Sonu and I were drifting apart. She never tired of nagging and needling me. We hardly had any sex. I kept out of her way and ignored her when she decided to pick a fight. This infuriated her. So she picked on my father.

Father was a God-fearing and self-effacing man who never raised his voice against anyone. He kept to himself. He went every day to the gurudwara in the mornings and the Sai Baba temple in the evenings. He had his meals in his room where he pored over books on religion—the Upanishads, the writings of Jiddu Krishnamurti—and listened to tapes of the sermons of Sai Baba, Swami Chinmayananda and others. He came only twice a day to the portion of the house we occupied. In the mornings he sat with me for a few minutes and then spent half an hour with baby Ranjit. He stayed a little longer in the evenings, when he did nothing but baby talk with Ranjit. He had become Ranjit’s favourite adult. As soon as he heard my father’s footsteps, Ranjit would start on a loud ‘Dada Dada Dada’. He would stretch out his arms to be picked up. He would smack his grandfather’s face with his tiny hands, pull off his glasses, tug at his moustache. My father loved it and gently remonstrated with him, ‘Beta, you’ll break my glasses. Will you buy me another pair?’ When Ranjit learnt to crawl, he would come scuttling on all fours to where my father was sitting and haul himself up. The two would rock in a tight embrace for some time, then Ranjit would resume knocking off Father’s glasses and pulling his moustache. He would gather his spit in his mouth and blow bubbles into his grandfather’s face. Father loved that too. ‘Mera nunha munna,’ he would say. ‘What will you be when you grow up?’ Ranjit would reply by slapping his face more vigorously and shouting ‘Dadadada’.

Sonu did not approve of their closeness. ‘Pitaji, you are spoiling him,’ she would say. ‘He gets too excited when you are around and refuses to go to bed.’

My father kept his peace. Many a time when grandfather and grandchild were deeply involved with each other, Sonu would shout, ‘That’s enough! Ayah, put the baby to bed. It’s very late for him.’ As the ayah tried to pick him up from his grandfather’s lap Ranjit would fight back and howl. Sonu would storm in, pluck the child roughly from his grandfather’s lap and hand him over to the ayah. Ranjit’s howling would get louder as he hit the ayah with his fists. You could hear him calling for his ‘Dada’ between sobs till sleep overcame him. My father would quietly walk away to his room.

It made me angry, very angry. But I did not open my mouth.

‘There must be some discipline in the house,’ Sonu would say. ‘The baby must be taught to eat and go to bed on time. I can’t have him spoilt for other people’s pleasures.’

I would switch on the TV, pour myself a Scotch. I would continue to watch the screen and drink. Most of our evenings were spent in this manner.

My father sensed that Sonu did not like his living in the house. One day he told me, ‘Puttar, I want to go to my ashram for a few days. The weather is nice—not too cold, not too warm. I need to be with myself for a while. Can you book me a seat on a bus?’

‘Pitaji, I will drive you to Haridwar. I also want a short break. The sight of the Ganga lifts my spirits.’

I told Sonu of Father’s decision to leave for Haridwar. Far from being remorseful, she said, ‘That will be good for the baby. He won’t be mollycoddled and will learn to be independent of people.’

I decided to take my father to Haridwar on Poornamashi, the day of the full moon. It fell on a Saturday, when the office closed at midday. Father was ready with his luggage when I reached home that afternoon. Baby Ranjit was asleep. My father gazed at the child’s face for a long time. He could not hold back his tears. He murmured a silent prayer as he left. Sonu made a gesture of touching his feet before we drove out of the house. Four hours later we drove into his ashram.

I did not want to miss the sunset aarti at Har Ki Pauri. We put our luggage in the room and walked through the bazaars to the river bank. It was March. The hillsides were ablaze with the crimson red of the flame of the forest in full bloom. As the sun went over the western range, a full moon rose in the sky. It was the same scene of candelabras being waved over the stream to the chanting of shlokas and the loud clanging of temple bells. Leaf boats carrying flickering oil lamps bobbed up and down on the dark water. I realized that if there was one experience which I would get nowhere else in the world it was the worship of the Ganga at Haridwar at sunset.

