After the Storm (16 page)

Raven was in the school library, which was on the second floor. It was his favourite haunt after school hours, when it was practically empty. Just he and the books, spending an evening together, accompanied by the wondrous musty smell of manuscripts mingling with the aroma of hot coffee.

Books had been his best friends for a long time now. It was books that had enabled him to turn a deaf ear to his parents’ quarrelling, that had given him solace when Father left them. And it was books that had entertained him when he’d been bedridden after the accident.

After a while Raven got up to get a breath of fresh air. As he stepped out into the corridor, he saw a girl stop at the school gate. Was it? He scrunched his eyes. Yes, it was Mili. He recalled the incident that had taken place a week back, when he had offered to give her a lift. He had been hurt that she had put him in the same category as
George. Of course, it was silly of him. After all, the poor girl had been traumatised by her friend’s suicide. It was only natural for her to feel that way towards all men. He shouldn’t take it personally and feel hurt. But he did. For some strange reason, it hurt him immensely.

He looked towards the gate again. Mili was turning back now and walking towards the building. Raven went down the stairs. She had seen him and was walking towards him timidly.

‘Anything the matter?’ Raven asked. ‘I thought you were going home?’

‘Yes, sir, I …,’ Mili licked her lips and started chewing her thumbnail.

‘You look pale,’ said Raven. ‘Come into my office.’

Mili nodded and meekly followed him.

‘Sit down,’ he said, as he switched on the lights. Mili sank into a chair. He noticed she was trembling. He handed her a glass of water. ‘Here, have a drink,’ he said.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Mili as she took a sip.

Raven gathered all the papers scattered on his desk and put them into a neat pile. Then he collected all the stationery and put it away in a drawer, while he waited for Mili to get a grip on herself.

He glanced at her. He had been shocked when he had seen her for the first time. Miss Perkins had told him she was a princess. But most days, with her hair worse than Medusa’s, she had looked anything but that. Today, however, she had brushed her hair, which reached well below her waist, until it shone. Her face gleamed like that of a little boy’s, scrubbed by his mother after playing in the mud, until he screamed. She had baby-like soft skin.
Why, she even smelt like a baby. Must be the soap or the powder she used. Her sallow complexion had turned an angry red right in the middle of her left cheek, where a solitary pimple was pushing its way through. She was pretty, he had to admit, and did look like a princess today. Albeit a frightened one.

‘Now, would you like to tell me what’s bothering you?’ he asked.

‘Sir, it’s nothing important.’

‘Anything that makes a student of mine look like she’s just seen a ghost is important.’

‘Sir …’ Mili traced a line with the drops of water that were condensing on her glass. ‘Sir, yesterday, when I was walking home from school, an English boy appeared out of nowhere. He said, “Hey, darkie, don’t you know only the English can walk down this road?” I ignored him and continued walking.’ Mili paused and began plucking at the bobbles on her cardigan. Then he grabbed my scarf. When I tried to snatch it away from him, he jeered and blocked my path. I tried to dodge him …’ Mili faltered, took a sip of water, then with a bowed head continued speaking. ‘And then he pinched me.’

‘The swine,’ spat Raven. ‘Then …?’ he whispered, encouraging Mili to continue.

‘Then I swung my bag with all my strength and hit him. And would you believe it, sir, that fellow turned on his heels and ran away.’

Raven threw back his head and laughed. Then he looked at Mili affectionately. She was looking at him with a mixture of bewilderment and annoyance. ‘My little lamb turns out to be a wolf in lamb’s clothing,’ he
said with a chuckle. Then added seriously, ‘I’m proud of you. You know something? Underneath all that frailty of yours, there’s a backbone made of tungsten!’

‘Sir?’

‘Well, you fought that lad and frightened him away, didn’t you? Besides, I’ve seen … how you gathered yourself together after the …’ Raven paused, stumbling for the right words. ‘I know you and Vicky were inseparable, it was no ordinary tragedy that you went through. But I never saw you wallowing in self-pity. Rather, you have picked up the pieces of your life all by yourself. You’re a brave girl, little one.’

‘But sir, I
am
frightened. Very much so. I’m afraid to go alone. Can you … umm … give me a lift?’

