by Kapur, Manju
Easy game. Careful, careful, divorcees were easy game. That’s what her parents thought – but in all these five years she had yet to come across anyone who thought she was any kind of game, easy or otherwise.
She stared at the tall buildings outlined against the never completely dark sky. She didn’t like the clandestine. It made her relationship seem insubstantial, more fraught. Yet, till Raman declared himself, what could she say to anybody? She just had to go on thinking that she had nothing to lose, that whatever romance she got was worth the risks she was taking. So far as love was concerned, she was a beggar, and beggars can’t be choosers.
In what way could she make her mother understand? For her she was still a princess, albeit a somewhat tarnished one.
XXVI
The summer of 2000.
It is time for the children to visit their mother.
Ishita knows some anxiety. With Roo gone, how much will they meet? Even though they are lovers now, she doesn’t want to presume.
‘I will miss Roo.’ She finds it easier to work through the girl.
‘I won’t,’ he replies.
‘You won’t?’
‘No, I need some time with you. The two of you are always clinging to each other.’
A bashful love gleams from Ishita’s face.
*
A week into the children’s departure and it was clear that Raman intended this to be playtime.
‘Did you ever assume a position besides the missionary with your husband?’ he asked.
She reddened and hung her head. He had found her wanting.
‘Tell me.’ He turned her face towards him. ‘Why are you feeling shy?’
‘Some things you don’t talk about.’
‘What? Where did you get that idea?’
Where? From her upbringing, of course. Everybody knew what decent girls should and shouldn’t do.
It was Raman’s task to remove these ideas from her head.
He gave her long lectures on pleasure, on the right to experiment with their bodies as they pleased – if there was anything she didn’t like, she only had to say. And by the way, just how incompetent had her husband been? Had he ever left his mother’s lap?
She blushed again and refused to answer. But though it was hard for him to get her to fantasise, or to take initiatives, she proved an adept pupil otherwise. When he hesitantly introduced her to oral sex, it was clear how willing she was to learn.
Once moved by passion, he was also moved to make a comparison between her and Shagun: ‘She was an ice queen compared to you. What a fool that SK of yours was. Don’t you think so? At least now?’
She nodded. Her present activities made her relationship with SK seem childlike. A child’s directness, a child’s lack of subtlety. How she had learned to be so uninhibited, she didn’t know, but she imagined it had to do with some deeply reassuring quality in Raman; whatever she did, he would never judge her.
*
Flicking channels one night in Raman’s house, they came across the Miss Everywhere beauty contest.
‘Lots of Indians are winning these things,’ remarked Ishita.
Raman looked at her: so?
‘I wonder what it is like to be really beautiful,’ she went on. ‘The most beautiful in the universe.’
‘It’s like nothing. It’s what’s inside that matters.’
‘That’s poor consolation. You watch. This woman will go on to become a film star, and all the world will run after her. They won’t think of what is inside, it’s only people like me who have to think that.’
‘It’s a company that runs these beauty pageants, they have a profit motive. I know how commerce works – lots of hype – some substance, sure, but it’s blown all out of proportion. She will have a string of affairs, essentially withhold herself, drive many men crazy, because it will be too constricting for her to be confined to one man.’
Was he talking about Miss Everywhere or the ex-wife?
‘And that is why you are more attractive. You don’t play games, you are what you seem, you have a heart and a soul.’
He bent to kiss her. The intensity of her response made him feel like a pasha. In the unexamined shadows of his heart, it pleased him she was so insecure.
Ishita’s lies at home grew more fluent. She was going to spend the night here, there, with this friend and that, unconvincing plans, but necessary as face-saving devices.
‘I wish my mother wouldn’t worry so much. It’s hard for her, I know, but I am thirty-two,’ said Ishita to Raman. ‘She knows I am lying, but still I have to do it.’
‘Does she mind a lot?’ asked Raman, shifting his weight so he didn’t press down on her too much.
Ishita rolled her eyes. ‘If only you knew. On and on she goes – neighbours, reputation, vulnerable position. At my age why should I bother about anybody?’
Raman glanced speculatively at his lover, plain-featured like him, the same sallow complexion, but with a smile that lit her whole face. If marriages were between soulmates, this woman whose body he was even now preparing to enter for the third time was more naturally his partner.
What would his children think if they got married? Roohi loved her, that he knew, but there was Arjun to consider. He was so close to his mother, he was not going to accept a replacement easily.
‘You also worry too much,’ said Ishita. She drew his tongue into her mouth, and wrapped her legs around his back. Raman groaned, shut his eyes, clung to her body, raking her skin with his nails, printing trophies which she would stare at in her bathroom mirror, reliving every moment spent acquiring them.
Mrs Hingorani marked the change in her.
‘Beti, you are looking happy.’
Ishita looked down and fiddled with her dupatta. Was her joy really so transparent?
A little later she did feel at liberty to treat Mrs Hingorani to a small panegyric on Raman’s virtues, followed by how adorable his daughter was. Of Arjun she said nothing.
