After the Storm

by Sangeeta Bhargava

  ‘And that gives you the right to kill a fellow human?’ said Raven, catching hold of the English lad’s collar. ‘Leave this park right now if you do not wish to be handed over to the police.’ With that he abruptly let go of him.

  The lad’s cheeks were inflamed. He gritted his teeth as he adjusted his collar, then turned on his heel and walked away.

  Someone started clapping his hands from behind. It was Gurpreet, with his friend Jatin close on his heels.

  ‘That was a brilliant act, sir,’ said Gurpreet, continuing to clap his hands.

  Raven looked at him quizzically, a frown creasing his brows.

  ‘You’re one to talk, sir,’ Gurpreet taunted. ‘The son of a murderer.’

  Colour drained from Raven’s face as he stared at Gurpreet, too shocked to move or speak.

  ‘How do you know?’ he asked after a long moment.

  ‘My grandparents were two of the innocent victims,’ said Gurpreet, his eyes full of hate, before he strode off.

  Raven stared at Gurpreet’s receding back for a long time. How long does a son have to bear the burden of his father’s sins, he wondered?

  ‘What’s the score?’ Raven asked as he took his seat beside Prof. Keating in the front row.

  ‘Kishangarh University made 264 runs while our boys are struggling at 101 for four.’

  Raven looked around the main playing field of MP College. It was an important day for them – the annual cricket tournament with their arch-rivals, – Kishangarh University, for the Lions Trophy. He looked at the thirteen players on the field – all sparkling in white, except for a couple of fielders at the boundary whose trousers were speckled with mud. The bowlers too had brown marks on the front of their trousers, where the ball had been rubbed mercilessly.

  He watched the bowler take his run-up. He was trying to throw a yorker, mistimed and threw a full toss instead. ‘Ah, what a miss,’ exclaimed Raven, as the batsman ran for a single. If he could still play, he would have definitely hit that ball for a six. After all, if there was one passion he had in life other than books, it was cricket. ‘He plays with a straight bat’; ‘He plays every shot according to the book,’ people used to say. Yes, he used to be a good batsman.

  But the accident had changed all that. ‘I’m afraid you will never be able to ride or play cricket or football ever again,’ the doctor had stated matter-of-factly. He had stared at the doctor’s hands as he wiped them with a towel and thought of the two prisoners who had been sentenced to Kaala Paani, the cellular jail in Port Blair, the previous day. He now understood how they felt and why one of the prisoners had wept when he heard the sentence.

  Raven looked around the field. The girls of STH were also there, including Malvika and Victoria. Malvika caught his eye, smiled timidly and mouthed, ‘Good morning, sir.’ He smiled back and nodded, then turned his attention back to the game. The bowler took his run-up. Right arm over the wicket … and … clean bowled. A stunned silence fell over the MP College supporters, which consisted of three-quarters of the audience, as they lost their fifth wicket.

  ‘Have you heard? About the German attack on Russia?’ Prof. Keating asked Raven during the drinks interval.

  ‘I think Hitler has dug his grave by dragging the Soviets into the war,’ replied Raven.

  ‘That’s true. I hear there are talks of an Anglo-Soviet agreement.’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure if that is a good—’ Raven stopped speaking as the new batsman took his position at the crease.

  It was Gurpreet. Colour drained from his face as he remembered his words – ‘son of a murderer’. Sitting on the edge of his seat, he tried to concentrate on the game. The fielders were jumping and shouting ‘Out!’, but all he could hear was ‘Fire!’

  Twenty-two years. Yes, it had been over twenty-two years and yet he could visualise that scene clearly, as though it had happened yesterday. The sound of firing, the look of shock on Kartar and Ayah’s faces, mirrored in Mother’s eyes. And the shrieks that followed, he could hear them even now. When would they stop haunting him?

  Raven wiped his clammy hands on his trousers and gratefully accepted the sherbet from the waiter. The cool drink made from fresh strawberries eased his nerves. He sat back, a little more relaxed.

  … Nineteen more runs to win the match. The crowd was now cheering each and every run that the batsman took, as though they were hitting a four or a six. MP College was cruising along. Ten more to go. The crowd was on its feet as Gurpreet thrashed the ball for a six and with that he got his century. A jubilant Gurpreet pointed his bat at the crowd in acknowledgement. Raven stared at him. No, it was not a gesture of thanks to his supporters. He was pointing the bat at him, accusingly – son of a murderer, his eyes were saying. Raven wiped the perspiration that had formed on his forehead and was now running down the side of his cheeks.

