by Kapur, Manju
‘You can stop worrying about me now, I am married.’
Mrs Rajora was in the kitchen, tending to the chickpeas in the pressure cooker, when the daughter announced this. As her jaw dropped, the pressure cooker whistle blew. ‘What?’
‘Married.’
‘Where? How? Why so hush-hush? Are you sure?’
Marriage. That sacred word. Back and forth it went, it could not be said enough. Finally the whole story told, the need for subterfuge explained (husband’s paranoia – what could the wife do?).
They acquiesced. What could a wife do?
But here, see, here was the paper to prove it. Yes, this very morning, when they thought she was going to work, she was actually driving to court, that was the way he wanted it, she repeated again and again, the way he wanted it.
They all agreed, as they sat excitedly round cups of tea and biscuits, that the man was very sensitive, but his present marriage would help him recover his equilibrium and face the world with confidence.
Her new son-in-law had too much tension, declared Mrs Rajora. One had only to look at his health history to know this, and in that case, yes, their daughter had no option but to listen to him. He had proved his intentions honourable, so much was forgiven.
In another part of the building things were not as smooth. Such clandestine behaviour could not be regarded so indulgently, this was the son of the family, another woman was involved, ownership issues were at stake.
As he tried to pacify them, Raman marvelled at the storm created over someone they had always approved of.
Eventually the owners calmed down. Where was she?
Telling her parents.
Ha! They must have known. The parents of a girl not knowing? What world do you live in? So innocent you are.
Raman was sick of talking, explaining, justifying. He just wanted things to be normal. A simple, predictable, boring life, filled with the humdrum of the usual, this was his heart’s desire.
‘Call her,’ demanded Mrs Kaushik. ‘I must see my new daughter-in-law, even if you think there is no need.’
Ishita was summoned over the intercom, and came running over in one minute flat, bending down to touch the feet of her new in-laws the moment she entered the door.
‘Beti, why did you listen to him? What is the need for all this secret-vekret?’
And for the first time Ishita said Ma. Ma, Papa, please forgive us. We cannot live without your blessings. A few more hours and both sets of parents had exhausted every reaction, blame, recrimination, wonder, congratulations, happiness.
It became time for Ishita to leave with Raman.
‘Is that all?’ her husband joked as he picked up the tote bag.
‘I can come back for my things.’
She didn’t tell him that first she needed to be in his house as a wife.
They went down in the elevator, clank clank, the two of them, standing in the slowly juddering box.
Home to Roohi.
They found Roohi in front of the TV watching cartoons, with Ganga next to her, also watching. From time to time the maid said, drink your milk, and held the glass up to the child’s lips. If that milk would finish in an hour it would be a miracle.
Ishita wanted the news over and done with. She nudged Raman.
‘Beta,’ he started.
Roohi’s gaze remained fixed on the cartoons.
‘Beta, I have something important to tell you.’
‘What?’
‘Listen, na.’
He was so clumsy, did he have no idea of how to compel a child’s attention, why didn’t he put the TV off? Ishita bit her lip, don’t say anything, don’t say anything, let him handle it, the child needs to hear it from him, but isn’t he going to send the maid away, or are they both to hear the news together?
Ads came and Roohi was momentarily diverted.
‘Beta, Auntie and I got married this morning. She will now live with us. Isn’t that nice?’
Roohi said nothing, while Ganga, whose understanding of English was comprehensive, kept her face carefully blank as she speculated about the changes that would come about in her own position. Raman, duty done, marched into the bedroom.
‘Tell Ganesh to get me some tea,’ Ishita said, to get Ganga out of the room.
She put the TV off, lifted the child onto her lap. ‘Babu, beta.’ She nuzzled her hair, smelling of sweat and feeling sticky. How long since it had been washed? She looked at the strands and located some crumbs. God only knew the extent of her neglect, children needed to be looked after every second of the day.
Roohi’s thumb went back into her mouth. Ishita tilted her face towards her own and looked at the long eyelashes against the roundness of the childish cheek, the pink wet mouth, the slightly sallow skin. At four she was too old to be sucking her thumb. She pulled it out and held the glass next to her lips.
‘Drink your milk, beta, and I will tell you a story.’
‘What?’
‘Start drinking first. Can’t tell you a story just like that, can I?’
Roohi took a few sips then waited. ‘There was once a papa who had a little girl whom he loved very, very much. That girl did not have a mother.’
‘Why?’
‘The mother had run away. She was never coming back.’
‘Never?’
‘No. Before she left she prayed to God, please send someone to look after my darling Baba. You see, in her own way this mother did love her child, but there were other people calling her and she wanted to go. And the little child was very lucky because another mother came who loved her very, very much.’
‘Who?’
‘Can you guess?’
‘No.’
‘Well, one day the child’s papa, who was lonely, decided to marry this other mother. That way all three of them could live happily ever after. Now do you know who it is?’