Raven was taken aback by her request. ‘Are you sure? I think your piano teacher, Mrs Kapoor, is still in the library. Let me ask her if she can drop you.’ He turned on his heels and was about to walk towards the stairs leading to the library, when Mili put a hand on his arm.

He raised a brow questioningly. She lowered her gaze and said, ‘There’s no need for that, sir. I trust you.’

This time it was Raven’s turn to look shocked.

‘I’m ashamed of my behaviour the other day,’ said Mili, continuing to look down.

‘Think nothing of it, little one,’ Raven replied softly as he strode towards his car.

‘I trust you,’ she had said. He felt like jumping over the gate and dancing a little jig right there – in the middle of the street. Or shouting from the roofs of STH: ‘
SHE TRUSTS ME
.
MALVIKA TRUSTS ME
.’ He switched on the engine of the car and stole a look at Mili, seated beside
him. Thank goodness she could not read his thoughts. After all, they were just three simple words – and yet they had filled him with a profound happiness that he found hard to explain.

Gurpreet sat outside the college gates, smoking his cigarette. He watched the smoke curling out of the chimney of the caretaker’s cottage. It reminded him of the smoke that came out of the funnels of train engines.

Trains used to fascinate him as a child. He remembered the first time he had travelled by one. It was alone with Maji. They were going to Amritsar to see his grandparents. That was the last time he would see them. They were late and had to rush to the platform. And Maji in her nervousness had boarded the
first-class
compartment, which was only for the English. She realised her mistake only after the guard had blown his whistle and the train had started moving.

Gurpreet had eagerly taken a window seat and looked around importantly. He had often looked at trains with longing and wondered what it must feel like to travel in one. And here he was. It felt grand, he had to admit. He felt delirious as the houses, trees, fields, shops, people on foot hurrying along, people on horseback, carriages, cars whizzed by. It was like watching a movie at the talkies or jogging really fast in a pair of running shoes.

He noticed nobody was taking the seat next to him. Now and then someone would glance at the empty seat, then at him, then hastily walk away. They looked at him as though he had just crawled out of a septic tank. He didn’t mind. He was too young and having too much fun
to be bothered by such things. This was the first time he was travelling by train and he was not going to let these firangis spoil it for him.

He did look out of place, though. With his brown skin, his unsmart clothes, greasy hair and muddy feet. He noticed the English mem sitting across the aisle screwing up her nose at him and Maji and smiling disdainfully.

Gurpreet took another puff of his cigarette. Yes, back then these racial discriminations didn’t bother him. But now they did. And very much so. It filled him with such a loathing for the English and an anger that he sometimes found hard to control.

The train ride was all that he remembered of his last trip to Amritsar. Maji used to tell him how she would take him to the Golden Temple and how much he loved the langar food there. How he danced around the fire on Lohri with his grandmother. But they didn’t go there again. Because three months later, in the April of 1919, his grandparents were shot down like animals along with hundreds of others, in Jalianwala Bagh. He did not understand what it meant when he was told that his grandparents were no more. He just remembered his mother crying. A lot. For days. And it frightened him to hear her wails.

He got up as he saw Jatin approach him with a mountain of books. Throwing down the cigarette stub and squashing it with his shoe, he took some of the books from his friend, then asked, ‘Done? Shall we go home?’

Jatin nodded and the two of them made their way down the hill to Gurpreet’s house. He kicked the door to
his room open and dropped the books on his bed. Then he hung his waistcoat on the peg. He looked at Jatin. He had pulled out the chair in front of his desk. Sitting down, he was now fiddling with the wick of the oil lamp.

‘Preeto, have you heard? There is talk about Gandhi planning another march across the country like the Dandi March in 1930,’ said Jatin.

‘I’m telling you, the Congress needs to change its leaders. Gandhi and Nehru will never get us freedom,’ said Gurpreet, sitting down on the bed and taking off his shoes.

‘Why do you keep saying that all the time?’ said Jatin, lighting the lamp.

‘Because he said the same thing in 1920. Did we become free? Been twenty long years since he said that. Besides, it was because of Bhagat Singh that the bloody Congress started demanding total swaraj. And Nehru and Gandhi got the credit for it.’

‘So Gandhi hasn’t been successful yet. But tell me, have violent means met with any success? You know what happened to Bhagat Singh, Sukhdev and Rajguru? All three of them were hanged. And have you forgotten what happened in 1857? The way the Uprising was crushed? The carnage, the killing, the destruction – all in the name of retribution.’

