Custody (33 page)

‘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 different 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.

‘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.