Custody (2 page)

‘Really? What happened?’

‘Oh, one has to earn a living. I was accepted in business school, then I had to pay off my loan. And I had much rather this, than starve in a garret.’

Raman did not know how to respond. Ashok’s success was so well known that it was impossible to imagine his talents to lie in any other direction. Into his silence Ashok spoke, outlining a more focused sales pitch. Target three states in North India, sponsor local events in schools and colleges, build up loyalty, extend the awareness of The Brand to Mang-oh!. Tell the dealers to set up various schemes before you visit.

That he had to travel more and work longer hours, Raman accepted as his due, but as he got up he couldn’t help confiding, ‘My wife complains she hardly sees me any more. We have got a small baby, it’s hard on her.’

‘Home life does suffer.’

‘They say you never married, because of your commitment to The Brand?’

Ashok merely laughed. ‘I’m sure inside here,’ he said, tapping Raman on the shoulder, ‘there is a marketing genius. We just need the right circumstances for it to emerge.’

Raman blushed at this image of himself. Ashok’s reputation was based on his ability to get the best out of people, even the most dispirited campaign appeared more lively when he blessed it with his attention. That was why his salary was in the astronomical region of 50 lakhs a year, why his house was in West End and his car a chauffeured BMW. He had been in India only six months and already there was more confidence that the steady losses of the last five years could after all be stemmed.

*

Driving home, Raman thought of his wife and the distance he had begun to feel between them. Maybe it was the baby she hadn’t really wanted, maybe it was all the travelling he had to do, had always had to do.

As he expected, she did say she was sick and tired of being alone. Immediately he felt anxious – her bad moods were like claws that clutched his heart. It was only later, when they were out with friends, drinking and dining as guests at the golf club, that her spirits lightened. The conversation had turned to the Cricket World Cup in England, still two years away. Somebody said let’s go, and the others said yes, let’s, and someone said it was during the children’s holidays, it would suit everybody, and Raman said, by then Mango-oh! sales should earn him a good bonus, and Rohan said he was so good at marketing, his bonus could pay for all their tickets, and Shagun felt calmer about the travelling that was so essential to her husband. She looked about her; there was not one wife seated around the low table who didn’t have to be alone most of the week, but the success of their husbands’ jobs added to the things they could buy and the places they could visit. Even six or seven years ago, would it have been possible for people like them to consider going abroad to watch the Indian cricket team?

Raman’s friend from the ad agency then asked whether he would be at the Hrithik Roshan do at the Oberoi Hotel. Yes, Raman would. Mang-oh! wouldn’t collapse if he postponed his trip by a few days. Besides, with temperatures in the forties, it was good to remind himself that his job had perks, which was easy to forget when he was on the road in the middle of a heatwave.

Shagun quickly said she would love to meet Hrithik Roshan, but she also wanted to meet the new boss Raman talked so much of. She believed he was from Harvard Business School?

Arre, said another, what did Harvard Business School matter? The man was Indian, that was his saving grace, otherwise foreigners came here, didn’t understand the Indian mentality and expected westernised marketing techniques to work. Well, they didn’t. Look at that chicken fiasco that The Rival had spent so much money on. It took immense strategy to make Indians eat such stuff when they had their own delicious tandooris, tikkas and murgh masalas.

The crush at the Oberoi was stupendous. The Kaushiks were introduced to the movie star, then Shagun was introduced to Ashok Khanna, the company wonder man. Even though the crowd was glamorous, Raman found the evening long. The only aspect that pleased him was the delight Shagun took in the compliments her appearance elicited. Later on in the car she asked many questions about the boss, was it true he was a marketing genius? Had he managed to produce results so far? Where was his wife? How come he wasn’t married? Raman was pleasantly surprised, her interest in company matters was usually limited.

That night Shagun was very tender to her husband, her body apologising for the sullenness of the day before. In a happier frame of mind Raman left the next morning to enthuse regional marketing managers, to do unto others what had been done unto him.

