After the Storm (23 page)

Sir
. She still called him ‘sir’. He grinned and tried to pay attention to what she was saying.

‘Initially, I went to Gandhi Ashram and tried to get involved in the freedom move—’

‘So you joined the party that wants to throw me out of the country? And here I was thinking …’ Raven pulled a face and sighed deeply.

Mili laughed. ‘Not you, sir,’ she said.

‘I was so surprised when I saw you this morning. Couldn’t believe it was you.’

‘I wasn’t sure you were still here, else I would have informed you. You never did reply to any of my letters,’ she complained.

Digachand knocked on the door. ‘You and your guest wanting anything, sahib?’

‘What would you like to drink, Malvika?’ asked Raven.

‘Any juice, sir,’ Mili replied.

‘Two orange juices,’ said Raven.

‘Very well, sahib,’ muttered Digachand and left the room.

‘Still teaching?’ Mili asked.

‘Yes, still teaching.’

‘Why did you choose to be a teacher? You would have made an excellent politician … or … or a civil servant.’

‘No, Malvika! The satisfaction of shaping and chiselling young minds that come to me like tabula rasa into something I can one day be proud of – like I am of you – is so great that no other job could have given me as much pleasure.’

‘I remember,’ said Mili, blushing at his compliment. ‘You used to teach us with a Rasputin-like fervour.’

‘Rasputin-like?’ Raven threw back his head and laughed. ‘I’ll think of it as praise.’

‘Is that why you didn’t … you didn’t … stop me? Because I was your student and it would jeopardise your vocation as a teacher?’

‘Surely you know me better than that?’ said Raven, gazing into her eyes. ‘Have I ever cared for such things?’

‘Then why?’ she asked, her eyes looking wounded.

‘Well, to be honest, I did care a little about losing my job. But that wasn’t the reason I let you go.’ He smiled as he remembered his old Malvika – in her grey school skirt and ladders running up her socks, with pigtails all messy and coming undone. ‘You were too young and I was too old – eleven years older than you. I had to let you go, grow up, spread your wings.’

He stopped speaking as he heard the rustling of skirts. A moment later Mother was in the living room.

‘Oh,’ she exclaimed, as she stared at Mili. ‘I had no idea my son was entertaining guests in my absence.’

Mili got up. ‘I really should be leaving.’ She smiled at Mother. ‘It was nice meeting you.’

Raven hastily grabbed Mili’s elbow and turned to Mother. ‘I shall see her to the door.’

They walked together to her waiting car in silence. Once she was inside the car, he asked, ‘Can I see you again?’

‘Sir, I’m leaving tomorrow morning.’

‘Malvika?’

‘Yes, sir?’

Raven shot an irritated look at Mili’s chauffeur who was listening to every word they were saying with great interest.

‘I’ll write to you,’ he finally said. ‘Take care of yourself, Malvika.’

‘I will, sir. Goodbye.’

Raven waved slowly as the car pulled away. He felt a great sense of loss. Yes, it was clear. He loved her. Loved her so much that it hurt to see her go.

It had been snowing hard all day. Raven brushed the snow off his coat as he handed it to the waiter. Taking his seat beside the window, he looked out. The snow under the street lamp was sparkling, as though it had been sprinkled with fairy dust.

Mother had been surly all day. She now sat across him, not saying a word. She was studying the menu as though she had to sit an exam on it.

Raven caught hold of her hand. ‘Mother, come on, talk to me.’

‘Why have you brought me here?’ she asked.

Raven fidgeted nervously with his cuffs as she narrowed her eyes and studied his face.

‘What do you want, Raven?’ she asked.

‘Sir, what would you like to drink?’ enquired a voice from behind.

Raven looked around. It was the waitress. She looked as cheerful as a constipated bulldog. She was not in uniform, but a pretty floral dress with a small apron at the waist. Too haughty to be a waitress, Raven decided. Must be the owner’s wife, filling in. After all, the restaurant was heaving that night.

He looked back at Mother who sat staring gloomily at the menu. She looked as sour as a cat that has lost its bowl of cream. Surely, this must be his worst nightmare.