Shortly afterwards, Raman suggested they go to Tanishq to pick a ring. He reached out and held her hand. ‘We both have a better chance of happiness this time round, don’t you think?’
She allowed herself a small nod, yes, she did think. For months he and Roo had been firmly lodged in her heart. As she confessed this she reddened; for a woman like Ishita, saying things was tantamount to feeling them less – emotions clothed in words lost something in the transaction.
Neither mentioned the word love, but in the days that followed Ishita’s sexual initiatives grew more abandoned, her passion more intense. He responded with ardour, and when they entered the shop in Connaught Place it was with an air of mutual self-satisfaction.
‘A ring,’ announced Raman to the salesman.
‘What price range, Sir?’
At jewellery counters unfortunately love needs to be translated into rupees.
‘Any price range,’ said Raman grandly. Those words were more important to Ishita than the diamonds they indicated.
They settled on a mid-range one for 30,000. The diamonds were VVS1, their colour G-H, and though small, cunningly clustered in a way that made them look larger. On Ishita’s hand true love sparkled.
When Raman dropped her off at a scooter stand, she went back to gazing at her ring, turning her hand, admiring its tiny glints. It was much nicer than the big ugly thing she had had the first time round, a solid lump of gold with many inferior yellow-grade diamonds plastered over it. This was delicate, refined, simple, elegant. Reluctantly she took it off in the elevator and tucked it inside her bra. It was her sweet secret.
Raman insisted upon concealment. ‘I don’t want her to know. Don’t tell anybody.’
‘But you told me she is married by now.’
‘She might use it as an excuse to take Roohi.’
‘How?’
‘Saying stepmother and all.’
‘Is that what Nandan says?’
‘No.’
‘Then? Besides, you have an agreement.’
‘You think she is like you, but she’s not. Laws are nothing to her.’
‘Still, what can she do?’
‘You don’t know her.’
‘Please, please let me tell my parents, please. It won’t go further and will make them happy. They have suffered so much because of me.’
After a lot of sex he agreed reluctantly.
‘I kept waiting and waiting for you last night. Where were you?’ asked her mother.
They both knew where she was.
It was breakfast time.
They were sitting around the dining table squeezed against a corner of the room. As Ishita wiped her parantha against the last little bit of white butter on her plate, sucked the last little bit of mango pickle dry, she thought her news would in a small way compensate her mother for all the years of devoted care.
‘Mummy?’
‘Beta?’
‘I have something to tell both of you.’
‘Good news?’
‘For once. But it is a big, big secret. He is very apprehensive of his ex-wife coming to know.’
‘He has proposed?’
‘Yes.’
‘When? When? Oh, I knew this would happen, I knew it. You could not be so self-sacrificing for nothing, care for all those slum children for nothing.’
‘Beta, congratulations.’
‘Thank you, Papa.’
‘He is a good man. Straight, mature, responsible.’
There were tears in Mrs Rajora’s eyes. It was a miracle that her daughter had got this chance of returning to the status so rudely snatched from her.
‘Does Roo know?’
‘Not yet. Raman gets very tense about anything to do with the children.’
‘Hai Ram, the man has a heart of a girl.’
‘Mama, you don’t know what all he has been through. She poisons them against him, especially Arjun. Thank God he is in boarding school.’
‘So when is he going to tell the boy?’
‘Probably never. Because of her.’
Mrs Rajora thought that the more people knew, the more secure her daughter’s prospects. She didn’t approve of this hole-in-corner stuff, it smacked of the insincere. Raman was divorced, even if his ex-wife were to know, what could she do? With all the haste she herself had shown, why should she care about Raman’s own plans?
Ishita took to dropping in on Mrs Kaushik, who in her mind was her mother-in-law. And Mrs Kaushik welcomed her, inviting her over when it was her turn to host a kitty party, watching the ease with which she mingled with the other aunties. This was something she had never done with Shagun, there had never been an opportunity.
*
Uneasiness marred Raman’s pleasure in his engagement. He would be a fool to trust to the permanence of love: it changed, that was its nature. But Ishita was a steady girl, and he made an effort to enjoy his courtship, though in a cautious, discreet way. But one area where he couldn’t be cautious or discreet was in the matter of the flesh. The fact that he was an object of so much desire to Ishita, that a cross word could create sorrow, that she strove to please him, that he and his daughter were becoming the light of her life – all this made him want to respond in kind.
Slowly his flat registered the changes in his life.
‘Why do you have so many pictures of her?’ Ishita demanded.
‘Do I?’ he asked. He looked blankly at his bedside table, at the bridal Shagun, at the two of them mounted on their wedding-reception thrones.
‘Not only here,’ she elaborated, ‘but downstairs as well. With her and the children, you two, alone, then with the parents . . .’
There was no need for her to go on. The documents of a family that had produced his children were engraved in his heart. Those pictures were his past, what good would it do to remove them? ‘I keep them for the children’s sake.’
