Custody (12 page)

‘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 house 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.

How deceptive prettiness could be. And she hadn’t even managed to give her looks to Roohi, the boy had got them all. Handsome, intelligent, an achiever in school, he spent all his time sulking. Truly his mother’s child.

In her frustration she turned to the children. They had to look after their father, he had no one but them, and they must be very careful not to grieve him, they didn’t want their father to die, did they?

Roohi’s tears, Arjun’s fear, Papa is going to die, Shagun’s anger, control your mother, she is frightening the children. Things became so bad that Raman had to beg his parents to go away.

Mrs Kaushik was extremely reluctant to leave her son. Death by poisoning, the wrong medicine wilfully administered, or a push over the balcony filled her troubled mind. Consultation with the servants followed. Should anything suspicious occur, they should let her know whatever the time, day or night. There would be plenty of rewards for them, they could see for themselves how liberal she was.

‘Shagun may have many faults but murder is not one of them,’ said Mr Kaushik as they prepared to leave. ‘If Raman trusts his wife, we should respect that. And what is more, if you call her a whore, a cheat, and selfish to the core, you are going to make him feel worse.’

‘Who gave him his heart attack? Answer me that.’

‘I am talking about your tongue, not your emotions. But you will never learn.’

Mrs Kaushik looked upset, but valiantly sniffed to suggest that her husband did not know everything. When she talked to Raman he seemed to have put himself beyond her reach. Why was the boy so sensitive? Would he ever receive the love he deserved?

With the distracting presence of his parents removed, Raman bleakly acknowledged that the situation between his wife and himself was intolerable. What greater sign of his devotion could he give than a heart attack? There must have been a fault in him as well, that had driven her to do what she did. She was basically a good woman, he knew that, and now he tried to think of a way to draw her closer. We have to talk, he said, and commenced on his prepared speech, starting with love, moving on to the children and ending with forgiveness.

‘Give me a little more time,’ murmured Shagun, eyes on the floor.

As he stared at her glossy hair, the awareness of what a decent man he was flooded him, followed by self-disgust. Miserable dependent fellow, to be so enmeshed with his wife he was forced into a magnanimity she didn’t even care for.

‘I am approaching you with an open mind,’ he said coldly, ‘but if you need so much time, perhaps there is no point.’

‘I only need to think,’ protested the wife.

‘Are you seeing him?’

‘He is not here.’

Deprived of the distractions of office, with thoughts that fed compulsively on infidelity and treachery, Raman was forced to be more businesslike. Should she stay in this house, he told Shagun, it would have to be as his wife. Living like this was painful for him. He was a simple, straightforward man. If she found she had made a mistake, he was willing to overlook it. But if she refused to give up her other relationship, it was better to end the marriage.

Shagun looked inscrutable. There was a time when the words between them had flowed, now every sentence was blocked.

‘Do you have nothing to say?’ he asked.

‘Why do you want to live with me? You will always think of what I have done, certainly your mother will bring it up for the rest of my life.’

‘Leave my mother out of it, please. She is not me, neither does she live here.’

‘She influences you.’

‘If she really had influenced me, you would be out of the door by now.’

Shagun’s face twisted. ‘See. You may not say anything, but you can be sure that she will. As it is, she spent so much time worming information out of the servants. And of course she tells the children how bad I am. Why doesn’t she publish it in the newspapers and have done?’

‘When her son has a heart attack, naturally she is concerned. Imagine Arjun in my place.’

A silence in which both of them hoped Arjun would never be in a similar situation.

That evening Shagun walked slowly to the colony park. She needed to be away from the house, it was too full of her husband. Raman must have struggled to forgive her; how many men would have been so generous? Ashok did not have this gentle, forgiving streak, he would rather kill both her and himself before he let her go. She was a fool for preferring him, a fool. One day she would be punished.

How many times had her lover told her that women had a right to their own lives? Had the right to start again if they found they had made a mistake? But didn’t leaving husbands screw up the children? she had asked. Not at all, he said, it depended on how you handled the situation.

Clearly she was not handling it well. Roohi’s face had assumed a pinched look that made her big staring eyes seem glassy and unattractive. Every day she redefined the word ‘clingy’. Only her mother could read her a bedtime story, only her mother could feed her, bathe her, change her, put her on the pot. When Shagun tried to reason with her, she would whimper – back to being a baby, anyone could read the signs.

Arjun swung between snuggling against his mother when they were alone to studied indifference in front of others. Once, when Raman was in hospital, she had tried talking to him about how he would feel if Papa didn’t live with them, only to have him ask worriedly if Papa was going to die, so instead of preparing him she had left him more anxious.

She sat on a stone bench in the corner under a bougainvillea trellis and stared blankly about her. Walkers each brisk in their own way were going round and round the paved path, small children wobbled on their tricycles, there was a cluster around the ice-cream man, a vendor selling fruit chaat was passing out his wares in little donas with a toothpick sticking up from the sliced apples. The air was fragrant with the waxy white flowers of the champa tree. Absently she picked a fallen blossom, putting it to her nose, remembering the pleasure she used to take in its scent. Nothing. Her tangled life was taking away her sense of smell. She wondered how many more years she had to live.

She picked another flower from the grass and mangled it. If only she could wake and find herself with Ashok, why was that not possible? She could just leave with a note – people in books were always doing that. I have gone, don’t bother looking for me, goodbye . . .

Marriage over, finished, done with.

Eyes closed, she slouched lower, until her head rested against the stone back of the bench. Her weary mind drifted about, trying to find a lifeline out of the morass that seemed to only get worse with every passing day.

Sometimes she believed Raman had had a heart attack just to spite her. If she should stay in the marriage it would have to be without ever sharing his bed again. The consciousness of her obligations filled her with a dreary sense of duty.

‘Memsahib?’

Ganga was standing before her. Roohi had been screaming hysterically for fifteen minutes, not even Sahib could quieten her, she had better hurry back.

On the day of Ashok’s arrival, Shagun left the house with an overnight case. She had to meet him one more time, she had to say goodbye in a way that wouldn’t hurt him, then go to her life with Raman, that joyless, dismal, uninteresting life.

Everything was magic the moment she stepped into the airport, the intensity of the last minutes of waiting, the ecstasy of reunion. This was where she belonged, this was where she was most herself.

They spent the night in his house, and the next morning she cried as she described the horrible guilt, the children’s behaviour, her mother’s pressure, Raman’s unspoken hopes. Everybody involved with her had suffered. She had come to say goodbye, she said, wrapping her long white arms around him, bringing his face close to hers, feeling the dampness of his breath upon her skin, breathing in his sophisticated scents.

Ashok listened carefully. Going to New York had been difficult. For the first time in his career, he had behaved in a way that required explanation. Though enough in love to pay the price, he was worried. His time in India was limited, in Delhi it was practically over.