That night I was strangely at peace with myself. The bickerings with Sonu were out of my mind. All the women who had for short periods become a part of my life were also out of my mind. Even Mary Joseph whom I had been bedding off and on in different hotels ceased to exist for me. Mother Ganga had taken me in her embrace and there was no room for anyone else. I slept soundly all night.

My father woke me up in the morning with a cup of hot tea. We went back to the ghats and bathed in the river. This time my eyes did not stray towards women bathers. Perhaps I was getting the better of my lecherous instincts!

I spent a long time talking to my father. I told him I would visit him every full moon night and any other time he wanted to see me. I pleaded with him to come over at least once a month. I could send my car to fetch him and drop him back. He did not commit himself. ‘Let’s see,’ he replied every time I asked him to make a promise.

I drove back at a leisurely pace through the countryside of wheat fields ready to be harvested, along the cool bank of the broad Ganga canal, through the crowded bazaars of highway towns. I was back home by the afternoon.

Ranjit was having his long siesta. He woke up when I was having tea. He looked very happy to see me, but his eyes looked for someone else. ‘Dada?’ he asked with a question mark on his face. He went crawling round sofas and chairs calling ‘Dada, Dada’. They often played hide and seek. When he failed to find his Dada anywhere Ranjit came back to me and looked me full in the face with his large questioning eyes. ‘Dada? Dada?’ he asked. I picked him up and put him against my chest. ‘Dada’s gone to Haridwar. He will be back soon.’

Sonu picked up our dialogue. ‘Is he planning to come back soon?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know if he will come back at all. He felt he was unwanted here,’ I replied in a huff.

‘Why are you always picking on me?’ she screamed. ‘He went of his own free will. I didn’t tell him to go.’

I switched the TV on and asked the bearer to bring out the Scotch.

I stuck to my resolve of being in Haridwar on full moon nights with my father. I insisted on his coming back with me so he could spend a few days with his grandson. One had to see them together to understand how elemental and strong are the ties of affection between grandparents and their grandchildren. Sonu accepted the arrangement of having ‘the old man’ spend four or five days of the month with us. He always brought some prasad from the ashram, a bottle full of Gangajal, and rustic toys for Ranjit.

Sonu had other scores to settle with me. It seemed to be a part of her plan to not let me enjoy even my evening drink. One evening as I poured out one for myself and one for her (having weaned Ranjit some months ago she had started drinking sherry and at times Scotch) she asked me, ‘How many women did you take to bed before you married me?’

I knew she was angling for a fight. I tried to be evasive. ‘A few, I don’t remember how many.’

‘And of course you expected your Indian wife to be a virgin. All Indian men are like that; one rule for them, another for their women.’

I did not contradict her. It did not stop her going on with the interrogation: ‘Who was the first one?’

I pretended I could not remember. ‘I think it was a woman called Jessica Browne, I’m not quite sure.’

‘What do you mean you don’t remember? No one forgets the person they had sex with the first time. Who was this Jessica woman?’

‘Black American. She was captain of the university women’s tennis team.’

‘Black! You mean a habshi, a nigger?’

‘Nigger is regarded as a very rude word by educated Americans. They say coloured or African-American.’

‘That’s not the point,’ she snapped back, ‘I know you don’t call niggers that to their face. Behind their backs whites still call them niggers. Why did you pick on a black woman?’

‘I don’t remember. It just happened. I was shy of being seen with white girls. People stared at you. They didn’t if you were with a coloured woman because they took me to be coloured—which I was.’

‘How many times did you have this Jessica woman?’

‘I don’t know. A few times. It didn’t last long. She started going out with white boys and it ended.’

‘Who else?’

‘For God’s sake stop this cross-examination! It’s all in the past and finished. Why go on and on about something that’s over and done with?’ I said angrily. ‘Must you always ruin my evenings by starting arguments?’

I helped myself to another drink, switched on the TV.

