by Kapur, Manju
Her thoughts grew vague as she moved to her own sacrifices. She would give her life for her child; if only he would rely on her, he would see how some women can love.
Prayers over, she stood at the doorway gazing at the evening’s brisk walkers, searching hopefully for Mrs Rajora, or even her sister-in-law, when she saw Raman drive in and park in the visitors’ parking lot. He was alone, something had happened to the children, he would not be here otherwise.
‘Beta,’ she called as he started towards their apartment block.
He didn’t hear.
‘Beta.’
Deaf to his mother’s voice, he kept on, his walk strangely jerky. It was the children. Forced into a slow run she caught his arm, too afraid to say anything.
He stared at her for a moment blankly and she looked back, her face pinched in terror. ‘She’s taken them.’
They fussed over him, listened, advised. The father took immediate charge, while the mother gave Raman hot sweet tea, along with biscuits to dip in it. ‘I am going to phone Nandan,’ he said. ‘Right now he will be in his office in Mayur Vihar.’
‘I don’t want to meet Nandan,’ objected Raman.
‘When there is a lawyer in the family, why don’t you want to meet him? You would rather go to a stranger and get God knows what advice?’
‘I don’t want anybody to feel sorry for me.’
‘Beta, why do you keep such tension in you? His will be a professional opinion, what is the use of our suggestions? He won’t tell anybody, he is a very good boy.’
‘But why Nandan?’ went on Raman, in a monotone, as he watched his father bending over the telephone, his neat grey hair shining with pomade.
‘Han beta,’ said the father, ‘Raman is here. You know, the situation has suddenly worsened, and we were thinking—’
A silence as his father’s thinking was interrupted. ‘All right, we will be there. Thank you, beta, thank you very much.’
‘What does he say?’ asked Raman, already feeling a little hopeful as he saw his problems winging their way to Nandan’s office in the Mayur Vihar Phase II market.
‘He said he will see us at once – as family we shouldn’t even have to ask. Now come.’
‘I just hope he won’t gossip. I don’t want the whole building talking of this.’
‘Why will he gossip? He hears such stories all the time. And he is like your brother – you can trust his guidance. Otherwise which lawyer cares for their clients? They are all out to make money.’
‘Is Nandan good?’ asked Raman on the way down. ‘If I go to him I want results.’
‘Arre beta, he is famous for his results. With his reputation he could move to South Delhi to a much bigger office, but he wants to stay where his parents are.’
‘And you think I should have done the same thing?’
‘Nobody thinks anything, all right? Go to a fancy lawyer if you feel Nandan cannot help you, but at least meet him once.’
They drove the short distance to Mayur Vihar, Phase II, Pocket I.
‘Now your brother will know all the details of everything,’ remarked Raman again, his unhealthy obsession with keeping things secret striking his father as a reflection of his son’s extreme sensitivity.
‘Beta, when you had your heart attack, they obviously figured out something was wrong.’
‘You told them about my marriage?’
‘Arre, when they came to visit you, they themselves asked where is Shagun? How is she coping? It was very difficult to keep silent. Especially for your mother. Your friends know, don’t they?’
‘That’s different.’
They parked in a side lane and walked the rest of the way, stopping before a board that said ‘Nandan Kishore Kaushik, LLB’. Inside, the room was divided by a small screen partition: an office, and a waiting room with chairs lined against the wall and a coffee table with magazines.
As relatives they got almost immediate access. Nandan stuck his prematurely balding dyed head out and said, to a couple waiting patiently, ‘Just two minutes please, these people have an emergency.’ Nobody believed him. A lawyer could never take only two minutes, their profession forbade it, and as for emergencies, nobody who did not feel their case was urgent would be found there.
In the office there was a cooler standing in the corner, water trickling down its khus-lined metal sides. Against the wall behind the desk was a ceiling-high bookcase, lined with thick red legal volumes.
‘Beta, you know Raman has been going through a bad patch. We thought things would settle down, but they haven’t,’ began Mr Kaushik.
‘Ji, Uncle,’ said Nandan, fixing his mild neutral gaze on the pair.
The father looked at his son, but the son was staring at the trouser cuff of his waggling foot. He sighed and related the story.
‘I care about nothing but my children,’ said Raman at the end of it.
Mr Kaushik threw a significant glance at his nephew. See what kind of man he is, help him, it is your duty as a relative and a lawyer.
Nandan ignored the look. The law was a cut-and-dried business, once you got swamped in outrage, indignation, grief and anger, you were nowhere. His clients’ minds had to turn to the practical, whether they were inclined or not.
‘Now, what is it that you want from me?’
‘I want Roohi and Arjun back.’
‘We will have to file a custody case.’
‘She has kidnapped them.’
‘Not legally. It is true you are the natural guardian, but so is she. And normally the mother is given custody of girls till the age of eight, and boys till the age of five.’
‘He is eleven.’
‘I know – so you have a good chance with him. But with Roohi it is more difficult. Ninety-nine per cent of the time girls go to their mothers.’
