by Kapur, Manju
‘Is anything easy in India? That’s not the point. Should we meet a lawyer? My old school friend is one of the best. Practises in the High Court. Has a home office in GK I.’
‘What about the children?’
‘What about them? They will be in your life, don’t worry. And darling, I know where my responsibilities lie. That’s a promise. We will ask Madz.’
‘Is that your friend’s name?’
‘Madan Singh. We used to call him Mad. Maddy. Madz.’
Shagun was silent. It was lawyer time, the time of consequences, even though her relationship with her lover was hardly the most established thing in her life. She roused herself to bid farewell to her intense secret world, with its perilous edge of desire, its hours devoted to subterfuge.
*
In the next few days many equations changed.
Ashok took long leave, coming to a quick understanding with various heads of departments. He would work away from the Delhi office, and Raman was spared the embarrassment of facing him.
At work Raman could read sympathy for himself in glances, could read knowledge in the way nothing about Ashok was said in front of him. The grapevine declared he would not be returning, that he was going to travel soon, probably to New York.
Raman wished he too could take off somewhere, but how can you take off from your life? Wherever he turned, there was no escape; home, office, all imbued with a sense of failure.
The HR head in Bombay had been most sympathetic. The company would support him in every way they could. Pay for marriage counselling sessions, help him relocate, let him go on leave.
But Raman wanted more. He wanted Ashok punished. It was bad for the morale of the company if bosses could get away with stealing wives and wrecking homes.
He hoped the flaws in this assertion weren’t obvious. This was a company, not a moral science school. It was up to the wife to defend her integrity. His wife, the weak chink in his armour.
At any rate he wanted a change of scene. He wanted nothing to do with Mang-oh! any more; he could not travel as much as this product demanded. He needed to stay in one place for a while, his children were going to need him.
The company was understanding. Since no one else had his expertise or experience, they couldn’t relieve him of Mang-oh!, but they could increase his staff, so that the stress on him was drastically reduced. He told himself to be satisfied with these concessions.
Suffering continued unabated in the Kaushik household. Shagun tried to have little to do with Raman. The minute he came home she left. As he watched her go, he told himself he didn’t care what she did or where she went. He ate with the children, then put them to bed. His wife would return in the morning to get them ready for school.
Unfairly, it was to the father that the son put his questions.
‘Where is Mama?’
‘Ask your mother, beta, ask why she wants to leave her home and her children.’
‘She says she is going away, Papa. She was crying, Papa.’
‘And did she tell you she has found another man to love, my boss in fact, and now my boss has left work? Too afraid to face the music. I could take them to court.’
Arjun began fiddling with his Game Boy, and Raman, recalling the rules of parenting, looked over his shoulder at the tiny screen and tried to engage with the little fighting figures.
If only he had not been so busy, there would have been more of a connection between him and his son, more of an established routine with his children. But even so, to be surrounded by their presence was the only source of healing he had.
Ashok to Shagun: ‘Dearest, I have to go.’
‘You will leave me now?’
He sighed, and moved to the practical, more and more they had to pitch their shaky tents there.
‘Bill says head office is not pleased; India is an emerging market, but it is also a place where traditional values have to be respected, otherwise our image becomes tarnished. The only saving grace is that I am not a foreigner. Otherwise there would have been hell to pay.’
Shagun looked at him as he went on thinking of the company, of how he would present his case and to whom. In a few days he would depart with a head full of strategy.
‘What am I supposed to do while you are away?’
‘Think of me.’
‘Raman wants me to think of him. He says the company has offered to pay for marriage counselling. Is this standard procedure?’
‘In cases like this they want everybody to be sure they know what they are doing.’
‘I see.’
‘A little more patience, my love. When I come back it will be to take you with me.’
‘And the children?’
‘Them too.’
Their ardour grew more fervent. The need for secrecy had gone, and Shagun’s bridges lay smouldering behind her. When the time came, she would go to Ashok proudly, unashamed of what she had done. She would do it all over again, even if a camera lurked in every twig of every bush outside, in every crevice of every tree in the park across the house.
Once Ashok left, Shagun spent her nights at her mother’s. It was an uncomfortable arrangement, with Mrs Sabharwal looking at her beseechingly, begging her not to ruin her life. In that context Shagun mentioned the marriage counselling, adding that Raman had a hope in hell.
In the pause that followed Mrs Sabharwal thought how wonderful it would be if in fact counselling could turn back the clock, call back yesterday, and have things as they were.
‘He doesn’t want to lose you. It is natural.’
‘No one can make a blind man see.’
‘Think of the children.’
‘I am not leaving the children, just their father.’
‘And you think it will be that simple?’
‘People do get divorced, you know, Ma.’
‘Are you mad? You want to destroy your home?’
‘There is no home. What do you think this whole thing is about?’
For a moment they stared at each other across the unbridgeable chasm of passion versus safety.
‘Raman will let you take the children?’
‘Really, Mama,’ said Shagun, ‘what do you want me to do? You want me to kill myself, then you will be happy?’
