This bizarre discussion stretched on for one very intense hour. Ultimately, it ended and a final settlement was arrived at. I was so grateful for this not-so-small mercy! They wanted the three lakh rupees, of course, and also all the gifts they had presented at the wedding. Moreover, if any of those items was broken or even mildly damaged, then we had to pay for that as well.
It was around 3 p.m. We had to reach the family court by 4 p.m. All of us were walking the distance between the two courts. Through the hilly terrain was a shortcut that was best traversed on foot. Basically, we had to climb a little hill and then at the bottom of its other side lay the family court. It was cold but the trek helped warm our blood. But I had a chill in my bladder and needed to empty it urgently. There were bushes aplenty. I chose a bushy spot with a tree and took a leak there while everybody else walked on, slightly ahead. Just then it suddenly struck Sheeba’s paternal uncle, her elderly chacha, that according to Islam, I had to say the word ‘talaq’ thrice for the divorce to be validated. He turned and came running at top speed towards me, saying, ‘You have not granted talaq!’
‘At least, let me finish my business,’ I said, since I was still in the process of peeing! But clearly, he could not wait for even one minute more.
‘No, no! You must say it now. Right now. Abhi!’ he demanded breathlessly.
‘Fine!’ I said, disgusted at his vulgar urgency which could not wait for two seconds, until a man had finished peeing.
‘Talaq! Talaq! Talaq!’ I said as I zipped up my trousers. He was delighted and scampered off, screaming joyfully towards his folks, ‘Ho gaya! Ho gaya!’ (It’s done! It’s done!)
Today, any religious Muslim will take offence at my behaviour. I was not religious at all but how could I disrespect religion in this way? But what was my fault? This guy, that too an elderly person whom we naturally respect, assuming they are wiser, left me with no choice. What kind of a man makes such demands while a person is peeing!
As soon as we finished the formal divorce legalities in the court, they did not waste a moment and instantly demanded the promised money, insisting that time was running out. ‘Chalo, ab paisa do! (OK, now give the money!),’ they chorused. ‘Waqt chala ja raha hai. (Time is running out.) Ab paisa do.’ After I signed the divorce papers and gave them the three lakh rupees, all within minutes, we set off on the seven-hour journey back to Dehradun, where my family had returned. They went off to Haldwani.
We did not get a day’s break to relax and recover from the insanity. The very next day they showed up in front of our house with a big truck to carry away all the stuff that had come in during and after the wedding, every single token. Among these was a television, the screen of which had a glaring crack but it worked fine.
‘Give us money! This TV is broken,’ said my now former brother-in-law with the vehemence that was his trademark. ‘Give us money for it instead!’
‘No, we will not give you any more money. You already have three lakh. But we will get you another TV,’ replied Faizi in his typical tone of calm confidence. ‘It will be the same model and the same brand.’ He went back and told Shamas about a market nearby where you could buy second-hand items, and of a particular shop in it. Shamas set off instantly and got a television set of the same model and brand, as promised. I cannot recollect exactly but I believe the brand was called Jolly. The screen was fine but this TV set was spoilt and it was even cheaper than the one they had. They beamed in victory; Sheeba’s brother actually broke into a broad smile, and delightedly drove away in the truck.
After staying for a few more days, I returned to Mumbai, back to my life of shoots, putting this bizarre episode behind me. Anjali and I began to meet again and soon after, we got back together. She would arrive very upbeat, with a confidence that my house was her own. She treated the tiny space—which then was still the one-room flat in Malad—as if it was her own. It was lovely. Her presence soothed me. But something was different. This time, she demanded marriage right away. She insisted upon it continuously. I was afraid: what if she repeated her ways of leaving in bouts of anger? She persisted, trying to assure me that she would not. In Budhana, we, especially the elders, believe that any spoilt child—a spoilt youngster actually—is bound to mend his or her ways once she or he gets married. I have always had high regard for ancient wisdom—Ammi’s especially, has been the North Star of my existence. So I thought Anjali too might follow this dictum. Marriage might just be the remedy to make her stay. I gave in and agreed, but I asked her to wait until my career had picked up. She waited. It took another year and a half or so for us to finally get married in 2010.
What had happened was that my brother was getting married in Budhana. Anjali insisted on attending the wedding. Ammi, who is quite liberal, especially given that she lived her entire life in a village, tried to explain to her that she could not show up just like that. It was Budhana, not Mumbai. Tongues were bound to wag at relationships that the villagers could not find a label for. They did not understand bonds like girlfriend and boyfriend. ‘You two have been in a relationship for so long anyway!’ she said. ‘Why not get married now?’
And so Shamas helped with the small
