Custody (30 page)

Ishita spoke to Raman. One truck had already gone, but people were still eager to donate. Was he one such? Did he have anything for the next truck leaving in a few days?

Did he have anything? Indeed he had. He went home, opened cupboards he had not opened for months, looked at items he would rather not have seen. With ten thousand dead, lakhs more rendered homeless, the Orissa cyclone demanded an open heart. He gave and gave and gave.

I hope you can make use of these things, he said to Ishita.

But this is really very generous, very generous indeed, said Ishita confronted with eight huge bags parked near her door. Why don’t you drop them off at the collection place outside the society office?

Raman’s voice dropped, melodrama crept in. I am not sure all of it is suitable.

She had to ask what did he mean?

Go through them and see for yourself.

Normally so helpful, he departed, too distraught to even bring the bags inside.

For the next hour Ishita took out random items and gazed at them nonplussed. She called her mother to help shift through the jeans, the saris, the salwar kameezes, dupattas, even the handbags that lay strewn around the Rajora living room. A faint perfume rose from them, disturbing the sorters with its intrusive intimacy.

‘Hai Ram,’ said Mrs Rajora, ‘is the man mad? Are they going to wear high heels in the flood?’

The rhinestone-embedded gold and silver strappy affairs lay insolently on their sides, while they imagined a once-upon-a-time wearer.

‘Either he is using us to get rid of her stuff or he imagines the villagers so desperate that even heels will help,’ went on Mrs Rajora doubtfully.

‘He probably wasn’t thinking. It must be his way of dealing with what she left behind,’ said Ishita, preoccupied with her own sense of prying into another woman’s life. Why hadn’t she taken her things? Had she left in such a hurry? Felt so bad she couldn’t return for them? Was now so rich she didn’t need them?

‘Mummy, please can you sort these? I don’t want to go through them.’

And so the job passed to the mother.

Who separated, organised and bundled; gave to the collection centre, gave to her maid, gave to the maid’s daughter, along with a small suitcase to distribute as she liked in Mandavili.

Meanwhile the woman whose belongings were being distributed among the poor of India was at that moment sitting in New York at her husband’s desk. It was early morning. Central Park lay before her, she could see the bare branches of various trees swaying briskly beneath a grey sky. It looked cold out there; the little radio that kept her company informed her of the possibility of a few snow flurries. Snow! Her children would love that.

The double-glazed windows kept the faint noise of the distant traffic out, and in the silence she could hear the water sloshing around in the dishwasher, a nice homely sound. She looked around her: would her mother be happy here? Certainly for a while. She would take her to the shopping centre, to nice restaurants, introduce her to the senior club they had in the apartment building. There was so much going on, only a moron would get bored in New York.

Take herself. She had already acquired a social circle, friends of Ashok and further on friends of friends. The wives were helpful in showing her around, something Ashok clearly appreciated. He wanted no unhappiness, no loneliness, no regret. And with such a large expat community she barely missed India. Trust Ashok to give her the best of two such different worlds.

She picked up her pen and began.

Mama dearest,

Next time I am in Delhi, I am going to buy a computer and make sure you learn how to use it. Everybody here communicates with India through e-mail. Just think – we will hear from each other every day – then no worries on either side.

If you insist I will get you a hearing aid, though I think it’s nonsense that you cannot hear me on the phone. It’s the cost that worries you – don’t deny it. STOP converting dollars into rupees. We earn in dollars now, remember?

When you visit you will realise how young you are! Here women in their sixties think they are in the prime of life. Only in India are people considered old so quickly.

I can’t wait for you to come. At night from our apartment windows you can see the city lights twinkling. In the day there is the Hudson River. When I am on my own I go to the Metropolitan, do a little shopping, at home I do all the things we had servants for in India. We are very cosy here. We cook together – it relaxes Ashok, then after dinner we usually go out.