She had yet to interrogate me about why I was late from office some evenings and smelt of whisky. I knew she would soon start doing that. And she would do it every evening. I realized I could not go on seeing Mary Joseph for too long. Meeting her in hotel rooms was risky. Someone was sure to recognize me and ask me questions. Or her, as she must have attended to hundreds of patients in her nursing home or as a private nurse. Fortunately for me, it was she who terminated our clandestine meetings. She rang me on my direct number in the office and told me she had to return to her village as her husband was reported to be very sick. ‘Cirrhosis of the liver, what else!’ she said. ‘No one to look after my son. Saar, I will write to you and tell you all about it.’

I did not see Mary Joseph again. She wrote only once to tell me that her husband had died and that she had been appointed senior matron of the village health clinic. She sent me the blessings of Lord Jesus Christ.

Sonu and I realized that our marriage was not working out. What concerned us most was what other people would say. Nobody bothers about marriages which hold; everyone is deeply interested if things go wrong. Whenever I dropped in at the Gymkhana or the Golf Club for a drink, my friends and their wives would ask, ‘Do you keep Sonu in purdah now? Why don’t you bring her with you?’ These were loaded questions.

I told Sonu.

‘You never ask me to come with you. You go off on your own from the office. We pay subscriptions to three clubs; I haven’t been inside one for almost three years,’ she said.

We were heading for another unpleasant argument; I cut it short: ‘I’ll ask the chauffeur to pick you up first and then collect me from the office. I agree that we should be seen together oftener than we are.’

‘We’ve hardly ever been seen together except at home,’ she said.

Thereafter, at least twice a week, we began going to the Gymkhana or the Golf Club and spent an hour or more drinking with friends. Occasionally we joined them for dinner on special nights when exotic food was served. It was on our way back that she would pick on me. ‘You find that Chopra chap’s wife—what’s her name—attractive?’

‘Mrinal? Passable. She’s very vivacious.’

‘You didn’t notice anyone else at the party. It’s not good manners to pay attention to only one person in a party.’

‘She happened to be sitting next to me. I didn’t have much choice. On my other side was that fat woman—what’s her name—who has hardly anything to say about anything.’

‘Sheila Goel. I find her very interesting. She’s very knowledgeable about Hindi movies and light classical music. I’m told she has a lovely voice.’

‘You are welcome to her. I’m not interested in Hindi films nor in pakka raag. There is so much happening in the world; one should know something about it and have one’s own opinions. That Goel woman has no clue about what’s going on in the world around her. When I asked her what she thought of the election results in Delhi, she shut me up by saying she had no interest in politics. She has no interest in sports either. Or for that matter in anything else.’

That was good enough to start a slanging match; I fighting for Mrinal Chopra, she for Sheila Goel. This sort of thing was repeated every time we returned from a party with a little alcohol inside us. With every passing year it got worse. Sometimes she would force me to stop in the middle of the road, get out and walk away shouting that she could not bear to be with a womanizer. The first few times I would park the car by the side of the road and wait for her to return. Then I stopped bothering and left her to find her way back home in a taxi or on her own two feet.

There is a common belief that children cement a marriage. There is little doubt that children need both parents to give them a sense of security which is necessary for their mental stability. However, my experience does not support the belief that this also reduces the tensions in a marriage. On the contrary, the birth of our son had produced more discord than harmony. Admittedly we had not planned to have him; he came because we could not hold ourselves back from exploring each others’ bodies and were foolish enough not to use contraceptives. It was not our child who generated any resentment between us. Both of us were devoted to him and made a lot of fuss over him. But even as a baby he reacted to our quarrels by turning to my father for company and comfort. This turned Sonu against my father. She made him feel unwelcome in our home. Being a proud and self-respecting man he decided to move permanently to his ashram in Haridwar. Little Ranjit missed him and turned to his ayah rather than to his mother for company. Sonu did not like that. She fired one ayah after another on the flimsiest of excuses: she steals my things, she is very lazy, she spoils the child, and so on and so forth. Ranjit could not come to terms with the succession of maidservants. He looked forward to my coming home in the evenings and clung to me till it was time for him to have supper and be put to bed. He insisted on my telling him stories till sleep overtook him. Sonu now had something more to hold against me. She began to resent our son’s preference for me rather than her. She was convinced I was turning the child against her. ‘Will you please leave him alone and let him get proper sleep? He has to get to school in the morning,’ she would shout if our story-telling sessions went on longer than she liked.