  … He watched Gurpreet as he came forward to hit the ball. The crowd was on its feet and went berserk as he hit the winning shot. MP College had finally snatched the Lions Trophy from Kishangarh University after nine long years. The students of MP College were euphoric, they were hugging each other, shaking hands and jumping with joy, but all Raven could see and hear were dead bodies and the sound of firing.

  Mili and Vicky made their way to the Mall for the second time that week. Some money had arrived from home that morning and Mili couldn’t wait to spend it.

  ‘You know, Mili,’ said Vicky, ‘I just remembered. When we went for the picnic and I took off with Gurpreet …’ Vicky paused.

  ‘Yes, I’m listening,’ said Mili, looking at her from the corner of her eye.

  ‘We were sitting and chatting on the edge of the cliff. It had gone a bit foggy—’

  ‘How romantic.’

  Vicky gave Mili an exasperated look before continuing, ‘Suddenly a vulture appeared. Out of nowhere. Circled over our heads a couple of times. Then disappeared just as suddenly.’

  ‘That’s not a good sign, Vicky.’

  ‘Yes. It was weird. And eerie.’

  ‘It’s a bad omen. You better come with me to the temple tomorrow.’

  ‘Come on, Mili. Don’t talk like an illiterate.’

  The two of them fell silent after that. Seeing a sari shop, Mili said, ‘I want to buy a sari for Ma.’

  ‘Come, come.’ The shopkeeper ushered them inside. ‘What would you like to see – saris, lahengas, suits …?’

  ‘Saris,’ said Mili.

  ‘In that case, go straight upstairs,’ said the shopkeeper. He peered up the stairs and shouted, ‘Tandon, show these customers the new lot that arrived this morning.’

  The two girls went up the creaking, narrow wooden stairs, and entered a room covered with thin mattresses, which in turn were covered with white sheets. They took off their shoes and sat down.

  ‘Would like cup of tea or coffee?’ Tandonji asked.

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Mili.

  Tandonji pulled out a sari from the shelf and began unravelling it. ‘These coming here today morning,’ he said. ‘I can guarantee – each sari unique. You not find a similar sari in all of Hindustan.’ He started spreading out various saris one by one.

  ‘These are too expensive,’ said Mili running her hand over the smooth silk sari.

  ‘No matter,’ replied Tandonji. ‘What you like to see? Cotton, georgette …?’

  ‘Silk is fine,’ replied Mili. ‘But not so expensive.’

  ‘I understanding,’ said Tandonji. ‘What about these?’ he asked, pulling out another sari.

  ‘Can I have a look at that one?’ Mili said, pointing to a red Banarasi sari with gold embroidery all over.

  ‘Madam. That a wedding sari. Too expensive.’

  ‘Let her see it,’ said Vicky.

  ‘All right, madam,’ replied Tandonji.

  Mili’s eyes shone as he spread the sari before her. Instinctively, she pulled the edge over her head and peered at herself in the mirror. Seeing her distracted, Tandonji turned to another customer.

&
nbsp; ‘You will be a beautiful bride,’ Vicky whispered softly. Mili blushed.

  Vicky chuckled. ‘You’re blushing. As though I’m the groom.’ She smiled. ‘I’ll dress you up. On your wedding day.’

  ‘Oh heavens, no,’ protested Mili. ‘I don’t want to look like a clown on the most important day of my life.’

  ‘I’m not that bad,’ sulked Vicky. ‘I do know a thing or two …’

  Mili did not reply.

  Vicky clicked her fingers in front of her face. ‘What’s up, dreamer?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Mili in a subdued voice. ‘I just realised – when I get married, I’ll have to live without you. How will I survive?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. Leave it to me. I’ll come with you. As your trousseau.’

  ‘I’m sure my husband would love that,’ Mili grinned as she selected one of the thin silk saris for Ma and gave it to Tandonji to pack.

  ‘You know what my fondest dream is, Vicky?’ she said, turning her attention back to her friend.