A week later he was accosted by Ashok in the office. Would his wife be interested in acting in an ad? They needed a housewife to put a Mang-oh! Tetra Pak in a child’s tiffin, he had thought she would be suitable, but there was no compulsion, the agency could always provide some model.

Raman hadn’t realised such a project was in the offing, but he was sure it would gratify his wife to act.

He thought of this opportunity as a gift, knowing the excitement it would provide. When he first knew Shagun she had wanted to be a model, but her mother was strongly opposed to a career that would allow all kinds of lechery near her lovely daughter. ‘Do what you like after you marry,’ she had said, but after marriage there had been a child. Then the claims of husband, family and friends made a career hard to justify, especially since money was not an issue.

*

The screen test was promising and Shagun was chosen to appear as a mother in a thirty-second film. When they wanted a child, she suggested her son, and he too was taken. In one week, the exhilaration was over, but not over was the intensity of Ashok’s gaze as he dropped in on the studio to see how it was going.

She put the visit down to the perfectionism she had heard so much about, but when he asked her to coffee, her pleasure was mixed with fear.

Had he been a home-grown Indian and not the boss, she would have found a way to refuse, but this man had been imported from abroad and she did not want to seem unsophisticated. So she went for coffee, and in the spirit of sophistication, dispassionately revelled in the admiration emanating from him, knowing she was still in a role, and it was nice to play away from home.

He encouraged her to talk. Once, she said, she had got modelling offers that might have led to screen tests, but then she had married very young and there had been the inevitable children. Now she was too old to start in films, but with so many new TV channels, and with countless soaps on offer she might have a chance once this ad was released?

Yes, an ad might open up opportunities. He was acquainted with someone who worked with Asha Kakkar, queen producer of practically every sob-inducing serial; would she like him to make a few enquiries? If she gave him her phone number he could get in touch with her directly should something materialise. Nervously she wrote her number down, then watched him insert the chit carefully into his wallet. He would do his best, but she was not to be disappointed if nothing came up.

Of course not, that was understood, she murmured.

He grinned dazzlingly at her. If anyone deserved to be in films it was the woman sitting before him, he said.

A week later found her in his house, after he had phoned about needing advice on furnishings.

Did you manage to get any information about the TV series? she asked as he opened the door, visions of the casting couch flooding her mind. Ashok Khanna didn’t seem that type of man, but you never knew.

I have asked my friends, they will get back to me. But I must tell you, it will be necessary to relocate to Bombay if you are serious. It’s unfeasible to think of an acting career from Delhi.

In that case, asked Shagun, was it not possible for Raman to be posted there?

He did not answer, and she wondered whether her question was too unprofessional to merit attention. She looked at him anxiously, he looked back unsmiling, she lowered her eyes and asked about the furnishings.

He showed her some nondescript beige drapes, did she think he should change the fabric?

Silk would look much better, she replied; these were a polyester mix, that’s why they seemed on the shiny cheap side. There was a shop in Khan Market that sold excellent stuff, expensive but with tailoring thrown in. Who had done his decorating, by the way?

Obviously someone who didn’t know very much. Now would she like some coffee, he wanted to get to know her, did she think that was permissible?

A giggle that sounded idiotic even to her ears. Of course it was permissible, she said. He made the coffee himself – there was not a single servant about, which seemed strange to her.

Not yet used to having them underfoot all the time, he explained. Though he’d grown up in India, he’d lived abroad for the past twenty-five years. But he wanted to hear more about her: what did she do with herself, how did she spend her day?

She was an ordinary woman, why did he want to know? He asked her to guess and as she blushed self-consciously he proceeded with his own history that had led him to this place, this sofa, talking to her.

Later she was to discover he had a strong sense of the significance of his own presence. But was it any wonder? Apparently he had been successful since the day he was born. And ever since he had joined The Brand, fresh out of Harvard Business School, the company had responded to his devotion with equal commitment.

