Ma was reclining on a sofa next to Bauji’s armchair. Patting the sofa, she nodded at her. Mili sat down on the sofa tentatively. She looked at the huge rug spread before her. It was made out of the skin of twelve tigers. Or was it fifteen? Dadaji had apparently shot every one of them. She herself had been there for his last two tiger hunts, sitting behind him on the howdah, gorging on biscuits hidden under the seat for her by the servants. She had felt faint at the sight of all that blood oozing out of the tiger when Dadaji killed it. But not for a moment had she felt any fear. Well, at least not as afraid as she was of Bauji right now. Oh Lord Kishan, my Kanha, please don’t let the news of what happened in the marketplace this evening reach Bauji. Else forget Kishangarh, he wouldn’t even let her step out of the palace if he came to know about it.
Biting her thumbnail, she mumbled, ‘You wanted to see me, Bauji?’
‘We hear you want to go to a boarding school in Kishangarh?’ Bauji asked. ‘What’s wrong with your present school?’
‘Nothing, Bauji, it’s just that Vicky’s also going …’
‘Why? The schools in Mohanagar are not good enough for her?’
‘No, Bauji. She hasn’t been keeping well. The doctor feels the mountain air will do her good.’
‘Well, in that case she must go. But why do you need to tag along?’
‘Your Majesty, they’ve been together since birth. How can we separate them now?’ said Ma.
‘Sumitra, what’ll she do when she gets married?’ asked Bauji. ‘Take that girl along to her sasural as trousseau?’
Ma pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen over her forehead. ‘Let her go. It’ll be good for her. Be—’
She stopped speaking as a servant knocked and entered the room, bowed from the waist down, then placed a hookah at Bauji’s feet. He again bowed and backed out of the room. Bauji put the pipe of the hookah in his mouth and sucked. It made a gurgling sound.
‘You know we’re quite liberal,’ Bauji said after a while. ‘We’re sending her to the local school, unlike a lot of princesses who are taught at home by tutors. We don’t even observe the purdah. But boarding school?’
Mili sniffed as a sweetish smell of tobacco filled the room.
‘Times are changing, Your Majesty,’ Ma was saying. ‘The Congress is talking about democracy …’
‘That congressman – Vallabh Patel. We don’t like his views … If the English were to leave and these peasants and the low caste that Gandhi lovingly calls “Harijans” … Heaven forbid if they were to govern the nation. What would they know about how to rule a country?’
Mili looked at the rug again. Why did Ma and Bauji have to talk politics all the time? What did it have to do with her going to Kishangarh? Then she recalled the look on the faces of the men who had been shouting ‘Down with monarchy’ earlier that evening. She shuddered. They had looked menacing.
‘That’s why it’s important to send Mili out in the real world,’ Ma was saying. ‘How long are we going to shield her?’
Bauji put the hookah back in his mouth and gazed into oblivion. ‘No, Mili,’ he finally said. ‘We have given it much thought and we do not want you to go. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Bauji,’ Mili replied in a muffled voice, as she darted from the room, blinded by tears, and flung herself across her bed.
How was she going to live without her soul sister? Bauji would never understand. Did he not wonder how two girls, so different in every way, could be such good friends? Didn’t he realise it was because they were meant to be? Like Lord Kishan and Sudama. In fact they were Kishan and Sudama, in a previous life, she was pretty sure of that. Even Nani said so. And Nani never lied.
‘Princess, dinner is served,’ said Bhoomi, coming into the room and standing beside the bed, her head bowed as always.
‘I don’t want any,’ snapped Mili, without bothering to turn around.
‘Eat a little, Princess,’ Bhoomi pleaded.
Mili swung around angrily and threw a pillow at Bhoomi. ‘Did you not hear? Go away and leave me alone,’ she snarled.
‘Yes, Princess,’ Bhoomi replied as she scuttled out of the room.
It was so unfair, Mili fumed. Why must she always listen to Bauji, even when he was being unreasonable? There had to be a way. There must be something she could do. Maybe she should run away. No one was going to keep her away from her friend. No one. Not even Bauji.
