for his baby he wanted something different. He tried another tack.

  ‘Suppose she has to do su-su? Who will take her? She might feel too shy to ask.’ Roohi did not always make it to the bathroom on time.

  ‘They have ayahs just for this. Why don’t you come and see?’

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ said Raman slowly. What would be the use? They had not rushed like this with Arjun, but then his mother had not been so restless – maybe she needed time for herself.

  So Roohi joined Toddler’s Steps and cried every day for a week as her mother left her at the gate. ‘She stops as soon as you leave,’ the teachers assured the mother when she went to pick up her daughter. ‘She is very happy here.’

  Yes, thought her mother, looking at her closely, she didn’t seem any the worse for the three hours away. And even Arjun had cried when he first started, though he had been older. Anyway, it was good for children to learn independence as soon as possible.

  Roohi’s favourite game became school-school, with dolls who were chastised vigorously for dirtying themselves, for hitting other children, for peeing in class, for ceaseless crying. See, said the mother to the father, you were wrong. Look at her friends, at her little works of art, at her eagerness to go to school like her brother.

  His wife had been right after all, agreed Raman, trying to draw her closer to him, while Shagun, seeming not to notice, said that next term she would be made a monitor.

  Raman smiled. He could just imagine his little Roo strutting around the classroom, handing out coloured pencils or whatever it was that two-year-old monitors did.

  *

  Raman returned from his Singapore trip bristling with ideas about beverage consumption. After a weekend at home, he immediately swung into action. The focus on educational institutions had been his idea, the targets and time frame had been Ashok’s. ‘Once this gets off,’ he told Shagun, ‘I can say I have done my bit for Mang-oh!. There are always other opportunities.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘You have to think global, act local.’

  ‘So you keep saying’ – the irritation masked by the brightness of the smile.

  He looked at her. ‘It’s what we are constantly told.’

  ‘So how will you act local?’

  ‘In all kinds of ways. So many Indian drinks can be packaged – think of kanji, think of all the different types of buttermilk, sweet, sour, fruit-flavoured, spicy. Once we have the Mang-oh! sales in place we can really diversify. In Singapore they package teas – black, green, jasmine, all doing extremely well. Coconut water too, sweetened, plain – I drank it all the time.’

  It was nice, she thought drearily, that he was so enthusiastic, that he had his work and not a secret, that he could function in the world. Her life would have been different if she too had had a job. ‘I am sure you will succeed. I can feel it in my bones,’ she said.

  Raman was glad he had his wife’s support. His target was close to being met, but it required a spurt of effort over the next three months. His assistant had drawn up a list of a hundred schools that would have programmes sponsored by Mang-oh!. In return they would serve Mang-oh! in their canteens for at least a year. Local celebrities were approached for shows, and TV ads in Punjabi and Hindi were scheduled for local channels. In Ludhiana, they had their event in the sports college, with sports people talking about the energy value of Mang-oh! with its 27 per cent fruit pulp content. And so on through Chandigarh, Ambala, Jullunder, and Hoshiarpur. After Punjab they would concentrate on Haryana, next Uttar Pradesh, then Rajasthan, Gujarat, Madhya Pradesh. Within six months he expected a dramatic increase in sales.

  With all this on his mind, it took him longer than it should have to find his wife changed in a way he could not explain. Roo was in school now, she was freer in the mornings. Was she enjoying herself? What did she do? he asked.

  She went out with friends. Or sometimes to the gym.
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  Tenderly he looked at her: was she feeling all right?

  Fine, fine, she was fine. Her assurances were vehement.

  But what do words matter, when actions speak so loud?

  Raman knew himself to be an ordinary man, ordinary-looking, ordinarily talented though hard-working. The extraordinary thing in his life was his wife, and his love for her, as strong as steel, as pliant as a spider’s web. He hoped she would never find out the extent to which she could wound him.

  Now he began to fear this hope was not going to be realised. Though he tried to tell himself he was mistaken, there was an opacity in her he couldn’t penetrate.

  It hurt him to look at her these days. The red lips, the white body, the gold glow of her cream-coloured skin, the bright brown of her thick hair, the long narrow face, the clean sharp jawline and high cheekbones, the variegated green of her eyes taunted him with their perfection, saturating him with insecurity.

  His periodic returns brought him to a wife whose slightly dazzled look had nothing to do with him.

  He sought reassurance in her arms, but she began to push him away, with all kinds of excuses: somebody would see, she was tired, later, later.

  ‘I don’t care. I miss my wife.’

  He waited for her to say she missed him too, but the trite words died on her lips. She started talking of the children, the topic most easily at hand when so many others were taboo.

  At night when he tried to pull her towards him, she again resisted. ‘I am really tired.’

  ‘We haven’t done it for weeks. That’s not fair, Shagu. If anyone should be tired, it’s me.’

  ‘And I have a headache.’

  Could anything be lamer?

  Later, how many times did he wish that suspicion had not entered him? Like poison, it seeped through his heart, paralysing him, making him see his wife through its dark and vicious colours.

  He found himself phoning home at odd hours, asking the servants more questions than necessary. As he began to find out how much she vanished even after the children returned from school, he accosted her.