Custody (40 page)

Her interaction with Ashok had coarsened his former wife beyond recognition. Raman put the receiver down. There was no reason why he should be subjected to insults, he was no longer married to her, besides which she was not the woman he had known.

The next day it was Mrs Sabharwal who phoned. Her voice was hesitant.

‘Beta, how is Roo?’

‘She is still in bed.’

‘What does the doctor say?’

‘Wait and watch.’

‘Shagun is leaving tomorrow. It will do no good to deprive a child of her mother. After all, you do see Arjun, don’t you?’

All Raman’s antennae were up. Maybe Shagun was taping this conversation.

He would let them know as soon as the child was well. Right now the doctor had said travel might bring on the convulsions again, he added for the benefit of the recording device that was going to use everything he said against him.

The days passed and he heard no more. Shagun must have left, and for the time being Roohi was safe with them. As a precaution he got a medical certificate that attested to the child’s high fever due to malaria. He sent a copy of this to Mrs Sabharwal’s address by courier.

Two could play the same game. Shagun extended Arjun’s ticket on medical grounds. He would arrive the day before his school opened to spend one night with his father.

If Raman wanted to see his son, he would have to share his daughter, hadn’t he known that?

‘Why on earth should the two be linked? There is no comparison. They are not the same age and have different needs,’ said the wife, whose rationale for saying this was as transparent as glass.

For Ishita it was an answer to a prayer not to have the boy home. He was so completely the emissary of that woman. She refused to believe that a thirteen-year-old could behave the way he did without having been seriously primed. He probably didn’t even understand the consequences of telling Roohi her real mother was somewhere else.

It was equally bad with Raman. In front of his son, the husband she loved receded into an anxious, cautious father, unable to see the woods for the tree called Arjun.

But his moping worried her, and she insisted they see Nandan the next time they went to Swarg Nivas.

‘There’s no point, what will he say? We can’t file contempt of court, because we are also guilty of the same thing.’

Nandan confirmed Raman’s suspicions: you want the son, you play fair with the daughter, then we have a leg to stand on. It’s acceptable practice to delay, to prevaricate, to trouble the other side as much as you can. But you can’t expect them not to do the same.

It was Sunday lunch, three generations of Kaushiks eating together, the door open between the flats, the grille that separated this two-unit section from the rest of the world securely latched. Roohi was darting around, following Aditya and Abhilasha in and out, delighting as she always did in the two mirror-image apartments. In one kitchen poories were being fried, in the other, Ishita was making rotis, the heart-attack patient had to be particular about his diet. She knew the elder women in the family approved of her care.

Her own parents were also present, her in-laws always invited them, and for this she felt a gratitude that she expressed by being all things to all relatives at all times.

XXXI

During the time Arjun was away, Raman worried incessantly about his son’s return. Maybe Shagun would decide to keep the child in the US, making sure he would never see him again. At the thought of such revenge he felt faint with anticipated grief.

‘Of course she will send him,’ said Ishita. ‘His school, studies, everything is here. Then you are always visiting him to make sure he is OK. Why would she want to disturb such a good arrangement?’

As an argument this carried no conviction, but perhaps it was not realistic to expect Ishita to regard his ex-wife as a nuanced human being.

The day before Arjun was due to arrive, Raman got a curt e-mail from Shagun giving the date and time of his flight. He would be there to receive him, he wrote back into the silent reproachful void. Well, her feelings were none of his business, he reminded himself, always reminding himself that it was none of his business. But he would see his son, nothing could take away from that joy, solitary and unshareable though it was.

The plane was landing at two in the morning. He could barely bring himself to eat that evening, his stomach was knotted, he felt sick with tension.

Ishita disappeared to put Roohi to bed, imagining a need for Raman to be alone. Somewhat forlorn, he sat in front of the TV, putting his watch on the table so he could mark the infinitesimal creeping along of minutes. He wanted a drink, but felt it inappropriate. His son should smell no alcohol on his breath when they embraced.

At the airport, how long would it take for an unaccompanied minor to appear? To the best of his knowledge it was the first time the boy was travelling by himself.

