Custody by Manju Kapur

protest, however strong, could get back the security he had lost. He remained bent over his desk simulating work, as the office slowly emptied. By ten he was the only one left. Then all pretence over, he pulled the tainted folder out from under its innocent covering papers and gave himself up to anguish. So this was what had accounted for her distance, and he had thought she wanted him to travel less.
    The sound of the phone roused him. It was Shagun: ‘What is the matter? Why haven’t you come yet?’
    What could he tell her? He loathed her voice.
    ‘Raman?’
    Still he could not reply.
    ‘Raman? Are you there?’
    He put the phone down. There was nothing to say. But he did get up. His children were at home, as well as his lying, cheating wife. He must go to them.
    So he knew. The disclosures had done their job. She sat next to the dumb instrument, her hands cold, a sweaty film of fear on her upper lip. The minutes passed, and she could not move. She looked at the clock: 10.09. Her marriage was over at 10.09, May 20th, 1998. Her son was ten, her daughter less than two.
    She lifted the receiver, and dialled her lover’s number. ‘He knows.’
    ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘It is out in the open, good. Just get through this, darling. Or I can come and get you. It is what I always wanted.’
    ‘No, it’s all right. It won’t be long now.’
    Carefully she placed the receiver in its cradle. There was a little dirt around the numbers, clearly Ganga had taken advantage of her absent-mindedness to forget all she had taught her about cleaning and dusting. Absently she fiddled with the phone. Should she go to her mother’s? Take the children? Right now they were sleeping, she would have to wake them up, answer their questions, endure the looks of the servants. Tomorrow. Tomorrow things would be clearer. There were other people who loved her, and if she could no longer hide, perhaps that was a good thing.
    When Raman returned he wondered how he had never seen the guilt that was so evident in every gesture, every word. A lack of easiness, forced attention, periods of abstraction. Yes, that is how the faithless behaved. Now that she was in front of him, clearly apprehensive, pain entered the anger that had been so sharp in the car.
    All the way home he had thought of what he was going to say, the harshness, the biting contempt. He would drag her screaming by the hair, out of the house, down the stairs. What did he care if she had no clothes, no money, if the neighbours heard? Should the children ask he would say she was dead. If only she
were
dead, how much simpler that would be.
    But when he actually stepped through the front door, he could not even raise his voice. He wanted this agony to abate, and he knew of nothing that would help. He was still, his movements quiet. Dinner was eaten in silence. Finally, ‘Arjun and Roohi were asking for you,’ Shagun offered tentatively. ‘Now that their holidays have begun they wanted to know what we’re doing this summer. But you are always touring so I said no plans for the moment.’
    He concentrated on the apple he was peeling. She noticed the slight trembling of his hands, the pallor on his face. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’
    ‘What is there to say? You tell me.’
    Bravely she continued, ‘Is anything wrong? You seem upset.’
    It was hard for him to look at her, the fear in her face was as apparent as the guilt, but to come out with an accusation was to make the nightmare still more real. But he had to, and when dinner was cleared and the servants gone, he started, praying for inspiration, for something to say that would make her see sense.
    Was it true, what he had found out?
    She only looked terrified.
    Was there anything lacking in their home, their marriage, anything at all, that she should amuse herself – amuse herself—
    His misery stopped his words and he half turned, wanting her to see and comfort, for this dreadful thing to be washed away,