The case dragged on for almost a year in court. During the first hearing, which was at the family court in Haldwani, Sheeba came too, accompanied by an army of relatives. In such cases, the court always asks the two parties if they have explored all options for the couple to get together, and suggests that separation and divorce should be absolutely the last resort. Before I had set off for the court, Ammi too had advised me on similar lines. ‘If you feel there is even a teeny bit, even a drop of love left between the two of you, suleh kar lena (go for a compromise). Tell the judge then that you have made a compromise and you two want to live together.’ Her voice rang in my ears, her advice swirled in my head in a loop. I tried to make eye contact with the woman who was still my wife, but might not be within a matter of minutes. Her eyes were often lowered or gazing elsewhere. Perhaps it was a mismatch of moments. I tried again and again and again, my desperate, apologetic eyes seeking hers, but I just could not get her to look at me. (I got plenty of eye contact from her brother though.)
Our hearing began. The judge called Sheeba and asked her, ‘What do you want?’ She replied, as if with a sense of urgency, ‘I want a divorce. These guys have tortured us.’ My heart sank on the spot. My lawyer, to whom I had communicated Ammi’s wishes as my own which indeed they were, whispered in my ears what I already knew, ‘They have asked for divorce. There is nothing we can do now. I’m sorry, Nawaz.’ The hearing went on but I kept seeking her gaze even if for a second. I wanted to apologize to her, I wanted to seek her forgiveness. But now she blatantly avoided looking at me, seemingly on purpose. She seemed different from the sweet Sheeba I had known. Clearly, she had been brainwashed by her brothers, possibly pressurized too. Perhaps deep down she too wanted to live with me or else why would she try so hard to avoid any possibility of eye contact? Perhaps she feared that it might create a silent conversation between us and she would give in.
True to the nature of court cases, the case dragged on.
In the meantime, Anjali had returned from her house in Jabalpur, which was where she had disappeared to. Throughout all this time, we had had zero correspondence; I did not even have her telephone number. But she had found out from our friends all about this saga. She did not contact me while I was married, not even once. It was only about six months after the collapse of my marriage that she called me up. We had a long, moving chat during which we connected emotionally. I told her all that had happened. She was deeply depressed about our break-up. I was deeply depressed due to all the drama of my marriage and its bitter dissolution. Both of us were beautifully tender, beautifully vulnerable to each other, crying, providing each other with the emotional support we needed so badly. She became extremely sentimental about me.
‘Why did you get married?’ she asked softly.
‘In wrath. I got married when you were not there. The emptiness was unbearable. What else could I do? I got married in anger,’ I replied.
We had frequent phone conversations. Meanwhile, the accusations against me kept getting dismissed in the court on account of being based on unsubstantial grounds. The other party could not find evidence to back their blame. For example, one of the accusations against me was of domestic violence. But when the court asked for proof, they could not provide a medical report or an FIR. Moreover, it was clear that I was physically not even in their area then (I was away for a shoot) to have been able to do that. Another accusation they had filed was of dowry, of which again there was no evidence. The judge sympathized nevertheless and decided to check on my earnings. If the judge saw that I earned all right—that is, around or above the total value that Sheeba’s folks had claimed to have provided—then why would I need dowry? By then, work had begun to pick up—Patang brought me a lot of appreciation and work—and I was earning what the judge deemed as being all right in this case. So he could not understand why I would need that amount of dowry that was lower than my earnings. This allegation too was dismissed.
Displeased, they took the case to the next court: the Nainital High Court. Sheeba and her brothers came too. The authorities, our lawyers, everyone suggested that we agree to an out-of-court settlement because ‘iss case main dum nahin hai (there is nothing to this case).’ It would unnecessarily linger on for no reason and be a total nuisance to all involved. They agreed but her brother wanted money from us, insisting on a one-time settlement. Knowing him pretty well by now, we had anticipated exactly this and had carried money with us. It was quite a sight. Faizi and I stood outside the court, just the two of us from our side. From their side, there was practically a mini battalion comprising Sheeba, her brother, her paternal uncle, half a dozen or more cousins, all standing outside as well.
‘How much will you give us?’ one of them asked.
‘How much do you want?’ Faizi asked.
‘Five lakh,’ said another.
‘Five