‘I know, darling, I know. But do you think they need to be reminded daily that their mother has deserted them?’
She could feel him shrink, but she forced herself to go on. Just like you needed to clear the ground to build a house, so in relationships too ground had to be cleared. ‘Roohi was saying the other day, don’t go, Auntie, stay with me. Poor thing, she must be afraid that I will also disappear. But Roohi is like my own, how can I ever leave her?’
Whenever Ishita talked of Roohi, the words fell like balm into Raman’s ears. ‘I hope’, she continued, ‘that the child will not be torn between her biological mother and me.’
‘Why should she be? Children are not so complicated.’
‘Oh, you don’t know how their minds work. She may believe that it will be disloyal to love someone else. After all, how many mothers can a child have?’
How many?
The answer depended on Raman.
His mind went back to the moment in July when he had picked up his children from Mrs Sabharwal’s. It had been wonderful to see them looking so well, and that pleasure continued till Arjun left for Dehradun.
Whether it was this departure that triggered the stress, Raman didn’t know, but every night Roohi wet her bed. He would find the mattress soaked through, her legs curled up, shivering in the AC-cooled air. He bought a thick plastic sheet to place under her and started sleeping with the child.
Had she come to some harm in the US? Was she missing her mother? Bit by bit he coaxed his daughter to talk about her summer.
What was the uncle like? Was he OK?
The uncle usually drew a blank look from Roohi.
What about Mama? Did they spend a lot of time together?
She nodded. Books, they had read books, swum in the lake, stayed in a hut just like the one in Three Little Piggies.
Three Little Piggies?
Yes. Only the wolf was going to come to huff and puff and blow it all down. That was why they had to leave to catch the plane and come here, because the wolf might eat them up. But Mama was left behind.
Here Roohi started to cry.
Raman imagined the grief at this parting, the story that had been told to facilitate such a separation. Was Shagun equally distressed? He doubted it. And with what rubbish had they filled the child’s head? It was not enough to demand this insane to and froing across the world with the inept Mrs Sabharwal, they also had to frighten her to bits.
Each night he held her, through each tear and whimper. As he felt the thin body tremble next to his chest he thought of how much he loved his daughter and how inadequate that love had been so far as her protection was concerned.
She had just turned four. Her mother must have celebrated her birthday in very different circumstances from his own treat last year on the beach. Both events had one parent missing and the result was a child who cried and wet her bed at night. He found himself hating Shagun for the damage done to his baby.
What had Ishita said, how many mothers can a child have? Where could a child as young as Roohi place her trust? The least he could do was to ensure that the next time around that place was solid and secure.
He started by replacing the pictures, selecting photos of the children, getting them blown up and framed. Arjun in DPA receiving a medal for athletics, Roohi on sports day. The grandparents on his side increased, the grandmother on her side removed along with the errant daughter. In a few months, new narratives were in place on the walls and tables.
*
Raman’s pain was now Ishita’s, his hesitations entirely understandable. She would heal him, teach him to trust. Every time they made love she felt the renewal of his commitment. He could not have enough of her, and she, she would serve him with her life.
‘What have I done to deserve such devotion?’ he once asked. In truth he had done nothing, he owed her devotion entirely to the fact that he was not Suryakanta.
The day did come when Raman suggested they apply for a marriage licence, and when a month was over, get married in court. He made it absolutely clear that he wanted no fuss. They would tell their parents after it was all over, everything was to be as differ
ent as possible from their first times.
To the superstitious pair, that was one indicator of the success of the present venture.
Ishita felt a bit strange, being so free from family in this important moment. Uncomfortably she wondered if her new in-laws would blame her for their exclusion.
‘Don’t be silly, I will tell them myself,’ said Raman.
With that she had to be content.
It took two hours at Tees Hazari for them to be married.
As they walked down the corridor Raman’s attention was caught by the bridal rose colour of his wife’s salwar kameez and he decided on rage. These courts had been the scene of his greatest humiliation, his deepest misery, and here was Ishita dressing up in pink. Maybe women were all the same, maybe he was making a big mistake, it had been fine just him and his children. They were the most important thing in his life, not fulfilment with some woman.
Ishita was aware of his distance, and felt immediately miserable. Whatever he was thinking, it was sure to be something against her, otherwise he would have shared his feelings.
They emerged into the parking lot.
‘I hope this doesn’t come as a shock to the children,’ said Raman.
If he was trying to wound his wife he succeeded. She didn’t expect a whole lot, but some words of love just after they had signed the register would have been welcome. Was he already regretting his choice?
‘Our parents will be glad,’ she replied carefully.
She put a tentative hand through his arm. He pressed it. She could feel his solid warmness, knew that together they could create a happiness Raman would not be able to deny, no matter what he was feeling now. He too had been tossed on stormy marital seas, such vessels liked to rest quietly.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked in the car.
‘I’m fine. Anxious about the children.’
Again there was nothing to say. Time would show that the step he had taken was the right one, she had to be patient.