Custody

by the same author

DIFFICULT DAUGHTERS

A MARRIED WOMAN

HOME

THE IMMIGRANT

Manju Kapur
Freely downloaded from GAPPAA.ORG

RANDOM HOUSE INDIA

Published by Random House India in 2011

Copyright © Manju Kapur 2011

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EPUB ISBN 9788184002225
Freely downloaded from GAPPAA.ORG

For

Amba Dalmia

&

Vimla Kapur
Freely downloaded from GAPPAA.ORG

I

January 1st, 1998.

The couple lay among stained sheets and rumpled quilts, eyes closed, legs twisted together like the knotted branches of a low growing tree.

Slowly their breathing became less noisy. Her head grew heavier on his shoulder, his hand across her stomach became limp.

They dozed, perhaps for fifteen minutes, but behind their heaving eyelids lay uneasy thoughts. They had things to do, places to go, lies to tell, the woman particularly.

Eventually they dragged each other off the bed and into the bathroom.

They hated this, they said as they washed and dressed, simply hated it.

But they had kept their promise, they had heralded the new year by making love.

One final kiss and it was time to part. The woman left first; she believed that the spirits of the universe at the service of betrayed partners were tracking her movements, keeping note of incriminating times and places. Never mind that this was a relatively quiet street in one of the inner lanes of an elite colony in South Delhi. Guilt sees accusation everywhere, in the glance of a servant, the fretful cry of a child, the stranger staring on the street, a driver’s insolent tones.

As she made her way towards the main road, she kept looking around but recognised no one, and decided it was her conscience that made her so uneasy.

She dragged her mind from love, as she readied herself to meet her two children, a toddler daughter, and a boy eight years older. She had a husband too, but of late the husband had been seen in altered hues, his irritating aspects rushing to the fore, his sterling qualities and all the years she had thought them sterling hurtling towards oblivion.

Every day she practised thinking badly of her spouse. Her lover encouraged this by providing a basis for comparison. The dissatisfaction that accrues in most marriages was not allowed dissipation; instead, she clung to reasons to justify her unfaithfulness.

The man set out on his evening round of social engagements in a chauffeur-driven car, untroubled by considerations of being spied upon. Initially he had wasted a few thoughts on the irony of falling in love with a married woman, chased as he had been through the years by so many single ones. He thrived on challenges but in this case had proceeded cautiously to make sure it wasn’t the frisson of the forbidden that had sparked his interest.

Now he felt that so long as she agreed to remain in his life he would accept any condition she laid down. Whenever she worried about her children he assured her of his constancy. Once she was truly his, he vowed, no further sorrow would ever distress her.

He was a corporate man with a strong belief in hard work. As the days went by and his love grew, the effort he put into it became more vigorous. A trace of superstition lurked beneath his rational assumptions, and he liked to imagine their encounter to be the hidden purpose behind the two-year assignment that had returned him to his home country.

Except for this new interest, The Brand absorbed him completely. With a billion potential customers, sales in India could touch the sky, and he wanted to reach those heights before he was transferred. It would be a spectacular achievement, both in personal and professional terms.

It was The Brand’s second venture into India. In 1977, the giant company had been ejected due to changed political realities. The Janata Party, having won a surprise victory against the Congress, wanted to be seen as protector of both national capital and Indian manufacturers. If The Brand did not reveal its secret formula it would have to leave, which it did, and Indian integrity was preserved along with its diminutive bottled drink industry.

Now all that Leftist euphoria was gone. It was the nineties and economic liberalisation meant that rules regarding foreign direct investment were relaxed. The Brand was invited back. Some politicians objected: of what practical use were fizzy beverages? Resources should be spent on high-end technology. Such a view was outdated. The utility of The Brand lay in its image, its presence suggested a financially favourable market.

After five years and millions of dollars, Indian operations had yet to generate a rupee in profits. Ashok Khanna was summoned. Indian in origin, it was believed his insights would be helpful in tackling the vagaries of an indigenous market.

The man came with a formidable reputation for troubleshooting. In Brussels, he had moved swiftly after a connection between some sick children and The Brand had been established. TV cameras filmed the destruction of thousands of their bottled drinks, then filmed him saying that the health of their customers was more important than profit. After the scare, he had come up with the slogan ‘Today more than ever we thank you for your loyalty’, with its subliminal link between continuing purchase and moral probity.

Within a few months of arriving in India he saw the woman he knew he had been destined for. In her colouring, her greenish eyes and her demeanour, she was a perfect blend of East and West. A woman so pretty had to be married; besides, she had the look of someone who never had to compete for male attention. To woo her would thus be that much more difficult: he must first create a need before he could fulfil it. But he was used to creating needs, it was what he did for a living.

II

May 1997.