‘What would you like to drink, Mother?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ came Mother’s precise reply.

Raven sighed. ‘Two orange sherbets, please,’ he said to the waitress.

‘Cheapskates,’ the waitress muttered.

‘You said something?’ Raven asked sharply but the waitress was already out of earshot.

‘Mother, why didn’t you go back to England?’ Raven asked carefully. He noticed the startled look on her face as he asked the question.

She answered slowly. ‘Who would I have gone back to? I married your father against my parents’ wishes. They did not think it was a good match. How right they were.’

‘What if you think the same about the girl I wish to marry?’

‘It’s that Indian girl, isn’t it?’

‘Her name is Malvika. And she’s no ordinary girl. She’s a princess.’

‘I knew it. I saw it in your eyes – the way you looked at her. You’re just like your father.’

‘How can you say that, Mother? He left the girl he loved. While I want to marry the girl I love. Surely there’s a difference?’

‘This is no time to marry an Indian girl, Raven,’ Mother said, shaking a finger at him. ‘Can you not see what is happening around us?’ Her voice had risen and become shrill. ‘The Indians don’t want us here. They hate us.’

Raven’s ears turned red with embarrassment. Everyone in the restaurant was staring at them. ‘Mother, let’s have our meal. We’ll talk about this at home,’ he said in a low voice. He smiled gratefully as the waitress approached them with their drinks.

Raven looked at his sherbet absent-mindedly and took a sip. He wasn’t sure what he felt about the political
unrest in the country. It was true that a lot of people from his community were going back to England or had already left. But he saw no reason why he should leave. His students loved him and he loved his job. He would just have to convince Mother that all would be well. There was no need for her to feel insecure. He looked at her as she sat there, her lips set in a grim line. Yes, it wasn’t going to be easy. He would need all his persuasive skills.

14th August. 1947. Mili looked wistfully at the clock. Eleven o’clock at night. But sleep eluded her. She had received her first missive from Raven that day. He had written that he was coming to meet her soon. How could she sleep after reading that?

It was so warm and humid. She fanned herself for a while, then twisted her hair and tied it into a bun on top of her head. She smiled softly as she remembered how her untidy hair used to annoy Raven. Once when they were alone together in his office and he was explaining how she could improve her essay, out of the blue he had remarked, ‘Why is your hair always such a mess? Didn’t your mother teach you how to braid your hair properly?’

Mili had said, ‘No, she didn’t. I’m sure she herself doesn’t know how. We have servants at home to do our hair.’

‘Come here,’ he said, rummaging through his drawer. He gathered her hair clumsily and tied it up with a bit of lace he had just found.

‘How come you had lace in there?’ Mili asked.

‘Mother must have left it.’

‘Your mother comes to your office to put lace in your drawer?’ Mili asked, biting her lip mischievously.

Raven frowned. ‘I don’t know how it got there. Look, I’m your teacher; I’m the one who asks the questions, not you.’

‘Yes, sir; sorry, sir,’ said Mili, standing at attention and giving him a mock salute.

Mili lifted her pillow to reveal a bit of lace. She smiled as she picked it up. She ran her fingers slowly over it, feeling its silky smoothness, the little holes, then kissed it. She hurriedly put it back under the pillow as she heard knocking on the door.

Now who could it be at this hour? She looked at her watch. It was almost midnight. ‘I hope it’s not an emergency,’ she muttered as she opened the door. There were a handful of inmates of the ashram. ‘All of you are still awake?’ she asked.

‘Malvikaji,’ said the one right in front. ‘India has just become independent. How can anyone sleep tonight?’

‘Nehruji is going to give a speech soon,’ said another inmate. ‘You got a radio. Can we listen to it?’

‘Yes, of course,’ replied Mili. She stepped aside to let them enter the room.

The inmates came and sat down on the rug, talking excitedly in high-pitched voices as she turned the radio on and tried to tune it. Some more inmates came along.
Soon Mili’s hut was packed with the women who lived at the ashram.

