After the Storm (4 page)

Vicky began to unpack her cases.

‘Oh, will we have to do this ourselves?’

‘No, Bhoomi’s going to come from Mohanagar to do it for you,’ replied Vicky.

Scowling, Mili opened her bag and proceeded to empty it. After a while she tugged Vicky’s sleeve. ‘This is boring. Let’s go and see if any of the other girls have arrived.’

Only a handful of girls were there. The rest would be arriving the following morning – the first day of term, they were told. As they strolled through the school grounds, they soon came upon the building where their classes were going to be held. It was an elephantine structure that had been freshly whitewashed. As the two of them sauntered towards the building, they perceived a man walking out of the library. He was on crutches.

Vicky brought her lips close to Mili’s ear and whispered, ‘Mili, did you notice? That poor fellow’s disabled. But what’s he doing? In a girls’ school?’

Mili did not reply but stared at him as he ambled towards the entrance.

‘Must be an errand boy. Like Bahadur,’ Vicky concluded.

Mili looked at him carefully. He was now leaning casually against the wall and adjusting his crutches. He displayed a hint of annoyance at his handicap; like a tiger in a circus biting irritably at the shackles around its feet. No, he looked too arrogant to be a mere errand boy. She
couldn’t say what exactly it was about him – after all, he did not look very tall, he was lean and disabled, and yet he exuded an aura of command. Perhaps it was the way he stood there, with his chin thrust out and his lips curled sardonically – why, he could have been standing there without a stitch of cloth on, for all he cared …

But Vicky was pulling Mili towards the refectory, so she refrained from saying anything.

Raven limped towards the English Department in MP College. He stopped near the fence surrounding the playing fields to catch his breath. He could see School of Tender Hearts’ playground just a few feet below. The students were already seated by the time he reached the classroom. ‘Good morning everyone,’ he said and started taking the attendance. ‘Jatin,’ he called out.

‘Present, sir,’ the boy answered, his hand covering half his face.

Narrowing his eyes, Raven looked at him. He looked familiar. Why, he was the same Indian lad who had stopped the others from hitting him at the cricket ground last week. ‘Thank you for sparing me the other day,’ he said.

‘Sir …’ replied Jatin and he squirmed uneasily.

‘So is it only cripples you don’t lift your finger to or are there some more fortunate ones on your generous list?’ asked Raven.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ replied Jatin, head lowered. ‘I didn’t know you were a member of staff.’

‘It’s all right,’ Raven said with a flick of his hand. He threw a piece of chalk at the Sikh lad who had been with Jatin that day. ‘What did you say your name was?’

‘Sir, Gurpreet.’

‘Sir? Have you been knighted?’ Raven asked with an amused smile.

‘No, sir. Only Gurpreet, sir,’ he replied, breaking out in a sweat.

‘You play well,’ said Raven. ‘And you were right – it
was
a no-ball. But next time try to settle matters without coming to blows.’

‘Yes, sir; thank you, sir,’ Gurpreet replied.

Raven got up. Picking up a piece of chalk he said, ‘There is a very important line in the play we’re studying this term.’ Turning his back to the class, he started writing on the blackboard:
This above all, to thine own
self
… Drat, he should have never thought of writing on the board. Balancing oneself on crutches and writing at the same time was no mean feat.

He heard some shuffling but decided it would be easier to hobble around once he had finished writing. But when he did turn around, half the class was missing.

‘I bet they’re in Uncleji’s Tuck Shop,’ a student suggested.

‘In that case,’ Raven said to the class, ‘please turn to page thirty-six and study the monologue. I will be back in fifteen minutes.’

So saying, he hobbled slowly towards the canteen.

Uncleji’s Tuck Shop stood on the path that lay between STH and MP College and was a favourite haunt of students from the school as well as the college. It was run by Mr Kapoor, who was once the caretaker of STH but had now retired.

Sure enough, all his truant students were there. Raven leant against the door unobserved, as the smell of coffee and freshly baked cookies wafted towards him.

Gurpreet was speaking to the other students. ‘Why were you wasting your time in class? You want to become actors? Or are you planning to set up a drama company? I’m telling you now. This Shakespeare and English literature are not going to get us anywhere. You will continue to remain slaves of these firangis all your life. What you need to do is join Guruji in his fight for independence.’

Raven continued to eavesdrop from the door.

Gurpreet paused to light a cigarette. He continued speaking. ‘Have you any idea how powerful students can be? Students alone can bring down a government.’ Then waving a sheet of paper he said, ‘I want all of you to sign this petition …’

‘Yesterday we got into trouble with Shrivastava Sir,’ said Jatin.

‘Why?’ Gurpreet asked.

‘We spent a lot of time making all those banners for Guruji and didn’t manage to submit our home assignment on time,’ Jatin replied.

Gurpreet said, ‘Next time Shrivastava says anything—’

Raven straightened and a lopsided smile flickered across his face as Gurpreet noticed him standing at the door.

Clearing his throat Gurpreet mumbled, ‘Umm … actually it’s your fault. You should have finished the home assignment on time.’