Roohi stared at her milk. The glass was still not empty. Ishita tilted it against the girl’s mouth and held it there till she swallowed the last drop. ‘Good girl,’ she said. Roohi probably felt some vestiges of attachment to that woman, and so could not answer the question. She vowed that one day of her own accord the child would say that she loved her and only her. That would be her greatest triumph. She stroked the grubby hands. ‘Come on, darling, let’s wash,’ she said and led her to the bathroom.
In his room Raman cleared out one of his drawers to put away Ishita’s things. He could hear his wife and daughter talking, could see the little girl’s head against the woman’s shoulder. Already there was a change in the atmosphere of the house, and his own mood lightened. Thank God the child had accepted the marriage, for him that was ultimately the most important thing. Now only Arjun left.
XXVII
Ishita started her life with Raman and Roohi, morphing suddenly into wife, mother and mistress of a large flat along with servants. Every dream had come true.
‘What time does Roohi leave for school?’ she asked Raman the first night as she nestled among sheets smelling satisfyingly of husband and sex.
‘Well, I get her up at seven.’
‘Then?’
‘Milk, bath, breakfast, then Ganga and the driver take her to school, which starts at eight thirty.’
‘You are such a caring papa,’ said Ishita, caressing his chest.
‘My daughter after all.’
‘Our daughter now.’
He sensed the anxiety in her voice and smiled to himself, as he repeated after her, our daughter.
‘Do you think I can help get her ready? Of course I don’t want to startle the child . . .’
‘Darling, she loves you, you know that.’
Ishita melted into him. ‘You think? I wouldn’t like to presume.’
‘I know.’
That was his wedding gift to her.
Overnight Roohi’s life changed. ‘I don’t want to rush anything,’ Ishita repeatedly told her husband, convinced of her own sensitivity to the exigencies of treading carefully, while Raman watched bemused, as
day by day a new regimen was put in place. Pottery classes once a week at the community centre, neighbours’ children who started coming over to play, smarter dresses with matching accessories, clothes that matched Ishita’s own outfits stitched by her Swarg Nivas tailor.
He objected to nothing because he saw the pleasure Roohi took in the attention, saw her flower under the regular routine, which was so much more carefully thought out than the structure he had provided.
That the child would be eventually graceful was ensured by dance classes at the Sri Ram Bhartiya Kala Kendra where Ishita discovered Justin McCarthy, once American, now Indian, versed in Sanskrit, Oriya, Tamil, and all the classical dance traditions of the South. Beginners were taught by his students, and parents were allowed to sit against the wall, eyes fastened on the backs of their daughters, imagining the day when they would be danseuses.
After Roohi’s dance lesson was over, Ishita usually brought her to the nearby Bengali Sweet House for a dosa and ice cream. These treats were very dear to her, and she listened indulgently while the child chattered on about everything under the sun.
When she heard that Justin was in addition the foremost piano teacher in town, she rented a piano and signed up for his twice-a-week lessons, making sure the child practised every day. It gave Raman great satisfaction to hear the rudimentary tunes his daughter confidently banged out. ‘Beta, play something for Papa,’ Ishita would say and Roohi would run to the piano and show off.
On weekends Ishita planned family get-togethers, first checking with Raman whether it should be just themselves or all the grandparents, for now her own parents were included in that category. Raman knew his wife wanted to bind them into a cohesive unit and he did his best to fully participate in these schemes.
One Sunday at the zoo. Roohi walked between her parents holding each by the hand. All things considered, they were happy. Roohi because she was wearing new clothes, looking at animals, and the adults with her were in a good mood. Ishita because they presented a picture of a normal family to the world. She didn’t think the day would ever come when she took this for granted.
Raman was the least content. He missed Arjun, he was not used to outings in which his name was never mentioned, nor his absence marked. He realised this sorrow was not fair to his present wife and he made an effort to participate as fully as possible in their enthusiasm.
Roohi jerked at his hand. Look, Papa. Before them was a large pond, overrun with flamingos, herons, storks, ducks and swans. Ishita peered at the board, and read out the names. Flamingo, native of Africa – do you know what Africa is, darling?
Country.
No. Continent. With many countries. Say continent.
Con – con.
Ti – nent.
Ti – nent.
Raman wished his wife was not so keen on his daughter’s education, but it was early days and he felt it unwise to interfere with the bonding process. Ishita drew out a plastic bag with stale roti. Here, darling, let’s feed the ducks.
Roohi eagerly stretched out her hands. They leaned over the railings, and threw the roti into the water despite warnings displayed prominently everywhere. The ducks gratified them by squawking excitedly, diving after the food slowly sinking into the green opaque water.
They trudged and trudged. They passed tigers, giraffes, lions, and scores of brilliant exotic birds. Roohi started to drag her feet, October was still too early in the season for a comfortable outdoor expedition. The old fort was a big place and their energy was swallowed by heat and fatigue. Expedition over, they were going to eat at It’s Greek to Me in Defence Colony Market with the grandparents.
Patiently Raman waited for the zoo to pall, for the endless succession of birds and beasts to assume the dreadful sameness it already had for him. He hid his dulled spirits, some things were not possible the second time round.
