‘Is Guruji there?’ Gurpreet asked.
‘Yes,’ answered the lad. ‘In the prayer room.’
Gurpreet and Jatin entered the prayer room quietly, as the smell of dhoop, incense and roses greeted them. Guruji was seated on a sort of a rostrum which was covered with a white sheet. He held the holy Gita in his hands. In front of him was the statue of the Hindu god Krishna. A small earthen lamp flickered before the statue, throwing a warm yellow light on his face. Some thin carpets covered the floor of the rest of the room, which were in turn covered with white sheets. About thirty men and women were seated there, heads bowed, listening devoutly to every word that was being uttered.
Guruji was reading passages from the Gita. ‘Don’t worry about the fruit of your labour. Just keep working …’ He paused and looked at his audience. ‘And your work right now is to free your motherland from the yoke of the oppressive British Raj …’ he continued.
Jatin took off his shoes and sat down at the back of the room.
Gurpreet, however, went up to Guruji and touched his feet. Guruji gave him his blessings, then turned back to his audience. ‘I think that’s enough for today.’ He folded his hands and said, ‘Hare Krishna.’ Immediately there was a buzz as everybody got up, muttered ‘Hare Krishna’ and began to leave the room. Jatin came forward and stood next to Gurpreet.
Guruji smiled and nodded at him, then patted Gurpreet’s shoulder.
‘Bhai Gurpreet,’ Guruji said, shoving a paan in his mouth as he spoke.
‘Yes, Guruji?’ asked Gurpreet.
‘How’s work in the college?’
‘It’s going well. I think I’ve won the support of most of the new students.’
‘Good. I knew you’d do it. And don’t forget …’ he paused to spit out some of the betel juice, ‘next time you speak to them, don’t forget to mention how our boys have been beaten and put behind bars without any trial, for carrying out a peaceful procession.’
‘I definitely will, Guruji. My blood boils when I think of the injustice of it all.’
‘After all, what are we asking these Angrez for?’ said Guruji. ‘To give up the administration of our country. That’s all. After all, this country belongs to us, it is our birthright. We are the citizens of this country, we live in this country, hence we want to govern it ourselves. That’s all we want.’
‘You’re right, Guruji,’ replied Gurpreet.
Some men walked into the room carrying bags and wooden boxes. They looked at Guruji and then at Gurpreet and Jatin.
‘It’s all right,’ Guruji said. ‘They’re one of us.’
The men nodded and pushed aside the rug on which Guruji’s disciples had been sitting a few minutes ago. They lifted a few logs off the wooden floor. Then they began emptying the bags and boxes. Jatin’s mouth fell open as he watched them hiding guns, rifles, dynamite, bombs and other explosives into the cavity between the wooden floor and solid ground.
Gurpreet’s eyes glittered as he picked up a rifle and ran his hand over its cool barrel.
‘Guruji, these bombs?’ Jatin uttered. ‘Gandhiji would not approve …’
‘Son, let Gandhiji do his work and let us do ours.’
‘But Gandhiji says non-violence—’
‘Non-violence means not hurting anyone. Rest assured these weapons are merely for cutting off the firangi lines of communication.’
But Jatin did not look convinced by Guruji’s explanation. Gurpreet patted his friend’s back and smiled reassuringly at him. Jatin did not smile back. Gurpreet looked at him thoughtfully. He knew the sight of all those arms and ammunition had shaken him. He watched him as he took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow with it. He always carried a white, starched, ironed hanky with him in his pocket. He was a shy, reticent fellow, his Jatin. So quiet that Gurpreet would have never known of his existence had it not been for the scuffle they had after their history exam last year.
Guruji drew Gurpreet and Jatin aside. ‘You know, Jatin,’ he said, ‘a lot rests on your shoulders. You, the youth of today, are going to achieve India’s independence. Do you know why?’
‘Why?’
‘Because you have nerves of steel. You have the zeal and courage that none of these leaders like Gandhi and Nehru have.’
Gurpreet gave Jatin an amused smile as he watched him look at the weapons and swallow. Jatin and nerves of steel! He wouldn’t exactly call them that … He slapped his friend across the back.
Jatin groaned. ‘My back’s broken. Why can’t you keep your hands off me?’