‘What are you saying, Preeto? How could we …?’ said Jatin.

Folding his arms, Raven looked sardonically at Gurpreet. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Did you not tell Mr Shrivastava that Gurpreet had set all of you some other homework?’

Gurpreet shut his eyes and grimaced.

Turning his gaze to the rest of the students, Raven broke into a tirade. ‘Is this what your parents have sent you to this college for? To let a fellow student lead you all astray?’

‘Sir, I’m sorry,’ Gurpreet said in a low voice.

‘You are ready to trust your future in the hands of someone like Gurpreet?’ Raven asked the students. ‘Did you know he has failed twice in the same class?’

‘Not twice, three times,’ said Jatin.

Raven noticed Gurpreet dart an angry look at Jatin and mutter, ‘Bloody marjaaneya, sucking up to a firangi. I’ll see you later.’

Looking pointedly at him, Raven asked, ‘Do you even know who this Guruji is and what he does for a living?’

‘I said sorry …’ Gurpreet said in an irritated tone.

Raven looked at him for a long moment, then turned back to the rest of the students. ‘Go back to your classroom, all of you. And to make up for this lost time, I will take an extra class during the lunch break.’

The students grumbled and muttered in protest as they filed out of the tuck shop. Raven shook his head thoughtfully as he watched them leave. So now the
freedom movement had not only spread to a remote town like Kishangarh, but to its educational institutes as well. He thought of the Uprising of 1857. When the Indian sepoys had mutinied against the British. It had been one of the bloodiest mutinies ever witnessed by mankind. What would be the consequence of this movement? On the one hand was the Congress, demanding the British quit India, but it believed in the principle of
non-violence
. On the other hand were leaders like Subhash Chandra Bose who believed only war could gain India its independence. What would be the final outcome of all this? Would the Indians succeed in ousting the British this time?

Raven shrugged his shoulders. Not that it mattered. He did not care one way or the other, as long as his students did not bunk his class.

Raven looked up from his work. There it was again – yes, it was a knock. He looked at the clock. 12.45. Who could it be so late at night? He opened the door. It was Gurpreet and Jatin.

‘Oh sorry, sir. We thought Sir O’Michael lives here,’ said Gurpreet.

‘He lives four houses down the block, on the left. But what’s the matter?’

‘Sir, we’ve got a test tomorrow and we’ve misplaced our notes,’ said Jatin.

‘He didn’t make any notes. He was too busy watching the girls arriving at STH,’ said Gurpreet with a grin.

Jatin kicked him.

‘Perhaps I can help?’ asked Raven.

‘No no, sir, we wouldn’t want to bother you,’ replied Jatin.

‘Now why would you say that?’ asked Raven. ‘Do you not like me? Or is it because you think I’m a cripple?’

‘No, sir,’ Jatin replied hastily, waving both his hands. ‘It’s just that you’re new …’

‘So because I’m new, you think I can’t teach? You’re casting a doubt on my abilities, young man.’

Jatin replied, ‘No, sir … errr …’ He nudged Gurpreet with his elbow and muttered, ‘Why can’t you say something?’

‘Yes, sir; I agree, sir,’ said Gurpreet.

Raven smiled as he saw Jatin rolling his eyes at Gurpreet’s reply. He led them to the drawing room. Pointing to the sofa, he said, ‘Why don’t you two take a seat.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ they replied in unison.

Lowering himself awkwardly, Raven sat down heavily on the armchair. Something as simple as sitting down and getting up was a chore these days. But thankfully, not for too long. He was going to see the doctor tomorrow. He covered his legs with a blanket and let Jatin take the crutches from him and put them neatly beside the chair.

‘Look,’ he said, as he picked up his pipe from the table in front of him. ‘You must not hold what happened at the tuck shop earlier today against me. What you do in your free time or after class is none of my business.’ He put the bit of the pipe in his mouth and took it out again. ‘But if you’re going to disrupt my class, I will admonish you. Plain and simple as that.’ He fiddled with the tobacco. The smell of tobacco was addictive. He felt
like lighting the pipe. But no. It was his policy never to smoke in front of his students. Or Mother. ‘For me, my teaching and my students are important,’ he continued. ‘And my doors are always open for my students. You can come to me any time.’ He paused to look at the clock and smiled at them. ‘Even if it’s the middle of the night.’

Gurpreet and Jatin grinned.

‘So are you going to tell me?’ Raven asked.

‘Sir,’ replied Jatin, ‘in the grammar class yesterday, Sir O’Michael was—’

‘Who are these people, Raven?’ Mother asked as she came into the room. ‘Don’t they know you’re not well and shouldn’t be kept up so late?’

‘They’re my students, Mother,’ said Raven.

‘I don’t care who they are. Finish whatever you’re doing and go and rest.’

‘Mother, stop fussing, please’ said Raven, a slight irritation in his voice. When was Mother going to learn not to treat him as a little boy, especially in front of his students?