  ‘No, tell me, I’ve heard it only about fifty times till now,’ Vicky said.

  Mili grinned. ‘Seriously, Vicky, I’m waiting for the day when I will fall in love with a prince who in turn will love me immensely, serenade me, praise me. We shall marry and live in a palace filled with lovely children and I shall have the most exquisite saris and jewellery in the world.’

  ‘Your sari, madam,’ said Tandonji.

  ‘Thank you,’ Mili replied, as she took the package and paid him.

  As they left the shop, she could smell pickled onions and chicken being roasted on a tandor. Vicky sniffed appreciatively and said, ‘We have some time. Let’s have supper. At Nataraj.’

  ‘But after that we won’t have any money left,’ replied Mili as they left the shop.

  ‘Oh, come on. I’m in no mood to have that broth-like stew at the hostel tonight.’

  ‘Isn’t it too early?’

  But Vicky wasn’t listening. She snatched her hand and pulled her towards Nataraj.

  Mili reluctantly entered the restaurant. She smiled to herself as she remembered the last time they had come to eat there. It was with Uday. She missed him.

  The food was delicious and the two devoured it greedily.

  ‘I’m still hungry,’ said Vicky. ‘Let’s order some more.’

  ‘But we won’t be able to pay the bill,’ whispered Mili.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,’ said Vicky as she pulled out a cockroach from her pocket.

  Mili opened her mouth to scream, but before she could do that, Vicky had clamped her hand over her mouth.

  ‘You want us to be kicked out?’ Vicky chided, as she let go of Mili.

  Slyly, she put the cockroach in the bowl which had a little bit of pahari murg still left in it.

  Then she started screaming, ‘Cockroach! What the devil! Cockroach in the food. I’m going to sue …’

  The manager of the restaurant was at her side in a trice. ‘Madam, please cool down,’ he placated. ‘This has never happened before. We are very particular about hygiene.’

  ‘Really?’ said Vicky, raising her voice. ‘Then how did a cock—’

  ‘Please don’t make a fuss, madam. I’ll fire the cook right away,’ he said as he wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  Vicky winked at Mili.

  ‘Banthia,’ the manager was saying. ‘Bring another pahari murg and a couple of chapattis to this table.’ He then turned to Mili and Vicky. ‘I assure you, madam, this’ll never happen again. And eat as much as you please. I will not charge you a single paisa.’

  Vicky nodded. The manager bowed and left them to enjoy the rest of their meal. She giggled as soon as he was out of earshot. ‘Now I can eat in peace. And not worry about the bill.’

  ‘What was a dead cockroach doing in your pocket?’ asked Mili.

  ‘It looked so real, didn’t it?’ whispered Vicky. ‘But it’s not. I bought it from one of the Tibetan shops. When you were busy looking at the jewellery.’ She stopped speaking as she concentrated on cutting a piece of the chicken. ‘I was thinking of putting it in Ravan’s drawer. But, well …’ She shrugged her shoulders as she put the fork into her mouth.

  The two friends quietly trekked back to the hostel, after enjoying a sumptuous meal at Nataraj. It was late evening and getting dark. Vicky burped loudly, then grinned as Mili looked at her in horror.

  ‘Be glad one of the teachers didn’t hear you,’ said Mili. ‘She would have jumped into her grave.’

  ‘These teachers don’t know anything. Nothing can beat the taste of a fraudulent chicken curry,’ Vicky said as she winked at Mili.

  ‘The poor chicken must be turning in its gravy,’ grinned Mili.

  ‘Very funny,’ said Vicky as she stuck out her tongue. She looked at Mili thoughtfully. ‘Mili?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What would you have done if Bauji hadn’t given permission?’

  ‘But he did, Vicky. Lord Kishan meant us to be together, for ever. So the question doesn’t arise, you see.’

  Vicky smiled. This is what she loved about her friend. She saw life so simply. ‘Your Lord Kishan has an answer for everything?’

  ‘Of course. He’s omniscient, omnipotent—’

  Vicky covered Mili’s mouth with her hand. ‘And omnivorous,’ she finished for Mili.

  Mili laughed. ‘That’s not Lord Kishan. That’s you.’

  The two girls hastened their pace. The opposite hill was shrouded in indigo-grey rain clouds. The rain would soon be upon them. They ran into their room, still chatting and laughing, and found Angel waiting for them.