For a moment he felt annoyed with his wife. Deliberately she had excluded herself from his worries. Her loves were around her, not hurtling home alone, through the vast unprotected skies above the earth.

Now he fooled the minutes into passing quickly by watching a rerun of
Kaun Banega Crorepati
with Amitabh Bachchan, watching the great ageing movie star with his white beard and dazzlingly shiny hair coax the audience with his charm.

From
Kaun Banega Crorepati
he flicked to a mindless film with a monster in it. A huge misshapen creature, crying for acceptance, for a wife, for the love of his creator instead of his hatred. But Frankenstein’s monster was ugly. He deserved nothing, nothing.

Not like his Arjun. He saw the boy’s face before his eyes, a face more beautiful than any boy should ever possess. The fair skin, the peach fuzz, the black eyebrows, the thick hair cut short so that it felt like fur. He has inherited my looks, Shagun used to say proudly. Invariably he agreed, ‘The only ugly one in the family is me.’ Then Roohi was born, and this particular banter had to stop.

After the thousandth glance at his watch, Raman decided to leave for the airport. He would have to wait – perhaps many hours, but he couldn’t bear home any more with his fears bouncing off the walls.

Into the Esteem, driving down NH8, he put on a Pink Floyd tape, a favourite one of his son’s. The sounds would tell him that he had been deeply missed, and that his homecoming started in the car.

Driving, driving, passing truck after lumbering, polluting truck, passing the small hotels, the showrooms, the dry treeless roads, the perpetual construction of flyovers on the way to Terminal 2 of the Indira Gandhi International Airport in the hot July night, listening to music he could not relate to, but which reminded him of his son and therefore he heard with ears that were not his own. Would his son have grown in the weeks away?

He parked and darted across the road, paying his 50 rupees to stand inside and watch passengers emerging. The TV screen showed that the Continental flight had not landed yet.

He sat on a sagging torn black leather seat in a row facing a screen that showed passengers descending into the immigration hall. In this way he would be able to spot Arjun once the plane arrived.

After an hour they announced the plane was going to be late. By now even the anxiety was ground out of Raman, he was just dully waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

An hour later, green lights flashed against the Continental flight number, and fifty minutes after that, a stranger walked towards him, accompanied by one of the ground staff, taller than the woman, leaner than he remembered. Two months and his son had so changed. He recognised him of course, but the face he had visualised all the way to the airport had disappeared into an older version.

Sign here, said the ground-staff woman and then she departed, leaving him with his beloved son, who greeted him with a small smile, in contrast to the greater enthusiasm of those around, the respectful feet-touching, the kisses, hugs, tears and bouquets.

‘You have grown so much, beta. How did this happen?’

The boy shrugged.

Silly question. It happened because this was the age. He was his baby no longer.

As Raman reversed in the parking lot, Pink Floyd obediently welcomed Arjun.

‘Why have you put that on?’

‘I thought you would like it.’

‘Naah. I don’t listen to stuff like that any more.’

‘Oh? What do you listen to then?’

‘Eminem.’

‘I don’t know him.’

‘He’s really cool.’

‘So, how was New York?’

‘Cool.’

‘You must have had a lovely time, but beta, Papa missed you. You never phoned, you never wrote, no reply to the e-mail I sent on your birthday.’

The child was silent.

‘Well, now you are here, that is the important thing.’

They drove on through the night.

‘Do you have any photographs?’

‘Lots.’

‘Maybe we can look at them together.’

‘They are for Roohi.’

‘Lovely. Now tell me everything you did.’

‘We went to a huge place – it was as big as a stadium – where they sell games and stuff. And all kinds of equipment – really cool.’

‘How nice. Did you buy anything?’

‘Yeah. A GameCube.’

‘Well, I hope it works here. The American system is different from ours.’

Arjun suddenly looked uninterested and simply stared ahead. Poor child, he must be so tired. These long flights were no joke.

‘Soon we will be home, then you can go to sleep, beta. Hopefully you won’t have bad jet lag.’

‘Hoon.’

‘Where’s Roohi?’ said Arjun as soon as they entered the house.

‘She is sleeping. It’s pretty late, you know.’

‘Mama sent something for her.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘She said to give it to her myself.’