‘Shhhh,’ hissed somebody as the disturbance cleared and Nehru’s voice rang out over the radio. Silence fell over the room as everybody listened. ‘Long years ago we made a tryst with destiny …’ he was saying.

A loud cheer went up from the inmates as they heard him say, ‘At the stroke of the midnight hour, when the world sleeps, India will awake to life and freedom.’

Mili wondered if Gandhi and Nehru had really been instrumental in gaining India’s independence. Was it really the triumph of ahimsa? After all, India’s struggle for independence in 1942 had been far from non-violent. Or had they simply screwed in the last bolt?

She looked around at the jubilant inmates, ecstatic at the birth of a new nation. A nation that had bled to death in 1857 and then again in 1942 had now been reborn, like a phoenix.

She peered at herself in a mirror. How plain and simple she looked in her cotton sari. So different from the Princess Malvika who was always clad in georgettes and silks and laden with jewellery. She looked around the hut, at her scant belongings, and thought of all the luxuries that had surrounded her in the palace in Mohanagar. And yet, she had never been more happy or at peace with herself. It was as though – here, in the ashram, amidst all these women who looked up to her as their saviour – she had been born again. Reborn from the ashes of her past …

Raven ran up the steps of the Billiards Club. He had had a long day. Miss Perkins too had decided to go
back to England. He had been helping her with all the paperwork with regard to the handing over of charge to the new Indian principal.

He now looked forward to a relaxing evening and a few good games. And a couple of pegs, he decided, as he passed the bar. The future looked promising. Mother had finally given him her consent, albeit reluctantly, to marry Mili.

A rasping voice with an Indian accent called him from behind. Raven turned around to see who it was. He was an Indian gentleman dressed in a weird combination of a suit jacket and a dhoti.

‘Yes?’ said Raven.

‘I beg your pardon, sir, but I need to draw your attention to this noticeboard,’ said the Indian, pointing to a sheet of paper.

Raven glanced at him and then at the board. The notice used to say ‘dogs and natives not allowed’. The words ‘dogs’ and ‘natives’ had been struck off and replaced with the word ‘Angrez’. He looked at the Indian again. By now a small crowd of waiters and other members of staff had gathered in the corridors and were listening to their exchange with keen interest.

‘I’m sorry, sir, but I shall have to ask you to leave,’ the Indian said, trying to hide his gloating smile.

‘And you are?’

‘The new owner and manager, sir.’

Nodding briefly, Raven left the premises. He felt saddened. And humiliated. It had finally hit him that he was not wanted in this country. The country where he had been born, where he had lived all his life, the only
home he had ever known, did not want him any more.

Mother had been right all along. They had to go back – to England. Somehow, he did not blame the Indians. The British had a lot to answer for. There was much they had done that Raven was ashamed of. Leaving India would not be so difficult for Mother. After all, she had not been born and brought up here. But for him it would be different. He would be devastated.

Raven knocked on the door and waited. He looked around. Naari Shakti Ashram looked like a mini hamlet, with lots of little huts close to one another. Mili’s hut as well as a couple of others looked slightly bigger than the rest. He sniffed appreciatively as the wind blowing from the east brought with it the fragrance of jasmine. He spotted the jasmine plant, close to the edge of the veranda. He scooped up a handful of blossoms from under the plant, just as Mili opened the door. ‘For you, my love,’ he said with a grin as he poured them into her surprised hands.

Mili stood still for a moment, not knowing what to do.

Pointing to the table in the centre of the room, he said, ‘Put the blossoms on the table there and ask me to sit down here.’ And he pulled up a chair and sat down.

‘Yes,’ mumbled Mili and put the flowers down.

Raven stole a glance at her. How beautiful she looked. And so peaceful. In her starched pink sari and a white blouse with lace around the edges. Her hair was tied neatly into two plaits. He looked around the simple hut. It had a cane table, some cane chairs, a small
bed, a cupboard and some bookshelves in the name of furniture.

‘You mean to say, you have given up all that jewellery that you so loved, the palace, the luxuries, for this?’

‘I have indeed.’

‘Hmm …’ He propped his chin on the palms of his hands ‘I also heard Gandhi’s wife has to clean her own toilet in the ashram?’