Once home he observed the glow on Ishita’s face that came from a successful family outing, heard mother and daughter discussing the animals, the parrots so colourful, the lions like the ones they saw on TV, the hippo, so fat, and the black swans? Like dancers almost. The pleasures of the outing appeared retrospectively heightened as he listened to them.
*
A few days later Ishita suggested a visit to Roohi’s school. ‘They will want to be informed of the changes in her life.’
‘In that case they will get to know a lot at once. I never told them Shagun left. People are so conservative.’
‘Well, there are more families like ours than you think. Besides, they should be aware that now she has a mother who is dependable.’
‘They’ll really like you, Ish.’
Ishita allowed herself a small smile. Her husband’s praise was very sweet to her, but she didn’t let him see this, in case he thought there would be no need to compliment her further.
‘I hope it is not too late to start the applications for admission into big school.’
‘Really, there is no need to think of every blessed thing in her life all at once,’ said Raman without thinking, amazed at how constantly the child appeared in his wife’s thoughts.
Ishita looked down, but he could see from the tightening of her lips that tears were being suppressed.
‘Now please, don’t start crying.’
‘Roo is my responsibility too, you know. I must do my best.’
‘But you don’t have to prove you are doing your best. Let things take their natural course. The child loves you, I love you.’
The lips softened, white teeth glinted through a small smile. ‘You men are all alike. How can I just let things be? Where schools are concerned it is all law of the jungle. Don’t you know that?’
He took her hand and squeezed it.
Let him say what he likes, she thought, but it had been her love for his child that had set her apart from other women. A love that, all said and done, had made him look beyond her defective fallopian tubes.
Her first marriage came to haunt her in disturbed dreams. Despite the six years that had passed, her inadequacies now appeared more vivid, her innocence more pathetic. Maybe it had something to do with being a wife again. She told herself repeatedly, wipe the past from your memory, focus on the present. You are lucky enough to have the chance of a new beginning.
Next evening, Ishita to Raman:
‘The teachers were delighted to see me. Turns out they did know about the marriage breakup.’
‘How come? I never told them.’
‘But she did.’
‘Not one to waste any time, huh?’
‘Anyway, they said children are getting ready for big-school interviews, and they were wondering what was happening about our Roo.’
Raman looked down. Shagun had done all the school formalities for Arjun. He knew they were of vital importance; once the child had missed the date, admission was horrendously difficult. But with everything so uncertain he had wanted his daughter to enjoy the continued familiarity of Toddler’s Steps.
Ishita stared at the guilty head. He was the girl’s father, it was his duty to make sure things got done on time. What would have happened had she not arrived on the scene?
It was November. Raman was following the American elections closely. How could one of the most developed nations in the world have such a problem counting votes? He hoped Al Gore would emerge the winner, and he tried to make Ishita feel the same interest in the outcome. ‘I dread what will happen to the world if George Bush becomes president. How can they take such a man seriously?’
But Ishita had issues nearer home to dread. They both concerned the children. Shagun had announced that she expected both Roohi and Arjun to be dropped at Alaknanda on January 1st. Surely Raman would not let Roohi go, she was too young to handle change. Earlier it was different, but now with two loving parents there was no need for her to be sent anywhere.
She brought this up tentatively one night. They were sitting on their first-floor balcony on cane chairs squeezed together. The street light threw its fluorescent
glare on the tiny yellowing leaflets of the gulmohar in the garden below. It was the perfect tree, in winter its falling foliage let the sun through, in summer brilliant red flowers lit up the dusty bleached cityscape.
‘I don’t know if I have a choice,’ said Raman. ‘It’s only for a few weeks. She has probably come to India to be with the kids.’
‘What about her interviews for big school?’
‘There won’t be any in the holidays.’
‘There might.’
‘I don’t think Shagun has a long visit in mind.’
‘But we don’t know when she will get an interview call. Then what will we say? After all my work explaining our late application – I have just married, etc., etc., marital disputes, etc. etc., child shouldn’t suffer, etc. etc.’
Ever since Ishita had realised the importance of Roohi’s admission she had set about it with zeal, going from school to school finding out details, making notes in her diary. Why should she work so hard if she was not to have even this basic assurance, that the child would be there for the interview?
She went on, ‘Not to mention the confusion in her mind. You know they ask all kinds of questions – about Mama – Papa – school – just trying to gauge the child’s awareness of the world around her. How on earth do you expect her to say anything in this situation? I know what will happen—’
So did Raman.
‘She will just be silent. With thousands of children seeking admission – do you know how many applications there are for Kirloskar International?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Six thousand! For ninety seats! Can we afford to play with her future like this?’
‘We may not have a choice.’
‘Of course we have a choice. We don’t have to send her.’
‘Ishu, just remember, we don’t have complete control over her destiny. Her mother does have visitation rights, and even if by some miracle we manage to have her not go these holidays, there will be others.’
‘Let’s cross those bridges when we come to them. I am worried about now.’
‘I am just trying to warn you. We may not be able to control everything that happens to Roo.’