The building had a frontage of natural white marble, its rough expanses interspersed with polished stone. A yellow and blue geometrical frieze started from the top, meandered across the middle to disappear down one side. The architect said this was meant to give the impression of running water on a white sandy beach. In the centre of fume-choked Delhi, it was a nice conceit, but no one in the myriad office rooms had time to consider the poetry behind such an image. Time meant money, and multinationals were too devoted to its pursuit to waste even a minute.

The Brand’s Delhi headquarters took up the whole second floor, divided, then subdivided into sections dealing with different products and different regions. At the end of a corridor of one such division was a large office, its status emphasised by the smaller rooms in that row. Here Ashok Khanna sat in the soft gold ambience created by tussore silk sofas and patterned bamboo blinds across the windows. Floor-to-ceiling shelves were packed with files along with company products in all their packaged avatars. Behind the big desk hung posters from the latest ad campaign enjoining all Indians from the peasant to the urbanite to savour the drink which would transfix their taste buds and allow them to relish every moment of the day.

The man behind the desk swivelled in his black high-backed chair, alternating his gaze between the window and Raman Kaushik, the Mang-oh! sales manager in front of him. From time to time he leaned forward, circling figures, underlining dates. Noise from the street below could be heard over the air conditioning; the wall clock ticked loudly and irritatingly.

This grated so on the nerves of the Mang-oh! manager that he couldn’t help an annoyed glance up.

‘Time does go on,’ remarked the one behind the desk. ‘It is good to keep that in mind.’

A reprimand. Targets were not being met, and that was the reason why he was sitting here, staring at his boss, feeling as wretched as a successful organisation would wish him to feel.

He thought of the hours on the road, the miserable B and C towns where he had passed many lonely nights, sacrificing family life for the sake of his job. Now he wondered whether he was capable of more. Ever since he had joined The Brand, he had felt the sharp edge of competition nudging into every idea he had, sometimes to the point of paralysis.

As the one responsible for the India Mang-oh! account, his merit was continuously under surveillance. It was not as though other departments were not posting losses, but unreasonably it was felt that in India, mangoes sold themselves, and so he found himself fighting hard for every advertising rupee in the juice segment. In meetings he was told his projections had to be more ambitious – an opinion he shared – his sales pitch more aggressive, his ideas more dynamic.

He looked at the Mang-oh! Tetra Pak on the table with loathing. That little carton swam insouciantly about in the pool of anxiety that lay at the heart of his working life.

Ashok was thinking. Everything Raman had not been able to tell him revealed what he needed to know about the state of Mang-oh!. A man who was not obsessed by his marketing figures, eating, sleeping, dreaming to their rhythm, such a man rarely produced outstanding results. With only local products to compete against, making profits should have been fairly straightforward.

In a country as hot and populated as India, no hand should be without a beverage manufactured by The Brand. His job was to grind this belief into every employee of the company.

He could see from the hangdog look that Raman was anticipating blame. But Ashok Khanna did not do things that way. On his arrival, he had spent time getting to know everyone in the office before embarking on a three-week all-India tour, acquainting himself with the foot soldiers, he said, and incidentally letting every foot soldier know that he had his eye on them. Mang-oh! must be a success story: even the relative non-performance of a small fruit juice was demoralising in a company as target-driven as theirs. He gave Raman a few minutes to maunder on about how challenging the task was.

If despite its international image The Brand’s signature cola was not doing well, what did they expect of a homegrown item? Right now he was counting on the inclusion of Alphonso, the king of mangoes, to add to its appeal. King Mang-oh!, how did that sound?

‘Not bad.’

Raman looked alert, and decided to air some more difficulties.

‘When it comes to buying drinks, people prefer lassi or orange juice made before their eyes. Fresh, tasty, with as much ice and spice as they want.’

Ashok felt fresh irritation. Never criticise your product: breathe it, believe in it, make it your religion.

‘Have you considered other factors? Expense? Time? Cleanliness?’ Here he shuddered, remembering the ubiquitous juice wallah, with his peeled, limp oranges displayed in glass jars, the dirty hands that reached to put them into heavy machines cranked manually, the pulp falling into an overflowing bucket on the pavement and flies buzzing everywhere. It was a civic duty to get people to drink Mang-oh!.

‘Arre, in these mofussil towns people have a lot of time. What does it take to stand around and wait for juice to be pressed out of a few oranges? As for cleanliness, they think that just because they can see what is happening, it is all right. How can one change that?’

‘What are oranges compared to mangoes? Mangoes are part of the Indian psyche, but they are available only in summer. Now – in this pack’ – he tapped the Mang-oh! on his desk, while doodling on his pad – ‘for the first time you can have mango all year round.
All year round.
How significant is that?’

‘It does have possibilities,’ conceded Raman.

‘Listen:

In the country all around,

Mangoes can be found

In the North and in the South,

Cool and wholesome,

Natural, healthy, yum-yum,

In the East and in the West,

Mang-oh! is best, best, best.’

The Mang-oh! manager, a former ad man, blanched slightly as he asked, ‘Did you make that up?’

Ashok looked modest. ‘After college I thought of becoming a poet.’