Custody by Manju Kapur Page A

perhaps by both their tears.
    No gesture or sound.
    ‘You have nothing to say?’
    ‘What do you mean?’ Her face was shrivelled, he noticed the tight little fists in her lap.
    ‘Is it not clear? Why do you insist on playing the innocent?’
    ‘I have done nothing.’
    ‘Nothing? Screwing around with Ashok Khanna is nothing?’
    ‘What are you saying?’
    ‘Fucking the boss. What did he promise you?’
    ‘How dare you talk like that? What kind of husband are you?’
    ‘So it’s not true?’
    She looked down.
    ‘I have had you followed for one month. There are pictures to prove it – do you want to see them, or should I show them to Ashok’s boss instead? Have him deported? Then what will you do, you and your precious lover? His career in the company is finished, finished. I will see to it, see to it, do you understand?’
    So it wasn’t the disclosure, he had had her followed. All of a sudden she hated him.
    ‘This was what was behind all that acting in the ad films. Not your natural talent, though your talent for acting, yes, for acting, is worth an Oscar. Month after month to pretend to be my wife, and yet – all the time – all the time – Shagun, how could you? I trusted you. If there was something wrong, why didn’t you tell me? I was working so hard – for whom do I work but my family? – and you—’
    His tears did not allow him to say more, while her own trickled down her cheeks. She stood up. ‘I have wronged you. I didn’t mean to. But please don’t tell the children.’
    Alone in the room, he gradually grew calmer. He had cried more in this one evening than he had in his entire life, but clearly that didn’t mean anything to anyone. He could hear his wife rustling about, the door of the room opening, closing, opening, closing. She was going to sleep separately, it seemed.
    Wearily he got up, went to the bathroom, looked in the toilet case for the Anxit that he habitually took when he was travelling to help him sleep. Carefully he pressed two out from the strip. Hopefully this should take care of the night ahead – if not he would drink himself into oblivion.
    The next day, with his world changed, Raman drove to office, determined to spread the change around. The walking pillar of effrontery known as Ashok Khanna should be made to pay for his sins.
    Now the pleasure he had taken in the boss’s interest in his work struck him as pathetic. Pathetic, too, all those brainstorming sessions that had helped create new initiatives. How had Ashok Khanna been able to look him in the eye? Seemed empathetic and encouraging?
    Bitterness filled him. The man stupid enough to be betrayed by the two most important people at work and at home had to be mentally challenged.
    He got into the elevator and pressed the button. Every day he told himself he should walk up to the fifth floor, but every day he was in too much of a hurry. Today, he had more time, but what was the use of looking after his health? If he were lucky he would die in the lift. All problems solved.
    Once in office he heard that Ashok Khanna had reported sick. If there was anything urgent, he was available at home. Ashok Khanna, ever the fast mover. Had he already made a disclosure? Whatever it was, there should be no more delay in passing on his own information.
    He picked up the phone to dial the Bombay office. He would talk to the head of HR there, it seemed easier than going international. He felt sick and weary, no longer able to calculate the repercussions of what had happened as he tried to summon up the energy needed to destroy his boss. It was all he could do to keep from being destroyed himself.
    At that very moment Shagun was with Ashok in his house.
    ‘You promised me it was safe.’
    ‘Have you seen the pictures?’
    No, their existence was humiliation enough.
    ‘Then how do you know their contents? Could be you leaving the house, or you getting into a taxi, or us talking together – could be a thousand explanations for