Sex became a dutiful ritual performed once or twice every month (though even this was irregular) in the hope that Sonu would not suspect that I had found alternatives to the matrimonial bed. Indeed, I had found other outlets, but there was always the apprehension of being found out and so the affairs were not as pleasurable as those I had had in my bachelor days. I could not think of any way out of the impasse except to somehow win back my freedom through separation followed by divorce. The thought often came to my mind after a particularly nasty quarrel, but I never voiced it. It was, in fact, Sonu who suggested it: ‘We can’t go on like this for much longer,’ she said angrily once. ‘We make each other unhappy; it would be better if we lived apart.’ She awaited my response. I did not react. She said the same thing again some days later, and this time I agreed: ‘Yes, we should break up. I have had enough of this matrimonial bliss.’ She was taken aback and lapsed into a sullen silence. This sort of exchange happened more than a few times. It was always she who broke the icy silence that followed. It formed a pattern. After some days of not talking to each other, at night she would stretch her hand across to me. I would come over to her and without a word of affection being exchanged she would part her legs and I would mount her. There being no great urgency on my side, I could hold out as long as I liked, switch the woman lying under me from Sonu to one of the many that came to my mind: Jessica one night, Yaasmeen the second, Mary Joseph on the third …

Life was becoming a bore. Boredom was written all over my face. Life should be interesting and exciting otherwise what is the point in going on? The clubs or parties we went to were useless. We met the same kind of people, who drank the same kind of liquor, indulged in the same kind of small talk and bitching. All trapped in the meaningless quest for money, creature comforts and hankering for social respectability. We frittered away the best years of our lives in banalities. The world had so much more to offer than we were taking from it: beautiful places, beautiful people. Beautiful paintings and sculptures for the eyes to behold. Beautiful music and songs. The fragrance of flowers; the aroma of the parched earth when the first drops of rain fall on it. Tasty food and wines to tickle the palate; roasted nuts with premium Scotch; avocado pears with chilled Pouille Fusse; wild rice with creamed mushroom sauce and juicy steaks with rich Barolo or Burgundy; trifle followed by sips of Drambuie, Cointreau, orange Curacao, Grand Marniere or Cognac. And after a good meal, a Havana cigar.

But more than sights, sounds, smells and tastes, it was the sense of touch that mattered most to me. More than the feel of silk and velvet, it was the feel of the female body that produced the ultimate thrill. Passionate lips to kiss; firm rounded breasts to caress and suck; well-rounded, smooth buttocks and softer-than-silk thighs to stroke. Most people regard these preoccupations as crude, vulgar, obscene. For me they are the things that make life worth living—all the rest is marginal and of little consequence.

I taught myself to hold my temper when Sonu lost hers. When she went on a spree of nagging, I kept my cool. It made her uneasy. She felt I was slipping out of her grasp. She feared that the next time she brought up the subject of separation or divorce, I would call her bluff. She did not bring it up again. Whether it was her own idea or whether it was suggested to her by her mother, she hinted that being the only child Ranjit was getting too much attention. Without more being said we stopped using contraceptives. It did not take long for Sonu to conceive her second child. She reverted to being ratty and quarrelsome. After the sixth month of her pregnancy she moved to her parents home to be nearer her gynaecologist and the nursing home. I made it a point to drop in to see her on my way back from office. Her parents and her brothers made no attempt to be friendlier towards me. For them I was still an educated upstart who assumed fancy airs. They could not accept the fact that I was not dependent on them and was doing well on my own. I was the pillar of the young millionaires’ club; neither of Sonu’s brothers had made it to the charmed circle.

Our daughter was born six years after Ranjit. Since my father was away in Haridwar, I let Sonu decide on a name for her. She and her parents settled for Mohini: perhaps as a concession to me because my name was Mohan. Ranjit was thrilled with his baby sister. My father was also very happy to get the news. He wrote back saying he would come over after the child came to her own home. Clearly he felt as uncomfortable in Achint Ram’s household as I did.