‘Beta, why are you talking like this? Have I said something wrong?’
‘No – it is only me that is wrong. Me, my whole life, from this stupid early marriage, to – to having Roohi so late – Arjun is old enough. I can explain things to him – but Roohi? What can a two-year-old understand?’
‘No one would have children, early or late, if they thought they were going to leave their husbands.’
‘Well, I can’t help that.’
‘You know, counselling is not such a bad idea,’ went on Mrs Sabharwal carefully. ‘After all, it is a question of your whole future, along with that of your children.’
‘No, Mama, too much has happened.’
‘Beta, please, please, for my sake, do not rush into things. Raman will do anything for you and the children. Everybody makes mistakes.’
‘This is not one of them.’
‘It’s not your life alone. Think of the children.’ By now this plea was beginning to sound like a cracked record. Think of the children, the children, the children. She didn’t want to think of them.
‘You believe Raman is so nice? He is not. He had a detective follow me. He ordered him to take pictures. That’s the kind of man he is.’
With Shagun doing what she was doing, Mrs Sabharwal could imagine Raman’s trauma, saw easily the pain behind his actions. It was her daughter that was beyond comprehension, the child to whom she must remain ever faithful. Her fate was hard, and she felt sorry for herself.
‘Now I hope you will drop your silly regard for him,’ said the daughter.
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What about Arjun and Roo?’
‘I come with them. Ashok knows that.’
‘He m
ay say anything to get you, but how does he really feel about another’s man’s children? Has he even met them?’
‘No.’
‘Then how can you be sure?’
‘He loves me. That’s how I can be so sure.’
‘Think carefully, beta.’
The older generation were hopeless. Abruptly she got up and slammed the door to her childhood bedroom. Mrs Sabharwal watched sadly. Though she would do anything for her daughter, she couldn’t understand how this situation had come about. And since when had she become so unhappy that she was not willing to give her marriage another chance? Raman was such a good man.
The next morning, driving back, Shagun thought it was useless presenting her mother with any problem, she was too old-fashioned, she had been the recipient of Raman’s homeopathy for too long. Well, how could she blame her? A woman with her values was incapable of visualising a companionship beyond the mundane of domestic life. That soul, that body that had flowered with Ashok could not now be asked to fold its petals and return to its budlike state.
As she approached Mor Vihar the feeling of being trapped intensified. Since Raman had put a private detective on her, all she felt for him was hatred, a hatred that became particularly concentrated during the hours spent at home.
She hadn’t told her mother that she had already mentioned separation to Raman. Her choices were her own, Raman had said, his voice distant, but she was not to even think of taking the children. Equally frostily she had replied, she was only in the house because of them. He did not respond, but the next day she found he had told the servants he would deal with all the household matters himself, all the meals, the shopping, everything.
They had read each other’s messages accurately.
Arjun spent as much time as he could in his friends’ houses and Roohi reflected the brokenness of the family in constant loud wails which grated on all their nerves. In Shagun’s absence, Raman began taking her to his bed at night, where she would settle down, snuggling into him, sucking desperately on her thumb.
X
It was shortly after this that Raman, sitting in office, began to feel ill. As he was staring dully at the next phase of the Mang-oh! initiative, still united with the product he now detested, pain shot across his chest, his face became dewy with perspiration, his head felt strange, while the Mang-oh! figures ceased to make sense along with everything else. Indigestion, it’s only indigestion, he decided, the business lunch had been long, the food heavy. He slipped a large pink Digene into his mouth and waited. He had an important meeting with the district distributor at four o’clock and the Mang-oh! figures needed to cohere before then.
He got up to order tea from the pantry, when the room spun. Two chairs were overturned by his descent to the floor.
His leaden heart had attacked him.
The aftermath of the collapse found Raman in an ICU, with two stents in his chest, and the company poorer by 5 lakhs.
His parents took turns staying in the hospital, leaving no hour of the day or night unattended. The father did the night shifts, should there be an emergency it was better to have a man on hand. The mother stayed all day, to notice in those hours that things were not right in the marriage.
‘What kind of wife are you?’ she demanded on the morning of the fourth day, when Raman had been wheeled away for some tests.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t you care about him?’
‘Has he complained?’
‘He? He never says anything. Such a man you would not find in seven lifetimes.’
‘Then?’
‘You – I don’t know, you hardly seem bothered. Even nights you don’t spend here.’
‘The children are alone.’
‘This is the man who would give his life for you.’
Dispassionately Shagun watched her mother-in-law’s emotions vibrating through her set lips and large chin. The only thing in her life was her precious son, and everybody else had to be fodder for his comfort.
She found distraction in the friends who thronged around Raman’s bed with flowers, jokes, simple good cheer, no undercurrents, just concern and distress that another of their tribe had fallen prey to heart disease.
Mr Kaushik told his wife to leave Raman alone, but observing what she did, this was not in her power. His bed made him captive.
‘Beta,’ she started, ‘I named you after Ram, because I thought you would grow up with his qualities, but too much patience is not appropriate in a householder.’