‘Even if their mother is of doubtful character?’
‘That has to be proved. Of course we will say her morals are weak. You have any proof, letters for example?’
‘I have pictures,’ said Raman briefly.
Nandan looked approving. Mr Kaushik studied the law tomes.
‘Is her face clearly visible?’
‘Visible enough, and in the company of the man she is now living with.’
‘We will file them in court and use them later.’
‘But how long will that take? I want my children back now.’
‘As soon as we file for custody we will also put in an interim application to grant us access. Then we will see.’
‘So how long?’
‘I have to prepare the case first. Only after that can we move an interim application.’
‘Asap.’
‘Asap, of course. We need as much evidence as you have, diaries, letters, witnesses, that will prove she is an unfit mother exposing the children to nefarious influences. You know, make it as strong as possible.’
On the way back Raman negotiated his car slowly through the traffic while the small figure of his father sat next to him looking worried. ‘One way or another we will have to go to court,’ he remarked heavily.
‘I am sorry you have to be dragged through all this muck.’
‘Arre beta, don’t worry about me. You just don’t get worked up – that’ll be very bad for your health.’
‘I am not getting worked up – I only want to see my children.’
‘And you will see them. God will not allow a father and his children to be separated.’
Raman gave a dry, mirthless laugh. ‘Leave God out of it. He doesn’t seem to be on my side lately.’
This was so undeniable that the father kept quiet.
Once back in Swarg Nivas father and mother packed a few things and left with their son. On no account would they let him spend the night alone. Raman did not protest. The thought of his empty house was dreadful to him.
Over the next few days Raman visited Nandan every evening, forced to think of his life in terms of accusation and evidence as his cousin drafted his petition. The whole pro
cess was disgusting.
‘Why do I have to say all this? Half of it is not even true,’ he said from time to time.
‘Do you want your children or not? Courts are naturally sympathetic to women when it comes to matrimonial disputes. We have to put forward as strong an argument as possible.’
It was not hard to do. Shagun had been a faithless wife. This fact was embroidered and extended to cover the whole period of their marriage.
The plaintiff’s job meant he spent many days on tour, that was the time the respondent indulged in licentious activities, even in the presence of her minor children. Photographs taken by the Lovely Detective Agency were enclosed to prove just one instance.
The plaintiff’s heart attack was described along with the respondent’s callous behaviour. The plaintiff was a loving father, the respondent an indifferent mother, who abandoned the marital home to pursue her affairs, kidnapping the children only when a divorce was not immediately agreed to.
Even though the female minor was of tender years, living with the respondent would expose her to harmful moral influences.
The plaintiff prayed that he be granted custody of his children and in the interim be given visitation rights.
At the end of it all Raman recognised neither himself nor Shagun. His love for his wife was lost in a maze of lies that infected even him. To mourn for a woman whose life could be constructed in this way was to reveal all the hidden ugliness beneath the beautiful exterior.
‘What do you do when there is no infidelity involved?’ he asked Nandan curiously.
‘There is always something. Otherwise why would people divorce?’
‘Like what?’
‘Alcohol, abuse, violence, exploitation, public humiliation – though that comes in more useful when the wife is filing for divorce. Husband having other women is not seen as so bad – in theory, yes, but not in practice.
‘But then the judge will know that much is made up.’
Nandan smiled his cigarette-stained smile. ‘Made up – yes, the judge often knows that. But there is some truth in everything we say. And usually in the end the correct decision is taken. You will see.’
‘In my case? You keep saying they favour the woman.’
‘But we have witnesses – we will call the servants, we have the pictures – they can be used to intimidate the other party. We can use your parents to testify to what a good father you are. We can even call her mother; of course she will try and protect her daughter, but she will probably break under cross-examination.’
‘Leave her out.’
‘Listen. This is not a party, where you are so nice and polite to each other. If she is easily scared, so much the better.’
‘She is old, I don’t want her upset,’ said Raman, regretting the unmanly flaws in his character.
‘We have to utilise everything we have.’
‘Why can’t we subpoena his servant, or chowkidar? How much can they lie in front of lawyers?’
Nandan sighed. Clearly Raman had taken his notions of the Indian judiciary from American films. ‘Our system is different. We don’t subpoena, for one thing. If we need to question them, we have to give their names on our list of witnesses. And they could very well say they never saw Shagun in their lives – won’t be very good for us. Do you see?’
‘Suppose I just go to their schools and take the children. What can she do?’
‘She can then take them back. What’s to stop her?’
‘What’s to stop me?’
‘Nothing. You can go on doing this until a court decision. Or unless you come to an agreement.’
‘An agreement is not in the picture. We have to fight.’
Initially they all wanted to fight. He had seen it happen time and again. Fight, despair, compromise. The courts defeated everybody. Cases like this could take years, but clients need to be disillusioned slowly.
‘Right now we are focusing on direct and circumstantial evidence that we are confident about. We have to file this as fast as possible so you can get visitation rights. Once those are granted, nobody can stop you from seeing your children. Later on we will attach our list of witnesses and the evidence we mean to use.’