‘You’re as frail as a girl. Come home and have some lassi. It’ll make you stronger.’
They left Guruji’s house and walked in silence for a while.
Jatin finally spoke. ‘I’m not sure I want to be a part of all this,’ he said.
‘Look, Guruji did say the weapons will never be used to hurt any living being,’ said Gurpreet.
‘How is that possible?’ said Jatin. ‘Where there is ammunition, someone is going to get hurt, sooner or later. It’s like saying, “This is a pet tiger. Put your hand inside his mouth, he won’t hurt you.”’
‘Come, yaara, you’re overreacting,’ said Gurpreet, putting his arm around his friend.
Jatin shrugged his arm off. ‘No, Preeto. I think I should quit this movement. My parents don’t know that I’m involved in this struggle for freedom. We’re a simple middle-class family. They’ll be shocked if they come to know.’
‘Don’t quit right now. Give it some time.’
‘If you say so,’ replied Jatin. He shook his head. ‘But I feel very apprehensive about the future. As though something not quite right is going to happen. I can already feel the knots in my stomach.’
They fell silent again. Gurpreet let out a deep sigh. He did not know how to convince his friend. Who knows? He might turn out to be right after all. Only time would tell.
Mili loved the smell of libraries – of musty old books and printing ink. Raven Sir was right. The school library seemed to have a copy of every single book ever written. Lucy Poems … Lucy Poems … William Wordsworth … where was it? Ah, there it was, hiding behind all the other books. Mili pulled it out and went and sat next to Vicky in the reading room. Vicky nudged her with her elbow and pointed to the far end of the table. Mili looked at her and then at the chair that Vicky was pointing at. Apart from some books, an open register and a black coat flung across the back of the chair, Mili could see nothing.
‘Guess who’s sitting there?’ whispered Vicky conspiratorially.
‘Who?’
‘Angel. I saw her in that coat. Two days back. She was making fun of your name in class? I’ll teach her a lesson.’
‘What are you planning to do?’
‘You sit here. Warn me if you see her coming.’
Mili watched Vicky tiptoe to Angel’s chair. Angel had made herself very much at home, for she had not only taken off her coat, but her shoes as well. Mili giggled as Vicky put a couple of pieces of orange, that she had sneaked out of the refectory that morning, in each of Angel’s shoes. Then with a demure face, barely able to conceal her giggle, Vicky came back to her chair. Mili hid her face behind Lucy Poems and waited.
She sat up straight as she saw Prof. Raven approach the reading room. He was reading something as he walked towards their table. Without looking up, he pulled out the chair with the black coat and sat down.
With a look of horror, Mili pulled at Vicky’s sleeve. ‘Vicky, those weren’t Angel’s shoes,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t you know the difference between a man’s shoes and a woman’s?’
‘Oh no! But I wear them sometimes. Men’s shoes. They’re more comfortable …’
‘We’ve had it now. Hey Lord Kishan, hey Kanha – what’s going to happen?’ groaned Mili, biting her thumbnail.
A few minutes elapsed. Mili watched over the top of her book as Prof. Raven looked at the watch, then put his feet in his shoes. She heard a soft squelching sound and saw a look of surprise on Prof. Raven’s face.
He pulled out his feet and looked at his shoes, his eyes widening with bewilderment.
‘Orange? I don’t remember putting them in my shoes,’ he muttered, scratching his head. He looked towards Mili and Vicky.
Mili quickly ducked behind her book.
Prof. Raven was looking at his shoes again. Then with a loud, ‘What the hell …?’ he chucked the squashed orange bits in the bin. He then put on his shoes which were now squeaking like a toddler’s rubber toy. Mili covered her mouth with her hand to suppress her laugh. She watched him as he put on his coat, gathered his books and papers and threw a suspicious look at her and Vicky, before shaking his head and leaving, his shoes squeaking with every step he took. As soon as he was out of hearing, Mili and Vicky threw down their books and burst out laughing.
Two months had elapsed. Mili was gradually settling down in school and getting used to not having servants to pick up after her. She looked around at the spacious school hall. They had been asked to assemble in the hall this morning instead of the classroom. All the students got up as Prof. Raven walked in. He was engrossed in conversation with an English lady.