‘Yes, do that. But right now, do you want something to eat? I can make you a sandwich. Give you a glass of Bournvita.’

‘No, I’m not hungry.’

‘They feed you all the time in planes.’

While Arjun walked around the flat Raman pulled the suitcase into his bedroom. He opened it, and there on the very top was a big beautifully wrapped parcel with glitter and ribbons. On it was stuck flowered paper, which said, ‘For my darling daughter Roohi, from her loving Mama.’ One of the silver bows was coming off, carefully he pressed it back on.

‘Where is Roohi?’ repeated the brother, looking at the parcel in his father’s hands.

‘You will see her in the morning.’

‘Mama said to give her the present myself.’

‘As soon as she wakes up, you can do that. You have got all new clothes I see?’

‘Yes. Mama said I had grown.’

‘You have. I almost didn’t recognise you at the airport.’

Arjun smiled.

‘Here, here is your kurta pyjama. I hope it still fits you. I had asked Ganga to keep your clothes ready.’

The boy disappeared into the bathroom. Raman sank back on his knees. His chest felt burdened by the gladness of setting eyes on Arjun again. Just looking at his suitcase was enough to delight him.

‘Will you be all right alone, beta?’ he asked as the boy came back. ‘I can sleep with you if you wish. Your only night home and all that.’

‘Really, Papa, you think I am a baby like Roo?’

‘Of course not. You are growing so fast – and going so many places. At your age I had never been anywhere.’

Arjun slept and slept, truly dead to the world. A few times his father came in and stared at him, but his gaze did not penetrate the boy’s consciousness.

Twelve hours later he woke up.

‘Breakfast, lunch or tea?’ joked the father. ‘I have made chicken curry for you.’

‘Chicken curry then, Papa,’ said the boy with his first broad grin. He looked younger, his dark hair tousled about his sleep-filled eyes, his Shagun face.

‘Come on then. I wonder’, he remarked as he spooned rice and curry onto his son’s plate, ‘whether New York is really as wonderful as they say. Though now you must be an old hand. Two months away is a lot, don’t you think?’

‘But it was so much fun. I went everywhere by myself in the subway. Mama introduced me to some boys my age – sons of friends of theirs – we hung out, took in a game or two, saw some flicks. Played pool.’

Pool? Arjun? Raman swallowed. ‘Were your friends Indian?’

‘Some.’

‘What else?’

‘We went to some shows too, but that was in the evening – with … you know, Mama’s friends. She said she was only doing essential work from home while I was there.’

‘Your mother? Working?’

‘She stayed up nights doing stuff on the phone mostly – something to do with clothes.’

‘Was it garment import-export? Quite a lot of that goes on between India and the US.’

‘I don’t know. All she said was that she loved doing what she was doing. She bought me lots of things,’ he added.

‘I saw that.’

Arjun went on eating.

‘Papa loves you, beta.’

‘Where’s Roohi? I have to give her Mama’s parcel.’

‘You were sleeping so long she went to the market, she will be back soon. Do you want a second helping?’

Another hour and they arrived. Ishita disappeared into the kitchen, to supervise putting away the fruit she had bought, poking the mangoes to make sure none was soft, turning over each cherry to make sure none was fungus-ridden, examining the lichis chosen to make sure all were plump and red. She emerged to see Arjun handing his sister a parcel.

‘Mama said to give it straight into your hands. See, see, what it says here.’

Unfortunately Roohi still could not read. The girl’s eyes instinctively turned to her mother, and Ishita quickly sat next to her. ‘How nice, a parcel from America, let’s see what is inside it.’ She took it in her lap, all the while admiring the ribbons and the paper. ‘What do we have here? Oh a pair of jeans, two T-shirts, and little cartoon panties – see, Roo, how nice they are? And so much chewing gum! And this toy – let’s see, how does it work?, Etch A Sketch, oh I see, look darling . . .’ Etc., etc.

Raman, watching them, felt relieved. The parcel was going to be all right.

Arjun, watching, wondered if this was what his mother had in mind when she had given her son a thousand instructions – put it in her hand – be certain to tell her how much I miss her – she must come next time – tell her I had bought and kept these things for her – all for her.