Sonu spent another month with her parents before she came home with Mohini. This time she brought only a night nurse and an ayah. My father came from Haridwar to bless the child; he spent more than a week with us. By now he was fully aware of Sonu’s hostility towards him and kept out of her way as much as he could. But Ranjit would not let him alone. He would get home after school and head straight for his Dada’s room to play hide and seek and, though already six, sit in his lap and demand to be told stories. Sonu would shout at him to come for his meals. ‘I want to eat with Dada,’ he would scream. ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort,’ she would shout back. ‘Come at once or I will give you a tight slap.’ There were scenes every day. My father ate alone in his room; a sobbing, sulking Ranjit kicked up a shindig and had to be force fed by his mother or the servants.

‘I can’t enforce any discipline in the home when your old man’s around,’ Sonu complained every evening when I returned from the office. I said nothing. I stuck to my resolve to not let her come between me and my father. After my father left for Haridwar I went to see him every full moon night and spent a couple of days with him each time. I sent my car to fetch him whenever he agreed to come over.

And so it went for another five years without our getting any closer to each other. I loved the children, and for their sake I tried to keep the marriage going. Perhaps Sonu did too. Mohini became a great comfort. I looked forward to getting back home in the evenings when my little daughter would come running to me and insist on being taken for a drive. I would drive her around the neighbourhood myself. But this made Sonu more sullen. How could the children love a man she did not? I knew in my heart that I could not endure this loveless life for ever. I did not anticipate its dramatic end.

One morning in my mail was a post card written in Hindi. It was from Pitaji’s ashram and had been posted two days earlier. It read: ‘It gives me great sorrow to inform you that your revered father left for Vaikunth this morning. He was in good health and went to Har Ki Pauri for his morning snaan in Ganga Mata. On his return from the snaan he complained of chest pain and asked for a cup of tea. While he was having his tea, the cup slipped out of his hand and he was no more. We could not find your telephone number to inform you immediately. Hence this card. We also could not keep his body too long and cremated it according to Arya Samaj rites. His ashes have been put in an urn for you to come and immerse in the Ganga.’

I was stunned. For many minutes I sat with my head in my hands. There was no one around with whom I could share my sorrow. I asked my secretary to tell Jiwan Ram to fill the petrol tank as I would be leaving for Haridwar. ‘My father is not well,’ I told her. ‘Also ring up home and tell them I will not be back for a couple of days.’

Half an hour later I was on the road to Haridwar—the road on which I had driven many times with my father. After we had got past Ghaziabad Jiwan Ram asked me, ‘Sahib, Sharma memsahib told me Pitaji is not in good health. Is it anything serious?’

‘No longer, he died two days ago. I’m going to collect his ashes.’

‘Harey Ram! Harey Ram! He was such a noble soul! I never heard an angry word escape his lips. He will find an honourable place beside the lotus feet of the Lord.’

Once again I covered my face with both my hands and broke down. Jiwan Ram heard me, ‘Sahib, dheeraj dharo (control yourself). No one knows when death comes. One should always be prepared for it and take it as the Lord’s will. Be brave, God will comfort you.’

I had heard such words spoken at every death. However hackneyed and meaningless, they gave solace to the afflicted.

As the sun was setting we drove into the ashram. I was conducted to my father’s room. In the centre of the charpoy on which he had slept a few days earlier was a brass pot containing his ashes. It had garlands of marigold flowers twined round it. I took it in my arms and again broke down. I heard myself wailing: ‘Hai pitaji! Where have you gone without me? You did not even give me the chance to be with you when the end came!’ Ashram inmates gathered round to condole with me and Jiwan Ram let me cry to my heart’s content till I ran out of tears. My sorrow slowly ebbed away. I wiped the tears off my face. I took the urn in my arms and asked Jiwan Ram to drive to Har ki Pauri. ‘Pitaji will watch the aarti one more time with his son. Tomorrow I will immerse his ashes in the Ganga.’

I reached the clock-tower facing Har ki Pauri a couple of minutes before the aarti. As the priests on the opposite bank started waving their candelabras and chanting hymns and the temple bells began to ring, I stood ankle deep in the stream and waved the brass urn, touching its base to the water. Each time I brought it down I felt at peace with myself and the world. I sat on the ghat till after dark, watching the leaf boats with the oil lamps glide slowly away on the water. If I sat there long enough I would see all the flames die out. That did not depress me. After a long time I walked back to the car, still clutching the urn in my arm. I refused to eat the food offered to me. I held the urn close to me all night and slept fitfully, thinking of my father. I felt he was as close to me in death as he was in life.