‘What?’ asked Mili as Vicky nudged her with her elbow.
‘Who do you think she is?’ Vicky whispered.
Mili looked at the woman in question. ‘She must be his fiancée,’ she replied.
‘Poor girl. She doesn’t know what she’s marrying,’ giggled Vicky.
‘Shh,’ hissed Mili as she saw Prof. Raven looking sternly in their direction.
Raven clapped his hands to quieten the students. ‘Today we have with us Miss Gonzales, who runs a theatre group in London. She’s on a tour of India and has kindly agreed to put up a performance for us.’ There was a sudden buzz in the hall as everyone started talking to each other. Raven raised his hand and there was silence again.
‘But before that, one quick question. Does anyone know anything about Vidushi? It was brought to my notice this morning that she hasn’t come to school for almost a month. Anyone?’
‘Sir, her husband died,’ answered Urmila. ‘She’s in the ashram.’
‘What?’ said Raven. ‘I didn’t know. Can you give me the details after class?’
‘Yes, sir, I will,’ replied Urmila.
‘All right, class,’ said Raven. ‘Please welcome Miss Gonzales and her troupe with a round of applause.’ So saying he moved to the back of the hall and the curtain on the stage began to rise.
Mili watched the adaptation of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet with fascination.
‘Do you think he’s going to kiss her?’ Vicky whispered as Juliet sighed and Romeo took her hands in his.
‘I hope so,’ Mili tittered.
‘What the devil!’ Vicky exclaimed as Romeo brought his lips close to Juliet’s.
‘Keep it down, Vicky,’ said Mili. ‘Sir is getting cross. He’s staring at us.’
‘Let him. He can’t eat us up. Can he?’ replied Vicky.
After the performance, Prof. Raven walked up to the front of the hall and called out to Mili and Vicky, ‘Stand up both of you.’
Mili gulped as she stood up and bit her thumbnail.
‘Why were you two talking and giggling during the show?’ His eyes were flashing like smouldering pieces of coal. ‘For Christ’s sake, you are in Junior Cambridge. You’re not little children.’
Hanging her head, Mili looked sideways at Vicky.
Raven thrust his hands in his pockets and carried on his tirade. ‘When are you two going to grow up?’ He now looked at the other students. ‘Remember, class,’ he said, ‘I will not tolerate this sort of behaviour. You are in Junior Cambridge, the second most senior class in school; behave like seniors.’ With that he left the hall.
Vicky pulled a face. ‘He didn’t have to scold us in front of the whole class,’ she sulked.
‘Actually, it was our fault,’ said Mili quietly.
‘Now, don’t you start …’ replied Vicky. ‘He should have been named Ravan, not Raven,’ she added as she stomped out of the hall.
Mili followed her.
‘Why are you coming after me? Go to your Raven Sir,’ said Vicky, pulling a face and mimicking – ‘Raven Sir, Raven Sir …’
‘Vicky, I’ve got an idea,’ Mili sniggered. ‘Come with me.’ Snatching Vicky’s hand, she ran towards their classroom. She peered into the room from the window. It was empty. ‘Tell me if you see somebody coming, all right?’
‘All right,’ Vicky replied.
Picking up a piece of chalk, Mili started drawing on the blackboard. ‘A nice oval face,’ she said as she drew an oval shape on the board. ‘A broad forehead … with three lines creasing it …’ She drew three curly lines across the forehead. ‘Thin, long nose …’
‘That looks like Raven Sir,’ said Vicky excitedly. ‘Make the nose longer,’ she added and laughed loudly as Mili drew an exceptionally long nose. She then drew another face. This one had a very small button nose. Then another. This one had a tiny moustache. Then another face. And another. Until there were ten faces attached to one another, staring down at them.
Mili finished her handiwork by writing the words ‘RAVAN Sir’ underneath the drawing. Then she stood back to admire her work.
‘That’s for scolding us in front of the whole class,’ Vicky announced with satisfaction.
‘We’d better run before someone sees us,’ said Mili. Giggling hysterically, the two girls left the room, almost bumping into Prof. Raven in the corridor.
‘Sir, you’re still in school?’ exclaimed Vicky.
‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I’ve come to collect the assignments that all of you submitted yesterday. But more importantly, what are you two doing here?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all, sir,’ said Mili, putting on her most innocent look and chewing her thumbnail.
‘Aren’t you late for tea?’
‘Yes, sir, we’re going, sir,’ replied Mili taking hold of Vicky’s hand and running towards the refectory. Oh, Lord Kishan, what was going to happen now?
‘Sweetheart,’ whispered Vicky, as soon as they were out of hearing, ‘we’re dead. Now he knows we made that drawing. Be prepared to be guillotined.’
Chapter Six
Uncleji’s Tuck Shop. Strategically placed between STH and MP College, and hence the favourite haunt of most of the students studying there. Right next to the door stood an old piano, with its lid ripped off. Every now and then a student passing by would run his hands over the keys, adding to the cacophony. A quarter of the canteen was cordoned off by a low wall. Over the wall you could see Uncleji in his greasy vest frying pakoras in a giant wok and shouting at Bahadur to chop the vegetables faster.
Gurpreet lolled at his favourite corner table, watching the students as they walked in and out of the tuck shop in dribs and drabs.
‘Preeto …’ said Jatin.
‘Have some shame,’ said Gurpreet with mock horror. ‘Calling me “beloved” in public.’ He sighed theatrically. ‘Now, if only a girl could call me that – Preet … Preeto – I’d be on top of the world,’ he said, as he slurped his tea noisily.
Jatin gave him a disgusted look. ‘No girl’s going to call you Preet unless you stop making those awful sounds.’ He yawned. ‘If the teachers had informed us there’d be no classes today, we wouldn’t have had to come to college on a lovely day like this,’ he grumbled.
‘What’s your problem?’ Gurpreet asked, gulping down the remnants of his cup. ‘Uncleji’s set up this lovely canteen for us. Just stay put. Be—’ He stopped speaking when he found a couple of eyes staring at him over the rim of a pair of glasses. She had a head full of short, curly hair and her glasses were bigger than Gandhi’s. But her eyes – they were hypnotic and he could not look away.
‘That blasted Angel has taken the last copy of the critical analysis of Keats’ odes. Now how will we study for the test?’ he heard her saying to her friend.
He walked over to their table. ‘Hello, I’m Gurpreet. I study in MP College and couldn’t
help overhearing that you need a certain book on Keats. If you wish, I can get it from our college library.’
‘Oh, can you?’ Vicky asked, her eyes lighting up.
‘Come hither this evening and it shall be thine,’ replied Gurpreet, holding Vicky’s gaze.
Vicky laughed, and pushing back her glasses with the tip of her finger, replied, ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘You can call me Gurpreet,’ he said with a smile and extended his hand. ‘Or if you prefer – Preet,’ he added with a wink.
‘Gurpreet,’ Vicky said, giving him a crooked smile. ‘I’m Vicky and this here is my friend Mili. We study at STH – Junior Cambridge.’
‘Oye, Jatin, come here.’ Gurpreet waved to his friend.
Jatin walked over self–consciously.
‘And this is Jatin,’ said Gurpreet, thumping his friend across his back.
Jatin scowled, then nodded and smiled shyly at Vicky and Mili.
‘They study at STH,’ said Gurpreet again.
‘STH?’ said Jatin, raising a brow. ‘Do you know a girl called Vidushi?’
‘Yes,’ Mili replied.
‘Is she all right?’ asked Jatin. ‘I haven’t seen her in a long time.’
‘Her husband died,’ said Vicky. ‘She dropped out of school.’
‘Where’s she now?’ Jatin asked anxiously.
Gurpreet looked at him. The news seemed to have perturbed him.
‘Some ashram for widows. That’s all we know,’ replied Vicky.
‘I’d better find her,’ Jatin mumbled.
Gurpreet looked at him with narrowed eyes. Who was this Vidushi? And why was Jatin so worried about her? He’d have to find out. But first the book.
A few hours later Gurpreet swaggered into the college library, followed by Jatin. He rummaged through the bookshelves, looking for the book he had promised Vicky. ‘This is the one,’ he said, pulling out a book with one hand and holding a cigarette in the other.
After the Storm Page 5