Chapter Two
Tucked away in a valley at the foothills of the Himalayas lay the town of Kishangarh. Raven could see the entire town from where he stood, atop a hill. Her beauty never ceased to mesmerise him. He watched her as she hid her face beneath a veil of mist. Closing his eyes, he breathed in her perfume – the crisp, fresh mountain air. He could hear the temple bells, which sounded like anklets on her feet. The setting sun cast a halo around her head just as the little cottages and thatched huts smiled shyly up at him. Nowhere else had he seen such untouched beauty.
Raven loved the hills, the Himalayas, the simple hill folk – the ‘sons of Himalaya’, as they liked to call themselves. But most of all, he loved Kishangarh. He was only six when Mother and he had moved here and it had been his home for the last twenty-two years; this was where he belonged. But Mother would disagree. For her, home would always be England. Raven leant against a deodar tree. He wondered what Wordsworth would have done if he had been to Kishangarh. He would have written an entire epic on its beauty, of that he was certain.
He looked over his shoulder at the sound of horses’ hooves. A couple of uniformed policemen on chestnut-brown horses rode by. He watched the horses with longing until the descending mist swallowed them and he could see no more. The doctor had confirmed that morning that he would never ride again.
Discerning some movement in the playing fields of MP College, Raven hobbled over for a closer look. Some students were playing cricket. A lanky Sikh boy with an unkempt beard and moustache and a maroon turban on his head, clad in torn khadi pyjamas and kurta, was batting on ninety-four. A peach-faced English lad began taking his run-up. Interesting. Raven went over to a bench that stood at the edge of the field, put down his crutches and sat down to watch.
The peach-faced lad threw the ball. The Sikh batsman at the crease swung his bat and hit it. The ball flew into the air and was caught by the fielder at silly mid-on. All the English fielders shouted ‘Out!’ and raised a finger.
The batsman stood his ground. ‘No, I’m not out. It was a no-ball.’
He was right. It was indeed a no-ball. The bowler strolled over to the batsman. Looking threateningly at the Sikh lad, he asked, ‘So it was a no-ball, eh?’ He tossed the ball high up in the air, then caught it himself. ‘You darkies going to teach me how to play cricket?’
The other players had now gathered around the two lads confronting each other. Sensing trouble, Raven limped towards them.
The English lad caught the Sikh batsman by his collar and punched him hard. ‘Cricket is not for uncouth boys like you. Go back to playing with your sticks and stones,’ he shouted.
The Sikh lad was about to hit his assailant with his bat when Raven barked, ‘Stop it,’ in a clipped, authoritative tone. A hush fell on the field as everyone turned to look at him.
‘Who the hell are you?’ asked the Sikh batsman. ‘Bloody gora. Hiding behind the tree and watching all the fun, were we?’
The other Indian batsman at the crease, the one clad in an ivory-coloured shirt and black trousers, touched the Sikh batsman’s shoulder lightly. ‘Let him be, Preeto,’ he said, looking pitifully at Raven’s crutches. ‘Remember, we’re not like these English. We don’t lift a finger on a cripple.’
Raven looked aghast. The Sikh smiled scornfully at him, shrugged his friend’s hand off his shoulder and spat on the ground. Then swinging his bat, he swaggered off the field, followed by the other Indian players.
Even though March heralded the arrival of spring, it was still cold in Kishangarh. Raven hobbled onto the veranda, sank into a cane chair and put
the crutches on the floor. He rubbed his hands together, cupped them over his mouth, then rubbed them together again. He looked at his watch. It was almost ten o’clock. Miss Perkins should be here any minute now.
He thought of the encounter between the English and the Indian students the previous day. Scenes like that were becoming more and more common now. Earlier, the Indians would cower and hang their heads or simply walk away in such situations. But now they stood their ground, thanks to the freedom movement that was gathering momentum throughout the country, under the helm of Gandhi and Nehru. But Raven had his doubts about the tactics they were using. How was it possible to overthrow a regime without a battle? Through mere non-cooperation? It simply did not make any sense.