Early the next morning I returned to the ghat, a furlong or so downstream from Har ki Pauri. Instantly I was surrounded by paandas waiting to help me perform the prayers of immersion and take their fees. They asked me where I came from and whose ashes I was carrying. ‘I am the paanda of your family,’ said one of them pushing the others aside. ‘I knew your father was living in the ashram.’ He rattled off names of distant members of my family. He led me to the river bank and had me sit facing him with the urn between us. He began to chant mantras in Sanskrit. Half-way through he stretched out his palm and demanded dakshina.

‘How much?’ I asked.

‘Whatever you think proper. I know you are a rich man and the only son of your father.’

I handed him a hundred-rupee note. It was much more than he had expected. He resumed chanting shlokas with greater vigour. He stretched his hand towards the urn to empty its contents in the river. I grabbed it before he could touch it. ‘This I will do myself,’ I said in a firm voice. ‘No one else will touch my father’s remains.’

He let me have my way. I stood knee deep in the stream. As the sun came up over the eastern range of hills, I poured the ashes into the river.

There was more to be done. A barber was summoned. I sat on my haunches while he first cut my hair with a pair of scissors then shaved off the stubble with a razor. I was as bald as an egg. Everyone would know I had lost a parent.

I returned to the ashram to settle my father’s account. There was no place for sentiments here. The director of the ashram produced a chit of paper on which he had jotted down the expenses: Rs 50 to get a death certificate; Rs 150 for wood, ghee and incense; Rs 50 to perform puja, Rs 50 for the brass urn. Total: Rs 300. ‘If you take away your father’s belongings we can rent the room to somebody else,’ the director said without any emotion. What kind of human being was he? I remembered the post card he had sent me about Father’s death. He could have sent a telegram—but why would he waste any money on a man who was merely a tenant? The ashram had many lonely men like my father.

I gave the ashram director the money and told him I would keep the room for myself at the rate my father had paid. His things were not to be disturbed. The room would remain locked; I would keep the key with me. There were no objections; all that the ashram authorities were interested in was getting the rent. The director came back with a lock and key and handed them to me.

A bald head is not an uncommon sight in Haridwar. Every day scores of men arrive bearing the ashes of their parents to immerse in the Ganga. Besides paandas who recite the appropriate mantras, two other trades have been established in the place. One is the sifting the gold or silver fillings of the teeth of dead persons from their ashes. This is done by urchins who stand waist deep in the river, shining mirrors into the water to catch the glint of precious metal. They then feel the ashes with their toes and dive down to pick any bit of metal they find. They work in partnership with the paandas who make it a point to empty the urns as close to the bank as possible to make the retrieval of gold and silver easier. That was why I had refused to let my paanda touch the urn with Father’s ashes and had emptied the contents in the river well out of the reach of probing feet. If my father had any gold or silver in his teeth it was dedicated to Mother Ganga. The other trade that thrives in Haridwar is cap-making. Men don’t like what they see in the mirror after their heads have been tonsured. So they buy caps to cover their baldness. I had a healthy crop of jet black hair that curled at its ends. The women I had made love to never tired of running their fingers through my curls and paying me compliments: ‘The thing that makes you look so macho and handsome is your hair,’ they would say. It would take many months to regain my crowning glory. So I stopped by a cap-maker’s shop and after examining different varieties opted for a French style beret. It covered my skull completely and kept my head warm.

I spent another night in my father’s room, sleeping on his charpoy. The next morning I set out on my return journey. My sorrow over losing my father turned into sour resentment against Sonu who had treated him so shabbily. I had no forgiveness left in me and resolved to lead my life as I pleased.

The first thing Sonu said to me as I entered the house was, ‘Where have you been all these days? Not a word to inform anyone when you would return. As if we matter nothing to you.’

‘I went to Haridwar,’ I replied. ‘I was informed through a post card that my father had died and had been cremated. I went to immerse his ashes in the Ganga.’ I took off my beret.