The only thing that upsets me is seeing women with small kids. When the weather is fine, they are all over Central Park, thank God it is getting colder. If I mention the children to Ashok he starts talking of the necessity of my working. I see no connection.

Ashok has had a word with someone in the embassy, and there will be no trouble with the visas. Raman will drop the children to your place the night before. I am glad Ami’s son will drive you to the airport. We will buy Ami a nice present that will convert all her criticism of me into praise. Maybe a bottle of perfume with the price sticker attached. Let the worth of no gift go unnoticed.

Thank goodness Raman was co-operative enough to let me take the children first, even though it means Roo missing school. But then he knows he has everything to gain by remaining in my good books. Ashok is right, it doesn’t do any good for divorced parents to be hostile to one another. Bad for the kids.

We will both be at the airport to receive you. I have bought toys for Roo and electronic games for Arjun. It was so nice to be able to do that!

Your loving daughter,

Shagun

Three weeks into the children’s departure and Raman was still angry. Shagun had asked him to change the dates, in itself not such a big deal, but every careful distant word had been uttered as though she was doing him a favour. It will be fun for all of you to be together for New Year, so I don’t mind if you send them to me earlier. Later on it gets too cold, besides, they shouldn’t have to spend time being outfitted for warm clothes so close to Christmas when shopping is a nightmare.

He had never heard such flimsy excuses. Clothes! As though she couldn’t buy them ahead of time! She knew their sizes. No. Shagun did not want to be encumbered by her children on Millennium Eve. Why? Because she was probably headed towards some exotic location, perhaps Bali, where the newly-wed couple would kiss in the still turquoise waters of some lagoon that lapped gently against the steps of their exclusive villa.

It was not, not his concern, he told himself. They were separate, separate, separate, he had repeated as he drove his children to Alaknanda, their warmest clothes packed in a suitcase. How had Mrs Sabharwal arranged the visas? Again not his concern. No doubt there was a DPA alumnus who knew the main guy in the USA visa section.

What about his own millennium plans? Just about everyone he knew was planning to leave the city. A guy in his office was going to New Zealand so he could greet the New Year a few hours earlier than his fellow billion Indians. Another was going to London, another was going to be cruising in Hawaii, another was going to be in New York, in Times Square, the most happening place in the world, with the most happening party of all.

Newspapers made sure that their readers knew what every celebrity in the country intended to do that night. Mauritius, Maldives, Phuket, Bangkok, Paris, yachts, islands, cruises – anywhere so long as the glamour quotient was high. Special events were being hosted at clubs and hotels, shopping places were strung with lights. Plans, plans, plans.

He shook himself. It was the solitariness of the past weeks that was making him feel so low. The only thing that would allow him to feel better was the presence of his children, and there were still some days to go before he was scheduled to pick them up from Alaknanda. Then the whole world could go to Bali, along with his ex and he wouldn’t give a damn. Not a damn.

He would gather everybody who was dear to him in his house, parents, children, relatives, and surrounded by the people he loved, ring in the millennium, and hope that every succeeding year in the new century was as happy.

*

Dearest Mama,

It is the middle of the night and I cannot sleep. My heart is full – but I don’t want to disturb Ashok – he has a heavy day at work tomorrow.

It is so silent. It’s only been three hours since I came home, but every minute screams of loss. Tomorrow Raman will come to get the children, and then you will feel a little of my loneliness. That’s not a nice thing to say, is it? Sorry. But you will see them again in the next holidays before I do. Were Raman halfway decent he would make sure their contact with you continued but he is too petty.

If Ashok knew I was sitting here like this he would be quite hurt, especially after our dinner. He took me to this fabulous restaurant – he guessed I would need cheering up. We had the tasting menu. Tiny morsels of the most exquisite French food, with ribbons of sauce all around. The whole thing took three hours!. And four kinds of wine: first white, then red, then a sweet dessert wine, then a cognac. Maybe that’s why I can’t sleep, too much to drink.