  ‘Your Uncle George was here,’ she said.

  ‘Whatever for?’ Vicky asked.

  ‘Your mother had called him up.’

  ‘Mummum?’

  ‘She was worried about you. Apparently, you haven’t spoken to her in ages?’

  ‘I’d better go. If I don’t call Mummum tonight she won’t be able to sleep,’ Vicky mumbled as she hurriedly put a set of nightclothes in her bag.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Mili.

  ‘No no, Mili,’ said Vicky. ‘I’ll go myself. I’ll be back in the morning. Before school starts.’

  ‘It’s drizzling,’ Mili said, looking out of the window.

  Vicky pulled out her mackintosh from under the bed and put it on. There was a clap of thunder.

  ‘Looks like a storm,’ said Mili.

  ‘Stop worrying,’ said Vicky, putting an arm around Mili’s shoulder as they left the room. ‘I’m not made of sugar. I won’t melt.’

  ‘Don’t forget to sign the register,’ Angel called out after them.

  Vicky shook her head and looked at Mili. They both laughed. ‘What would we do without our guardian angel?’ she said. Just as she was about to cross the road, a grey cat ran across.

  ‘Come back, Vicky,’ Mili yelled from the hostel door. ‘A cat just crossed your path. It’s bad luck.’

  Vicky chuckled. ‘Mili, stop being superstitious.’ She waved to her, blew her a kiss and was off, her bag bobbing up and down as she marched down the hill.

  She thought of Mummum. She felt guilty she hadn’t written or called her in a month. Her sweet, huggable Mummum. How helpless and lonely she must have felt after Papa’s death. All her relatives had cut off ties with her after she affronted them by marrying a cow-eating Englishman. And then the person for whom she had given up everything had left her – alone, with three children.

  It was then that Mili’s mother, the ever-practical Queen of Mohanagar, had come to her rescue.

  ‘How can I work now? How will I cope with the house, the children, the loss of Francis?’ Mummum had protested.

  ‘If you don’t work now, you never will,’ Her Highness had said quietly.

  Mummum had her doubts. Even though she had done some training in nursing, the only practice she had was on the cuts and bruises of her three brats. Yes, Mummum had worked hard to bring the three of them up. Sometimes, by
the time she got home, it would be very late. And even though tired and hungry, she’d sit beside them and ask them how their day had been. And if they were already asleep, she’d let Vicky sleep, but wake Michelle and Claudia up to enquire about her.

  Vicky smiled sadly to herself. Children can be so cruel sometimes. The next day she would tell Mummum she was a terrible mother, coming home late at night, leaving her kids all alone. Mummum would laugh then, her loud boisterous laugh, and pulling her cheeks, say, ‘Sorry, Grandma, it won’t happen again.’ Vicky would then feel very pleased and grown-up for telling off her own mother. She’d push back her spectacles, then with nose in the air, she’d say, ‘It’s all right. Next time be home before dark.’ Mummum would give her a salute and say, ‘Aye aye, captain.’

  The drizzle had now turned into a heavy downpour. Vicky hastened her pace. Kishangarh was depressing during the monsoons. Not like Mohanagar, where she could make paper boats and splish-splosh in the puddles all day. But the smell of rain was the same. Oh, how she loved the earthy, heavenly smell of rain. It was just seven in the evening but it was already dark. A solitary frog croaked noisily from a nearby puddle. Vicky pulled up the collar of her mackintosh to stop the raindrops from seeping in. A strong, gusty wind brought with it the stench of an overflowing bin. Vicky stepped aside to let a mother and her little boy pass. The boy tripped and let out a long, annoying wail.

  But the rains were a little different tonight, she thought, as she heard the thunder rumble, followed by a streak of lightning. She ducked instinctively. There was more variety today. As though the rain of the last few days had been a rehearsal and today was the final performance, with all the sound and light effects.

  Aunt Ethel’s marigold-coloured house soon came into view. Vicky looked at it through a veil of rain. It did not look pretty and sunny any more – rather, like a stain on a rain-shrouded Kishangarh. The gate creaked as she opened it. It was wet and slimy and smelt of rust.

  ‘So you decided to grace us with your presence,’ said Uncle George as the servant led Vicky into the living room.