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I truly am.’

‘Why should you be? You drove him out of this house,’ I said in a burst of rage. ‘He will not bother you anymore.’

‘That’s a nasty and cruel thing to say. You make me out to be a murderess,’ she screamed and went sobbing to her room. I collapsed in an armchair and began to cry. Ranjit and Mohini witnessed the scene. They clung to me. ‘Papa, what has happened?’ asked Ranjit. ‘Why is Mummy so angry?’

‘My Pitaji, your Dada, is dead. You won’t see him again.’

‘Why? Where has he gone?’ he asked.

‘He has gone to Vaikunth.’

‘Where is Vaikunth?’

‘Far, very far,’ I replied. ‘No one comes back from Vaikunth.’

‘I will go to Vaikunth to see him,’ said Ranjit stubbornly. He was still too young to understand that death was for ever. Mohini was barely five and could not make any sense of what I was saying. I gathered the two in my lap. They snuggled against my chest and fell silent.

I could hear Sonu ring up her mother to give her the news. She also told Vimla Sharma to inform the office staff and tell them not to call before tomorrow. The office should be closed as a mark of respect for the deceased, she said.

Later that evening Rai Bahadur Achint Ram, his wife, their sons and their wives, and their domestic servants came to condole. I had just poured myself a Scotch and soda. They embraced me in turn and uttered words of solace. ‘Bahut afsos hua (We are very sorry).’ Their servants condoled with mine and sat on the floor around us. For a while they talked about the inevitability of death. ‘Only those blessed by God go swiftly and without pain,’ pronounced the Rai Bahadur. ‘Your revered father—I’m told by your driver that he was in good health and passed away having his morning cup of tea. What a nice way to say farewell to the world.’ I nodded my head. And took a sip from my glass of whisky.

‘When should we have the chautha and uthala?’ asked the Rai Bahadur. ‘We shall announce it in the obituary columns of The Hindustan Times and book a time at Mata Ka Mandir for keertan.’

‘You decide the date and the time. I don’t know anything about religious ceremonies,’ I said, taking another long sip of Scotch.

The family spent an hour with me. By the time they left I was on my third glass of Scotch. I knew they did not think it was the right thing to do during the period of mourning; I did not give a damn about what they thought. The grief was mine, as well as its antidote. Sonu’s youngest brother could not resist making a nasty remark as he shook hands with me to leave. He pointed to my glass of whisky and said, ‘That’s the best thing in which to drown one’s sorrows, boss.’

For the next three days no food was cooked in my home. It was sent by the Achint Ram family. Custom required that no fire be lit in a home where there had been a death. The Hindustan Times carried the announcement of Pitaji’s demise in Haridwar and the chautha-uthala ceremony in Mata Ka Mandir. The Achint Ram family was prominently mentioned under the heading ‘Grief Stricken’, facing my name, Sonu’s and the children’s.

I had a stream of callers from sunrise to sunset: my office staff, friends, their wives, and most of all friends and relatives of the Achint Ram’s. What time-wasting customs we Indians have evolved! Although I did not attend office during these days, I asked Vimla Sharma to see that everyone else did and to report to me every evening and bring up all the correspondence with her. I spent half an hour every afternoon with her in my study dictating replies.

The coming and going of people came to an abrupt end after the prayer meeting at Mata Ka Mandir. Gloom enveloped my home. The children and servants talked in subdued tones. Sonu and I kept a distance from each other, fully aware that a nasty confrontation was in the offing. She had been stung by my remark that she had driven Father from the house. She was not the kind of person who would let such an observation pass as something uttered in grief. One day she would have it out with me. And I was not the kind of person who would apologize for the sake of peace. We stored up ammunition to fire at each other when battle lines were drawn. I was reluctant to fire the first shot. She looked for an opportune moment to open hostilities.

We stopped talking to each other. I began going to the club straight from the office and returned late. By then Sonu and the children had finished supper and gone to bed. I ate my dinner alone. I resumed sleeping in my study downstairs. My morning tea was brought to me, I bathed and dressed downstairs. Ranjit and Mohini came to see me in the mornings and spent some time chatting with me as I turned over the pages of the morning papers and smoked my cigar. I gave up breakfast as it would give Sonu the chance to question me. We both sensed we were coming closer and closer to a showdown.