Only Raman’s eyelids twitched.
Mrs Kaushik went on putting her heavy feet unerringly into the wounds in her son’s heart, her mother’s instinct showing her exactly where they were. Her son, the family breadwinner, was being denied his central place. Her advice was doled out with enough tactlessness to make it totally unacceptable.
For Shagun every day was torture. Raman exuded reproach without once looking directly at her. His illness put her in a false position, his poor weak heart and clogged arteries cried out for assurances that would mend the great jagged holes in their marriage. Could she love him because he had almost died? She compromised by offering him care with a warm but distant friendliness, conveying concern but little intimacy. This satisfied no one, and made her feel like a hypocrite.
She phoned Ashok on the cell he had given her, finding privacy in the hospital lobby, secure that no matter how long she talked, her lover was happy to pay for her calls. Through the somewhat bulky instrument the sound of his voice, the promise of his love, flowed like lifeblood into her veins. No, she was not a bad person, love cannot be forced.
Mrs Sabharwal came to visit. She sat next to Raman’s bed and the tears never left her eyes.
Later she remarked to her daughter, ‘Beta, should anything happen to Raman it will be upon your head.’
‘How guilty do you want me to feel?’
‘The house rests upon us women. In your children’s happiness, your husband’s happiness, lies your own. Anything else is just temporary.’
If her mother could think this, then what chance did she have of appearing anything less than a monster in the eyes of the world?
It was part of the Indian disease. Ashok was always going on about stultifying tradition. The great Indian family, which rested on the sacrifices of its women.
Five days later Raman was discharged from hospital. He had taken his first walk down the length of the corridor, he had got his diet chart, he had been made aware of the lifestyle changes he would have to make, of the six-week rest period he needed at home, of the stress it was essential to avoid. His father saw to the payment of the bills, gathered the receipts chargeable to the company, collected all the necessary files plus the phone numbers of every relevant doctor.
His parents accompanied Raman home. ‘I can’t leave him alone with her,’ said the mother, ‘she might kill him. You saw how she looked – or didn’t look after him in the hospital?’
Always a staunch defender of his daughter-in-law, for the first time Mr Kaushik agreed with his wife’s assessment. Where was the deep devotion, the prayers and trauma that should accompany the heart attack of a spouse? For years he had attributed his wife’s opinions to female pettiness and a grudge of beauty, and it hurt him now to find beauty so cold.
Their decision presented Shagun with a dilemma which had been lurking at the back of her mind ever since Raman had been in hospital. She knew her husband was waiting for some gesture that would allow him to forgive her completely. If she was serious about her commitments, now was the time, here was the place.
But can you starve the passion that leaves you trembling through the day, block off the scent of desire that rises from between your legs? You have only one life to live, only one life, Ashok said repeatedly, trying to find an argument that would dislodge her from the marital home.
It became clear to Raman that he had come back to exactly the same situation that had brought on his cardiac arrest. Although his wife now remained in the hous
e she was adamant about staying out of the bedroom, spending the nights with her delighted daughter instead. Her father’s illness had upset the child so much that she had begun to have nightmares, she explained to the bemused parents.
These lies made Raman’s heart feel even heavier, but unfortunately it was now guarded by two stents, and medicines that regulated its rhythm, modified the cholesterol and thinned his blood to an unclottable consistency. His body was not going to be allowed to follow his feelings into the land of death.
In the interests of her son, Mrs Kaushik was forced to use money to establish a meaningful relationship with his servants. Clutching the 100-rupee notes she liberally bestowed in recognition of God’s mercy in sparing Sahib’s life, they were very willing to talk. Mrs Kaushik tearfully informed them of what the doctor had said, how bad stress was, how the next heart attack would definitely kill him, how he needed to be spared all worries.
The servants looked wise, nodded, agreed, declared that Sahib had been under a lot of strain lately.
Hint by hint, Mrs Kaushik gathered enough to put together a very gloomy picture of her son’s life. It was much worse than she expected. Roohi’s crying fits, Arjun’s tantrums and sleepovers at friends’ houses, Raman coming home late, late, late, this was the norm. Above all, the Memsahib spent every single night out. They didn’t know where she went, but she and Sahib were not talking to each other. For weeks and weeks. Now Bari Memsahib, you are here, things will be all right, such was the pious wish in the mouths of the faithful retainers.
Armed with these fresh insights, the mother-in-law confronted Shagun.
‘A husband’s life is in the wife’s hands,’ she started.
As a gambit that would usher in peace and understanding, it was unfortunate. Every conventional assumption that her mother-in-law made stiffened Shagun’s resolve to be her own woman. ‘What do you mean?’
Mrs Kaushik’s face began to twitch. ‘I should not have to tell a wife what it means to look after her husband,’ she said, outrage leaking into her trembling voice. ‘God forbid you are ever left a widow,’ but it was clear Shagun’s widowhood would hurt the mother far more than the wife, and as Mrs Kaushik stared at the hard-set face, she could speak no further.