Not that it mattered to him whether it was the English or the Indians who ruled the country. As long as he was allowed to teach, he did not care one way or the other. Not one bit.
Through the corner of his eye, he spotted someone in white coming up the hill. He got up clumsily to greet Miss Perkins, the principal of STH, as she stepped onto the veranda. She wore an immaculate white dress, made of the softest and finest synthetic cloth. It must have been imported from Rome, he was sure of that. She was a lean woman with thick, black, bushy eyebrows, which were straight rather than arched. If he were to be honest, she looked more like a man than a woman. He smiled inwardly. It must not be difficult for her to enforce discipline in the school. Her students must surely be afraid of her.
‘You shouldn’t have got up,’ she said as she took her seat.
‘Thank you for coming to my house to see me,’ Raven said.
‘Not at all. It is I who should be thanking you for helping us out at this moment of crisis.’
Raven shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s not a big deal. I enjoy teaching. But do you not think it is irregular for a male teacher to be the dean of the girls’ hostel?’
‘It is indeed. But we are in a bit of a fix. The current dean and English teacher decided to leave India all of a sudden, just two days back. And with school reopening next week, we are in a bit of a quandary.’
‘I see.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid we’re heavily understaffed at the moment. There is an exodus of Englishmen and women.’ Miss Perkins paused and straightened the folds of her dress. ‘India is no longer what it used to be, Mr …?’
‘Raven.’
‘Mr Raven …?’
‘I have no surname.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I have no father. What need do I have of a surname?’ He watched as Miss Perkins lifted a single brow but chose not to say anything.
She cleared her throat. ‘Y-yes, as I was saying, we are short-staffed. We’ve even had to open our doors to Indian and Anglo-Indian students. The only other option was to shut the school.’
‘I will, however, be teaching at MP College as well. I’ve made a commitment to the college authorities.’
‘I’m surprised. As one of the youngest professors in this country, I’d have thought you’d have no dearth of jobs. Then why choose a college for Indians?’
‘Students are students. I was offered the job and I accepted.’
‘It’ll not be too much for you?’
‘No. It’s just one lecture a day. And as the school and college are next to each other …’ Raven shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m sure I can manage that.’ He looked up as Mother walked onto the veranda.
‘You have met my mother?’ he asked Miss Perkins by way of introduction.
‘Yes, I think we have met once before at the school fair,’ replied Miss Perkins, extending her hand to Mother.
After exchanging niceties, Mother turned her attention to Raven. ‘Oh dear, you’re sitting in a draught. It’s so cold. Come inside.’
‘I’m fine, Mother. Stop fussing.’ He turned to Miss Perkins. ‘Mother has become extra protective since my accident.’
He stopped speaking and listened, as the faint sound of slogans – ‘Bharat Mata ki Jai. British leave India. Down with imperialism’ – reached him. He could see a peaceful procession of khadi-clad revolutionaries marching down the dirt track below.
‘When I see all this,’ Miss Perkins was saying, ‘I feel happy and secure for my girls that we’ve got a male staff member amidst us now.’
‘Well, we, the English, thought we were building a haven here in Kishangarh – a home away from home,’ Mother was saying. ‘Alas, what we had run away from in the plains has followed us here as well.’
But Raven was not listening to either of the two. As he watched the revolutionaries and heard them shout, different images and sounds began filling his head. Voices from the past; an order given – ‘Fire!’; the sound of bullets being fired; agonised shrieks of pain. And then a stunned silence. Followed by an occasional crackling of flames and the smell of burning flesh.