‘1857 was different.’

‘How was it different? They were also fighting for freedom. Besides, violence leads to so many innocents getting killed.’

‘And non-violence leads to hundreds of innocents being beaten up and put behind bars.’

‘Look, we can never match them in the field of battle. They’re much too strong. Ahimsa is the only way we can defeat them. You’ve got to believe – there’s a different kind of strength in non-violence.’

‘I don’t think I believe in anything now, not after Vicky’s death.’ Gurpreet walked over to the window and curled his fists tightly around its bars.

‘Preeto,’ whispered Jatin, putting a hand on his shoulder.

‘Let it be, yaara, you’ll never understand because you’ve never been in love.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong. I’m not only in love, I have even proposed to her.’

As soon as he had said that, Gurpreet punched Jatin so hard, he toppled over and fell.

Just then Maji knocked on the door and entered. ‘You’re home, Preeto?’ she asked with a smile. Then she noticed Jatin on the floor. ‘Haiyo Rabba, what happened?’

‘Nothing, Maji,’ Jatin mumbled. ‘I just fell off the chair.’

‘Oh, do be careful,’ Maji said, as she put two glasses of lassi on the table and left.

‘What’s wrong? Why did you hit me?’ Jatin asked.

Gurpreet punched him again.

‘Stop it. I believe in Ahimsa, otherwise I can also hit back.’

‘When were you planning to tell me? After your secondborn started going to school?’ said Gurpreet.

‘Stop being so dramatic. I was going to tell you.’

‘Who is she?’

‘Vidushi.’

‘That girl in the orphanage at Jeolikot?’

Jatin nodded.

‘That explains … all those visits to your mysterious “relatives” in Jeolikot.’

Jatin grinned, caressing his cheek where Gurpreet had hit him.

Gurpreet walked over to the table, picked up the glass of lassi and emptied the tumbler in one gulp. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He loved Maji’s lassi. So cool and invigorating. He used to call it ‘liquid yogurt’ when he was little.

He turned back to Jatin. ‘But have you gone insane? You want to marry a widow?’

‘You talk of winning India’s freedom?’ Jatin’s voice rose. ‘First free yourself from these age-old prejudices, Preeto. Then talk about freedom.’ He strode angrily to the window. Gurpreet walked up to him and handed him his glass of lassi. Jatin snatched it from his hand and took a sip. He spoke again. ‘And for that matter, that Vicky, she wasn’t a Hindu either. You were planning to marry her, weren’t you?’

‘What’s the point of talking about her when she’s no more?’ said Gurpreet, averting his gaze. He busied himself in putting away the books he had carelessly thrown on the bed, onto the bookshelf. For some reason, the mere mention of Vicky’s name made his eyes burn and throat go dry.

‘I’m sorry. It’s just that it upset me … the way you lashed out. I’d thought you’d be happy for me when I broke the news. Now I wish I hadn’t told you.’

‘Hey, hey, hey, this wishing business can be very dangerous. I mean, Jatin … just imagine that this girl you love … umm – what’s her name?’

‘Vidushi,’ replied Jatin, glaring at him.

‘Relax. It’s a difficult name, I’ll memorise it eventually. As I was saying, let’s suppose Vidushi is …’ He winked at Jatin.

Jatin kicked him hard.

‘Ouch! Yaara, we’re just supposing. So where was I? Yes, supposing she’s sitting in her classroom and wishes you were there with her and her wish is granted. And precisely at that moment you’re taking a bath and you’re transported to her classroom. Wahe guru, can you imagine the scene?’ he chuckled.

Jatin slapped his forehead, then burst out laughing.

Gurpreet put his arms around his friend. ‘So when are you taking me to meet her?’

‘Soon,’ Jatin replied with a shy smile.

Mili yawned. When was the history class going to end? She was trying her hardest to listen to Dr Anne Miller’s lecture. But she was droning on and on and on: ‘… As I was saying, this book here –
Down the Ages
– is your bible, especially if you want to pass your Senior Cambridge history exam with distinction. You’ve got to read it, chew it, digest it, then read it all over again until you know it back to front and can even see it in your dreams.’