Sonu bided her time to let a decent interval elapse after my father’s death before she decided to settle scores with me. A month after the obsequial ceremonies were over she sent me a note through the bearer who brought me my morning cup of tea. It read: ‘I want to discuss something with you—today. Kindly come home on time—Sonu.’

I could not put off the day of reckoning any longer. I drove back from the office fortified with arguments, determined to keep my cool but not give an inch. My nerves were on edge.

I went upstairs and took my usual chair. Sonu came out of her bedroom and asked the ayah to take the children to play in the garden.

She opened the assault. ‘Is this a civilized way to behave towards one’s wife?’ she asked.

I ran my hand over the new hair sprouting on my pate and did not reply.

‘You hate my guts, don’t you?’ she said firing the second salvo.

‘I don’t hate anyone’s guts,’ I replied calmly.

‘Why did you accuse me of throwing your father out of the house? Answer me. You know there is no truth in the accusation. He left of his own free will. You said it because you wanted to hurt me. Is that true or not?’

‘Not true,’ I replied, anger staining my words. ‘You cannot deny you made my father—old man, as you called him—feel unwelcome in the house. He was a man of dignity and felt it would be better if he lived elsewhere. How can I forgive you for doing this to the only relation I had on this earth!’

‘As far as you are concerned, I can do nothing right. I am always in the wrong!’

‘I did not say that. Don’t put words in my mouth.’

‘You think I am a bitch! You want me out of your way so that you can start fucking other women,’ she said in a shrill voice.

‘Shut up.’

‘I won’t shut up. I’ll settle this matter one way or the other, once and for all.’

‘Do as you please,’ I replied. ‘I have nothing more to say.’ She glowered at me for a few moments, then walked off in a huff to her bedroom. I went downstairs to my study and asked the bearer to bring my Scotch and dinner downstairs. I thought the first round had gone to me.

The second was fought the next day.

Sonu opened the attack. ‘I have thought over the matter. I think we should live separately.’

‘If that is what you want, you can have it. If you want me to move out, I will do so as soon as I can. If you want to go back to your parents, you can do that.’

‘You seem very eager to get rid of me.’

‘It is your suggestion, not mine.’

‘You want to put me in the wrong all the time.’

The wrangling went on for half an hour. And ended the same way: she went off to her bedroom, I to my study to have my drink and dinner in comparative peace.

I thought the second round had also gone in my favour.

We retired to our entrenched fortifications—for a fortnight or more. The cold war became colder by the day. One Sunday when I had no excuse for going to the office and was peacefully watching TV, Sonu stormed in, switched off the TV and stood facing me. Her face was flushed with anger. ‘How can you go on day in and day out ignoring my presence in the house—as if I was piece of dirt. That whore Mrinal takes good care of you, doesn’t she? Why would you need a wife!’

‘For God’s sake shut up and let me watch TV.’ I put out my hand to switch on the TV. She slapped the back of my hand and screamed, ‘You will do nothing of the sort. I’ll teach you how to behave like a gentleman, you filthy lecher!’

I lost my cool and slapped her. I had never before descended to violence. She was stunned. ‘You dared raise your hand against me!’ she hissed through her teeth, trembling with rage and humiliation. ‘I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget for the rest of your life.’

I knew I had lost the third round, and the battle for supremacy.

It was that day that she reported me to the police and effectively put an end to our turbulent marriage of almost thirteen years.

When I returned from the police station, she had gone off to her parents with the children. I did not bother to visit or call her. She came back over a month later. I ignored her. When I hugged and kissed the children, she said I had no right to do that. I kept quiet. ‘You have no right. You did not bother to come and fetch them and their mother,’ she said. ‘Yes I did not,’ I said, looking straight at her. ‘I love the children, but I am happier without you.’ ‘I know that, you bastard,’ she shouted. ‘But if you want the freedom to bring whores to this house, you cannot keep the children.’ It was difficult, but after a few more months of quarrelling, I gave up. I told her I needed a divorce and she could keep the children. Two days later, she took the children and three suitcases full of her things and drove off.