Chapter Three
It was on a mild morning in March 1941, the year Mili turned seventeen and Vicky sixteen, that Mili found herself in Mohanagar railway station. She looked at Vicky, who was pushing her way through the throng with ease. She scurried to keep up with her friend, her two thick plaits, tied up around her ears like sausages, swinging to and fro. She was glad she was wearing her soft-soled dainty velvet shoes which did not make a sound as she walked. Like the padded soles of a tiger on the prowl. Unlike Vicky’s ankle boots which were tric-trocking noisily on the platform and drawing everyone’s attention. If Mili’s shoes made that racket, she would have died of embarrassment. But not Vicky. She simply grinned and strutted even more.
They had come early, the two of them, along with Uday and five servants. Reason – they were too excited. Ma could not take it any more and shooed them out of the palace.
‘Princess, the train come in half an hour,’ said Bhoomi as she dusted a bench. ‘We wait here.’
Nodding, Mili sat down on the bench. She loved coming to the station. It had the feel of a funfair that never ended. The pheriwala selling colourful wooden toys, the thelewala selling an assortment of sweetmeats which drew more flies than customers, the chai waala selling cups of hot and sweetened tea. Mili had had a sip of that tea once. It was disgusting and smelt of kerosene oil.
‘What now?’ she mumbled as she saw a group of khadi-clad lads making their way down the station. ‘These revolutionaries are everywhere. Such a nuisance.’ But unlike the crowd that had surrounded their car last month, this mob was smaller and without any sticks, flags and banners. One of them was carrying a big wooden box with a slit down the middle of the lid.
Mili smiled nervously as Vicky looked at her. Vicky pressed her hand reassuringly. ‘Relax. They’re just asking for donations. They’re not going to cause any trouble.’
Shouts of ‘Vande Mataram, Bharat Mata ki Jai’ now rent the air. The man carrying the donation box was giving an emotional recount of Bhagat Singh’s martyrdom. ‘Bhagat Singh,’ he was saying to the crowd that had gathered around him, ‘suffered untold torture, fasted for days and finally gave up his life. He was only twenty-three when he died. Only twenty-three. If a mere lad could do so much for his motherland, what I’m asking from you is very small.’ He pointed to the wooden box. ‘We are in dire need of funds to carry on our struggle against the British Raj. Please donate generously to help remove the shackles of slavery from our Hindustan. Jai Hind.’
‘Jai Hind. Bharat Mata ki Jai,’ the mob shouted in response. People started pouring money into the donation box. Mili grimaced as some women got emotional and began tearing off their jewellery and putting it in the box as well. As the revolutionaries came nearer, she hastily pulled her yellow dupatta over her head, hiding her gold earrings studded with rubies and diamonds as well as the matching necklace. She was not going to let anyone make her part with her precious jewellery.
Uday gave her a nudge. ‘Boo-hoo, Bauji won’t let me go to Kishangarh,’ he mimicked. ‘I thought you didn’t get permission? Where you off to then?’ he said, tweaking her plait.
‘Stop teasing,’ Mili pouted
. ‘He did refuse.’
She remembered how that had upset her. She hadn’t eaten at all that day. In the evening she had been summoned to the garden by Bauji. He was having his afternoon tea with Mother. Mili went and stood beside the table, her hands behind her back, her chin tilted defiantly.
Bauji took a sip of his tea. Then he put down the cup on the table. He was taking his time. Mili looked around. The lawns were neatly trimmed, the rows of flowers straight. That’s how Bauji liked his gardens – not a single blade of grass out of place. And that’s how he wanted his daughter’s life to be, Mili suspected. Regimented and orderly. That’s how princesses were supposed to live.
‘Sumitra tells me you haven’t had your breakfast or lunch today,’ Bauji said.
‘What do you care? If you really cared, you’d understand how much it means to me to be with my friend,’ Mili retorted.
‘Now now, Mili, that’s no way to speak to your father,’ said Ma.
‘I’m sorry,’ Mili muttered. This was the first time she had dared speak to Bauji in that manner.
‘So is this fasting to do with the fact that we did not give you permission to go gallivanting to the mountains?’
‘She wants to go there to study, Your Majesty,’ chided Ma.
Mili looked thankfully at Ma. She often thought it strange that she should address Bauji as “Your Majesty”.
After the Storm Page 2