Now that you have been here, why is it so difficult for you to imagine yourself living with me? You are not comfortable with Ashok, that’s it, no? Do you want him to give you homeopathy like Raman used to – pretending to be a doctor when he was no such thing?

How were Roo and Arjun during the flight? Ashok spent his extra miles on upgrades for all of you – he is always thinking of practical ways to make me happy.

Over dinner he again said I had to work. How that will stop me from missing my children, I don’t know, but I mustn’t grumble. Nobody gets everything, and if I had to do it all over again, I would.

Your loving daughter,

Shagun

*

The Kaushiks were united in wanting to make sure Raman’s party overflowed with warmth and togetherness. The most important thing is family, they declared, when we have each other we have everything. His parents helped him plan the menu. To ensure a festive atmosphere he strung coloured lights around the tiny veranda off the drawing room, he bought small presents for Nandan’s twins and his own children. A bottle of Black Label was ordered from the bootlegger – on this night he would serve only the best.

What about Ishita? Roohi would love to see her, his parents would approve, but he was not sure how Arjun would react. He didn’t want to risk any tension, though in excluding her he knew he was being unfair, but he would explain it all to her later. After all, his children had just come back from their mother in New York.

Millennium Eve. The two Mrs Kaushiks came armed with food, Arjun really likes my shammi kebabs, Roohi loves my vadas, we will fry them here, they said, while the men drank and talked politics, and the children disappeared into another room. Raman fought away wistful memories of the times when the flat was always like this, full of life and children. He reminded himself instead of what he had. Through the nightmare months of divorce and custody his family had stood by him like buffers against the winds of misfortune. Nandan particularly had never charged him a paisa, nor ever complained about the time he had taken up. What gratitude was enough for this?

They drank, they ate, the children opened their presents. Then they decided to drive down to Rajpath to look at the lights. Crowds were gathered on the India Gate lawns. Up the car inched towards Rashtrapati Bhavan, the glittering dome looming between the smaller clusters of office buildings on each side.

There on Beating Retreat stood camels. When Arjun was little they had taken him to hear it. Now Raman felt hesitant reminding his son of those long-ago family outings, everything in the present was working towards obscuring that past.

Soon the 31st would be over, thank God. He couldn’t bear the hype around just another day. Millenniums were man-made. Was that dying light, the suddenly darkened sky, aware that it had been 2,000 years since Christ was born? The sun, the moon, the stars, so certain of their course, emanated their steady essence without fuss or fanfare, their regularity making them significant in the lives of men.

Crowds negotiated, traffic borne and patience held on to, at last they were home. The TV was switched on – let’s see what the rest of the world is doing.

Time zone by time zone they were privy to party after almost identical party around the world. Roohi had fallen asleep in the car and was now in bed. They looked at their watches and at twelve there it was, the new millennium. The roads outside erupted in yells, screams, toots, whistles. On and on, the sound of revelry.

At last, 1999 was over.

The relatives left looking tired. Now he and Arjun were the awake ones, the TV gazers.

‘When are they going to show New York?’ asked the boy.

‘New York is ten and a half hours behind us, beta. It is still daylight there. You can get up in the morning and watch. Now go to bed.’

The boy just remained, sleep in his eyes, secretiveness on his face.

‘Is there something in particular you are looking for?’

No reply. Flick flick with the remote, that was all.

‘As you can see, they are not focusing on individual people. Only crowds.’

Just then the camera zoomed in on one swaying woman in Cairo. Arjun looked reproachfully at his father.

‘That woman is performing. In Cairo. On a stage.’

He knew his mother would be at Times Square that night, witness to the lowering of the crystal ball. Be sure to watch it, beta, I will try and stand where the cameras are, and wave to you on the eve of this new millennium, my darling boy. It will be a link between you and me. I miss you so much.

‘Your mother will be in Times Square?’

Arjun nodded.

‘Along with thousands of others. I doubt you will see her on TV.’

‘Papa, please. I feel like watching.’