Raman leaned back in his chair. His father’s instinct to go to Nandan had proved right. He saw the noose around Shagun tightening. How much could she deny?
‘To what address should we send the notice?’ he asked.
‘To her mother’s?’
‘But suppose the mother says she is not living with her?’
‘Then where is she living? That is even more suspect.’
Raman left Nandan more buoyant than at any time during the last ten days. Let Shagun see he too could fight back, that he was no longer Mr Nice Guy.
On his way to the car he met a vaguely familiar-looking woman.
‘Hello, beta,’ she said, a smile briefly smoothing her worried features.
‘Hello, Auntie,’ he replied, flashing his general all-purpose grin.
‘Children all right? Haven’t seen them here for a while.’
‘Everything is all right,’ said Raman and turned his back.
‘That Raman Kaushik is very strange,’ remarked Mrs Rajora to her husband later in the evening. ‘I don’t think he recognised me. Used to come so often. Then he had his heart attack.’
‘Everywhere there are troubles,’ said the phlegmatic husband.
Mrs Rajora only had to think of her daughter to agree. Would their duties never be over? Would Ishita never be happy?
But things were improving, Mrs Rajora decided, keeping in mind that she should be grateful to God, to look at what she had rather than what she didn’t. And what she had was a daughter who was better off now than when she first returned home three years ago.
XII
In the early days Ishita had spent every moment moping. Free at last from pretending things were all right meant she was free to lie listlessly on her bed, make no effort with her appearance and focus full time on her loss.
Head buried in her pillow, she thought of the body that had known so much love, and then so much punishment. Stubbornly it had remained barren despite the money spent, the hormones, the injections, the painful procedures. She could not conceive, whereupon SK had decided he could not love her.
If only she could tear out her whole reproductive system and throw it on the road. She hated her body, hated it. Everybody in the building must know why she had come back. Return to sender. Receipt for 5 lakhs attached.
Her parents were equally devastated. They held themselves responsible for her malfunctioning organs. They could say her childhood TB was karma, but the consolations of karma were meagre. Their daughter was still young, and the prospect of endless dreary years ahead was frightening.
The forty-five minutes on the bus to work each morning was Mrs Rajora’s time for contemplation. All around her, it seemed, were broken marriages. Even Princess Diana, beautiful, privileged, adored, even she couldn’t keep her husband. No matter where you lived, what your circumstances, women always suffered.
SK’s parents were not willing to try everything, that had been the main problem. If a sheep could be cloned, why not use the same technology to clone their precious son? Ishu would have co-operated fully.
The bus came to its stop at Patel Chest, and Mrs Rajora got off to start her working day, rehearsing the half-truths she would tell if anybody asked about her daughter. For the first time she realised how inconsiderate social inquisitiveness could be. Thank God she was retiring soon.
It was dusk, and Mrs Rajora and Mrs Kaushik were ambling around the building. Birds wheeled in the sky, before settling down on some of the high trees that bordered the housing society. There were a few pale wisps of cloud, touched by the pink of a sun that had sunk beyond the tall apartment blocks that made up the jagged skyline of PPG. The air was cool, soon the navratras would start and the society temple would resound with prayers.
Now Mrs Kaushik was intrigued. Despite her patient wait,
Mrs Rajora had not imparted any information concerning Ishita’s sudden arrival three weeks ago.
Once before she had had to bang on her friend’s door to get news of what was bothering her. Now she tried a less direct attack.
‘How is beti Ishu?’
‘Fine.’
Mrs Rajora, gentlest of creatures, made the word forbidding.
Mrs Kaushik rather unkindly persisted. ‘Everything OK? I am sure that the stones the astrologer gave will work. You have to give these things time.’
Her friend changed the topic. ‘How is Raman doing? Such good news about Shagun’s pregnancy. Are they hoping for a girl this time?’
When it comes to their children, people love to talk and talk, as though those children were universal objects of concern. So Mrs Kaushik allowed herself to be distracted.
Mrs Rajora crept into her apartment exhausted. Usually she came back from walking rejuvenated, her interest in humanity piqued with its daily dose of gossip. Now her own daughter was the subject of such curiosity.
She must be getting morbidly sensitive. Mrs Kaushik had always shown such genuine solicitude that she should have been able to share her troubles with her. But what had happened to Ishita was so awful that it was impossible to confide even in dear friends.
Mr Rajora walked in the morning, with four or five of his acquaintances, practically racing around the building. Once done, he would have breakfast, then come down to the small administrative section near the entrance, where, as an elected office-bearer, he was kept busy with society affairs, its security, the lifts, temple matters, community events, lunches, kirtans, raffles.
Every day on his return he found his daughter still in bed. Grief was all very well, but she was carrying this to ridiculous lengths. She needed some occupation, brooding was good for no one. What was her B.Ed. for, if not to protect her against such eventualities?
‘I wanted to work, you got me married,’ was her sullen response.
‘I am sorry, beta. At the time it seemed the right thing to do.’