THE QUIET OF THE FUTURE

The divorce took a long time.

You can marry in an hour, with or without fire as your witness, but separation is long drawn, like joined twins being carved apart. And separation does not need agni as saakshi. I don’t think there were divorce courts during Vedic times. And only Gods could arbitrate between hubby and wife, Indra most likely, ‘giver of barley, giver of horses’, says the hymn. Shakuntala could surely have taken that forgetful king to court. Fellow must be having a favourite concubine, someone with a lot of nakhra, what’s the English word for it, coquettishness? How come these English words can never do justice? Incidentally, can there be a court of law for amnesia? Suppose the court crier shouts a name and the litigant doesn’t remember he is Dushyant, leave alone wife or ring?

But to business, Mama; I had moved out of the house of course, first to Daksha’s, then a women’s hostel in the Safdarjung Enclave. Also went to Lucknow and stayed there after the first two months of living in the Women’s Hostel. By then most of the paper work was done. Mama, this would be distasteful to you and I think you are always around. So I am not going to move into a deadpan documentary of the days. I confronted Nishant, he was appalled and furious that I had gone and seen Chhayaji without his permission, if you please, he immediately apologized for the slip of the tongue. I made it plain to him—we couldn’t live together anymore.

Yes, I needed a lawyer, was damned if I was going to Bipin Babu. Daksha’s husband knew lawyers—he was a property dealer—the ‘realtor’ word was not in vogue then. I also rang up Nigam, my editor boss in Lucknow. ‘Do you know a lawyer in Delhi?’‘Why do you need one?’ he asked. ‘I need one,’ I replied. ‘Bhatnagar,’ he said. Had to be a Kayasth, I said to myself. Went and met him—short man, bald except for a skimpy thatch of hair that unconvincingly hid his mustard-oiled scalp. No hair and no airs—no lofty ‘I practice only in the High Court, madam.’ He warned me though—you will be on the other side of life from now on, head shaking, brow wrinkling. How many sides does life have, Mama? He saw the paperwork through and the court. I did the blackmailing.

Nishant didn’t want a divorce, still loved me perhaps, a bit poignant, no, who knows? I told him if you don’t give in I am mad enough to expose you, and he believed me, the madness bit, I mean. Imagine the scandal I said, theft from a thief’s account, corrupt minister would mean corrupt government. The Indian press would splash ‘choron ka chor’. Even stocky sister with the heavy arm and the ready palm was made to phone me up. There’s nothing that can’t be papered over, she said. There was also a sentence in that monologue on ‘bad name’, badnami to the family, zamindari mores, forget any slights in the past. (Slight? Sister-in-law, it was a bit heavy on my cheek.)What will you get out of it, sister! It will be a calamity for both of you. It won’t be for me, I said. And he can always get another wife, I won’t object, someone who can give him children. I dropped the phone, for she was in no mood to end the talk. What will my in-laws say to their neighbours in Bhagalpur? Be assured Mama,there is no wrench. And regret hasn’t ever played its soft drumbeat in the night.

Flipping through life and solitude, couldn’t they be the same thing? I am looking forward to it. I throw open the windows, air the house and sweep the floors. The water carrier, Mashq Mian brings in a labourer to help. He will be informing Fauzia, but I ask him to go slow, wish to be alone for a while. Hope the electricity vanishes tonight, some transformer blows up somewhere. Then I could burn an oil lamp. Wick and oil and match, and the faint glow such lamps give would be ideal for my mood. Doesn’t happen, the cussed lights stay unwaveringly bright, though the street lamps are hazed with the autumn cold. All melancholy, present and past, including the one which gets housed in dreams, is being exiled from the house. Smile, look out for dawn.

So here it is, the almond tree blocking the neighbour’s garden as always, a sunburnt leaf or two dropping unnoticed from its shoulders, the green canopy unwavering and loyal to the tree and to those who drink in its sight, and that includes the windows of my room, and the cool autumnal air that swirls around in the morning. My first acquaintance with a nonintrusive existence—no worries about what he will say, or what some shadow deputising for the in-laws would come out with. No brassy talk from hubby’s boss. Just me to deal with, and while I know that I am a handful, I can manage. No plans, no travels, no Banaras or Badrinath, Corbett Park or Kausani. Just hang on here, grounded, don’t even think of a book, not just yet. No household staff, Fauzia and her daughter could wait. A thought had occurred last evening that I should yank away the telephone line for a while, just tear it out, much in the manner one pulls out weeds. It was more an impulse than a thought, will now have time to differentiate between the two. Then I inhaled something;a vine of jasmine that had undressed and pealed a perfume from its nude waist and thrown it my way.