Divorce

Today, the case might end. When it started, I dreamt of a grand courtroom ending – a chance to explain the case, about justice and what should be right, why truth should prevail and all that naïve gobbledygook.

I am standing in the dusty courtyard of the Family Court. It is a leased house and the courtroom is in the drawing room. I am hanging onto the front window, like an untouchable outcaste, waiting for my name to be called. Proceedings started at eleven and since my case is only three years old, I expect the call around half past twelve. It is tough here, more so with the only urinal being the compound wall. There is company, of course. Like Ravi (5-year veteran whose wife decided to be celibate after the first kid) and Shajeeb (his case, only a year old, involving three kids). But today, I wanted to think once more about my case.

I have heard people refer to my lawyer as “paatta” (cockroach). I got him because he handled my cousin’s case (alleged abuse, dowry, forced abortion and such). One evening three years back, my lawyer asked me, “What problem should we say caused it?”

I replied, “Incompatibility.”

He gave me a blank stare, shaking his head from left to right, his left nostril twitching.

“She’s never there.” I tried to explain. “And, that’s the best part.”

“Separated?”

“Yes – she comes and goes on some weekends.”

“That’s not separated. Insane?”

“That would explain everything!”

“Infidelity?”

“I wish!”

“Not you…”

“She…no…I don’t think so.”

“Abuse?”

“It’s mental…”

“Have you hit her?”

“No!”

“Kids?”

“No.”

“Didn’t she like it?”

“She’s ok with kids.”

“Not that…”

“Oh…no, no…I mean, she likes it. But…she’s selfish…”

“You…ok?”

“Of course!”

“Did you two fight?”

I laugh.

“At first, it’s with her periods; then, whenever she’s there; finally, only when we talked.”

He did not look convinced.

“When was it? She called me outsourced coolie…that I’ve an inferiority complex…frustrated…When we visited her Doctor Uncle, they talked about their U.S. relatives, about her trips abroad. Then, he asked me about my trips and, she told him that I’ll be going for training to Manchester. I said that that’s not true. It started right there…again…complex, underachiever, even my folks, third-rate she says.”

He merely stared.

“A few weeks back, she invited her boss for lunch. What started it? Maybe, when I couldn’t talk to him in Hindi; or maybe…when I admitted that I eat beef. When he left, she started screaming that I had sabotaged her career…that I want her as a servant. We have already got four, why would I need one more?”

He mumbled, “That’s normal…right…wear and tear.”

“If there’s nothing to fight about, it’s about my old diaries, or the stories I write. If it’s a love story, she accuses me with an affair. Always…anything, everything…some freedom…respect…trust?” Why did I present this weak stuff at the end? “I can’t write!”

“So? It’s just a hobby, isn’t it?”

Sensing that he could lose a client, he quickly added

“Don’t worry. We’ll write the usual in the petition, ok? Not easy case…no…they’ve all the trump cards – you…we…don’t have anything.”

What he said turned out to be right.

It might end now only because she has better things to do – finally, an amicable settlement. I am lucky. I lost only my career and some virile years of my life.

Recently, I tried to write. But…somehow…I have lost it.

I can hear them calling my name in the courtroom. When the judge asks me, all I have to say is “Yes, sir.”