‘I just came to say goodnight,’ Mother grumbled as she straightened his blanket, threw an angry look at the two boys and left the room.

‘Goodnight, Mother,’ Raven called out as he smiled and shook his head. Mother found it difficult to trust anyone. She had not always been like that. It was after what happened with Father.

Wednesday. Evening. The last three days had taught Mili that everything at STH ran by the bell. Dinner was served at 7 p.m. sharp in the refectory. It was bigger than the
dining room in the palace. There were rows and rows of tables with uncomfortable wooden chairs.

‘I’m starving,’ Vicky declared as the food arrived.

Mili looked at her plate – cutlets, boiled vegetables, mashed potatoes and bread pudding. That’s it? No roti? No rice? What kind of dinner was this? She thought of the dinners served at home. The thick yellow kadi, the cottage cheese with peas, fried brinjal, cauliflower cooked with potatoes and cumin seeds, the colourful pulao and her favourite – tadka daal. She could almost smell the cumin seeds being roasted, the mustard seeds popping and the sizzling sound accompanied with rising smoke as lentils were added to the dry-roasted spices and butter ghee.

She glanced sideways at Vicky. She was wolfing down her food. She stole a look at the other hostellers. None of them were talking. All she could hear was the sound of cutlery. She looked at her plate in dismay. How was she expected to eat that? For the first time since she had left home, she felt homesick.

She took a bite of the cutlet. It was bland. It had no taste. The vegetables were the same. So were the potatoes. It was as though the cook had held them under a tap after he finished cooking, to wash off all the spices and flavours. She pushed it aside. Even Bhoomi wouldn’t eat such food. She took a spoonful of the pudding. It was horrendous. True, there was a ration on sugar because of the war, but dessert with hardly any sugar in it? Who in Lord Kishan’s name had hired the cook? In Mohanagar he wouldn’t even get a job as the pets’ cook. She pushed her chair back and got up.

Vicky looked at her. ‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘I’m not hungry,’ Mili replied. ‘I’m going to our room.’

‘I’ll see you in ten minutes,’ Vicky replied, stuffing herself.

How could she eat that? Mili wondered as she left the refectory.

She stood outside her room, looking at the little garden adjoining the hostel building. It was not tended. Some clothes lines with pegs stretched right across it. The grass was long, unruly. A potted plant had fallen over and the mud spilt out. She thought of the well-maintained gardens at the palace in Mohanagar. After all, they employed over sixty gardeners to take care of them.

‘Salaam saab,’ called Bahadur raising his right hand to his forehead. ‘Enjoy food?’

‘Enjoy?’ Mili pulled a face. ‘It was inedible.’

‘Memsaab, when you don’t like school food, go to Uncleji’s Tuck Shop,’ said Bahadur, pointing towards the main gate. ‘I work there, morning, afternoon and sometimes Sunday.’

‘But are we allowed to go there?’ Mili asked.

‘Yes, yes. It is just outside gate. Is part of school. Sometimes they serve hot food. And their sandwiches also nice.’

‘Thanks, Bahadur. I’m sure I’ll be one of their most frequent customers.’ So saying, she went inside.

Just as she was getting into bed, a fair-haired, stocky girl entered their room. She had an exceptionally long nose but, overall, a pretty face. Until she opened her mouth. And her squeaky voice made you cringe.

‘Hello, I’m Angel, your room-mate,’ she said. ‘I know I’m the last to arrive but I didn’t think they’d make me share a room with natives,’ she scowled.

Mili did not say anything but turned her gaze to Vicky who was glaring at their new room-mate over the rim of her glasses.

‘We aren’t delighted either, at having to share it with an Angrez,’ said Vicky.

Angel looked up at the ceiling and said, ‘And we’ve got the freakiest room in the hostel.’

‘What d’you mean?’ asked Vicky.

‘This is the only room in the entire hostel that has one of those fan things on the ceiling,’ replied Angel.

‘Oh, I didn’t even notice it. I wonder why?’ said Mili.

‘Maybe because it’s always had inmates full of hot air,’ laughed Angel.

Mili raised her eyebrows at Vicky. Vicky shrugged her shoulders as they watched Angel leave the room to fetch her luggage.

Mili looked at the fan again. Angel was right. Summers were cool and pleasant in Kishangarh. None of the houses there had fans. And definitely not ceiling fans. She wondered why this one had been installed. Maybe the room had been built for someone special. Or perhaps it was a mistake. She wasn’t sure. But of one thing she was certain – she and Vicky were never going to be great friends with Angel.

Mili got into bed and rolled over on her side. Her stomach growled. She wondered if Vicky had heard it. But she was fast asleep. While she was wide awake. How was she ever going to fall asleep on an empty stomach?
And on a mattress that felt as hard and cold as the marble-topped dining table at home? She missed her soft eiderdown pillow and her white Rajasthani quilt with golden tassels. Next time she went home, she would remember to bring it along. It was one of her prized possessions. She had used it ever since she was two. It was soft and warm and whenever she snuggled into it she felt as though she had put her head on Ma’s lap.