Anecdotally he mentioned his recent trip to Africa. People thought capitalism was heartless, they never considered the great good achieved by multinationals. When the folk he met knew he represented The Brand, they practically fell down and kissed his feet, their community work – such as the fight against AIDS – was so well known. He wanted that impact in India as well.

III

Raman and Shagun’s marriage had been arranged along standard lines, she the beauty, he the one with the brilliant prospects.

Their first child had been born within a year. On learning of his young wife’s pregnancy, Raman had blamed himself. He should have been more careful, he wasn’t sure he was ready to be a father. He made the mistake of divulging his doubts to his mother – he hadn’t been married long enough to be wary of such confidences.

‘I really wish this hadn’t happened so soon. We need more time together,’ he started.

His mother bridled. ‘What will she do when you are in office? It is not as though you can be together night and day, particularly when you are in a travelling job.’

‘She is only twenty-two.’

‘It may interest you to know I myself was only nineteen when I had you.’

‘There was less awareness then. And if you had me at nineteen, surely that was not good for you, Mummy. You don’t want your daughter-in-law to go through the same thing.’

‘Beta, it is good to have children early. By the time they settle down you are still young and free enough to enjoy.’

What she didn’t mention was that as a grandmother she imagined she would have more of a role in her son’s life. As it was she only saw him on Sundays, which just about broke her heart.

Shagun herself had no doubts. Everything was a glorious adventure, and being pregnant plunged her into the centre of all attention. She didn’t throw up once, her skin glowed, her hair shone, her husband called her a Madonna, her mother said she was fruitful like the earth, her in-laws looked proud and fed her almonds and ghee whenever they could get near her.

The birth of a boy added to her glory. She had gotten over the duties of heir-producing smoothly, there would be no need to have another child. Her son had inherited her looks and colour, a further source of gratification.

To Raman’s amazement her figure resumed its girlish curves, leaving only breasts that were more abundant. She now looked like those ideal women described in the Kama Sutra, their hair like a cloud of bees, their breasts like mountains of honey, their eyes like those of a deer, a waist that could be spanned by his two hands (well almost), a belly that folded over in three flat folds, and a walk that was like an elephant’s. When he told her this she laughed and said you now have a private zoo.

These were the good years. Raman was doing well at work, his creativity at IndiaThinkTank was recognised by bonuses and awards. A happy moment with a Foot Fetish shoe ad had made his name. All that lies between you and the … various imaginative scenarios followed. He had taken special care with the visuals. Small feet, beautifully shod, stepping daintily across desert sands, rainwater puddles, muddy river banks, even the Arctic tundra. Who cared about logic in an ad? It was all about evoking desire.

When The Brand re-entered India, Raman was ready for a change. He wanted more challenge, more prestige, more salary.

No one was surprised when they hired him in the marketing department at 10 lakhs a year. Shagun and Raman celebrated by going to Europe for their summer holidays. Had his parents not refused, Raman would have taken them along, but later, beta, first you establish yourself, his father had said, not wanting that money should be spent on them, especially when the exchange rate was so high. They were used to guarding family resources.

In his new job Raman was in charge of Mang-oh!, a duty that took him up and down the country. It was a huge leap in status and responsibility, but as his time away from home increased, Shagun began to protest. ‘But what to do, darling? We have to create brand awareness in every corner of the country. People will drink anything. The Rival is paying crores to film stars to endorse their products. Our sales figures have to outstrip theirs.’

So, money-swollen film stars were getting even more swollen, while her poor hard-working husband had to be content with 10 lakhs a year. Since Raman had moved to The Brand, Shagun had heard of salaries that at one time seemed unimaginable – 40 – 50 – 60 lakhs a year, plus bonuses. Anything seemed possible if you worked hard enough. India was becoming a meritocracy, connections were no longer necessary for success.

Their lives assumed the pattern of so many in their set. Weekends with family, friends, clubs and parties. Weekdays shopping, restaurants, children afternoon and evening, nights drinks and parties. From time to time a book was read and knowledge of it displayed.