‘I’m not that noble, sir. I refuse to clean the toilet and I still can’t accept sweets from a driver. But—’

Raven put a finger on her lips. ‘But you have blossomed into a fine young lady and I’m proud to have taught you.’

‘Just proud?’

‘So does that mean that if I asked you to eat some beef to prove your love for me, you wouldn’t?’

‘Certainly not, sir.’

Chuckling, Raven got up and took her hands in his. ‘Call me Raven,’ he whispered.

Looking down, Mili answered, ‘How can I call you that, sir? It feels incomplete.’

‘You didn’t have any qualms calling me Rav
an
.’

‘Sir, it was Vicky … I called you that just once – when I made that drawing on the blackboard. It was Vicky who used to call you Ravan all the time.’

‘You want me to believe that?’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said wringing her hands in the air. ‘I swear on Lord Kishan. I never called you that.’

Raven chuckled again. ‘All right, I’ll believe you, if you get me some water.’

‘Of course, sir,’ said Mili. ‘That ought to have been
the first thing I asked. You must think I’m a rotten hostess.’

She came back from the kitchen with a glass of water. ‘Sir, how about some aloo-poori?’

‘Aren’t you supposed to eat simple, live simple, in the ashram?’

‘Once in a while is all right, sir,’ she said with a grin as she made her way to the kitchen, with Raven close on her heels. ‘It’s not every day that I have a guest,’ she said as she took out some flour and prepared the dough.

‘Look at you now. You even know how to cook. Whoever would have thought? There was a time when you couldn’t even do your hair by yourself. Did you know, before I saw you for the first time, I’d been told you were a princess. But when I saw you – with your hair like Medusa’s – I said to myself, ‘Princess? No way. She’s too shabby to be a princess.’

Mili laughed as she rolled out the pooris.

Raven kept speaking.

‘You used to be such a girl back then. Twittering over silly things …’

‘So, I’m not a girl now?’ Mili asked, trying to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear with the back of her hand.

‘No, you aren’t,’ he replied, curbing the desire to hug her from behind. ‘You’re a woman now and a beautiful one at that …’ He pointed to the pooris she had rolled out. ‘I can’t say the same for these, though. Aren’t they supposed to be round?’

Mili sniggered. ‘I was just trying to show you the new map of India.’ She picked up some potatoes and washed them under the tap. Then wiping her hands on
a kitchen towel, she began to peel and dice them.

‘That’s not how you dice potatoes,’ said Raven. He snatched the knife from her hand. ‘Let me show you.’ Within seconds he had chopped up the potatoes into perfect one-inch-by-one-inch pieces.

‘I didn’t know you were so “at home” in the kitchen.’

This time Raven did hug her from behind. ‘My dear child-woman, what you know about me is just the tip of the iceberg. Come with me to England and you’ll learn a lot more about me.’

Shrugging out of his embrace, Mili turned around to face him.

‘You’re going back to England?’

Raven looked away. ‘I have no choice.’

‘But why?’

‘I know I’m hated in this country, Mili.’

‘Because of your father?’

‘No. Because of the colour of my skin.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Others do. I regard myself an Indian, but they don’t. I can’t change the colour of my skin, can I?’

Mili did not answer. He watched her quietly serve the food. They ate in an uncomfortable silence, the buzzing of mosquitoes the only sound that could be heard. Raven sought her eyes across the table but she refused to look at him.

After they had finished eating, he walked over to where she was sitting. He lifted her chin with his finger and forced her to look into his eyes.

‘I’m leaving in two days. Will you at least come to the station to see me off?’

‘
No
.’

‘Then this is – goodbye?’

She did not reply.

Raven sighed and shrugged his shoulders. He opened the door and left the ashram as quietly as he had come. He felt shattered. He had hoped to propose to her, ask her to come with him to England. But alas! An evening that had started so well had gone all wrong. What was he to do now? Not a single day went by when he did not think about her or miss her. How was he going to live his entire life without her? Mother was unwilling to stay in India any more. And he was reluctant to leave his heart behind.