After the Storm (2 page)

‘Close window, Your Highness,’ said Tulsidas as he quickly rolled up his own.

Mili and Vicky hurriedly did the same. The car came
to a halt as the crowd closed in on them. Some of them were now shouting, ‘Down with monarchy.’

Vicky looked at Mili. Her lips had gone dry and beads of perspiration were breaking out on her forehead.

‘Oh no, oh no,’ Mili exclaimed. ‘What if they break the windscreen with their sticks?’

‘Don’t worry, Your Highness. They Indians, not Angrez. They not hurt children,’ said Tulsidas as he rolled down his window a couple of inches.

‘What in Lord Kishan’s name are you doing? Getting all of us killed?’ shrieked Mili.

Tulsidas rolled down his window another inch and stuck his head out. ‘You wanting to hurt helpless schoolgirls? Indian girls? Shame on you. Back off.’ With that he hastily rolled up the window again.

A few men stepped forward and peered into the car through the windows. ‘They’re Indians. Children,’ said one, thumping the bonnet of the car. ‘Let them pass.’

The throng parted to give way and the car crawled slowly out of the bazaar.

Mili was still shaking when they reached the palace. Vicky caressed her hand comfortingly.

‘If Ma and Bauji come to know about this, they’ll never let me go to Kishangarh,’ Mili wailed.

‘Driverji,’ Vicky said to Tulsidas, ‘please don’t mention this incident to anyone. Least of all the King and Queen.’

‘Not a word, Vicky baba,’ said Tulsidas, putting a finger on his lips and shaking his head. ‘What happen today go with me to my funeral pyre.’

Bhoomi came running down the palace stairs as Tulsidas held the car door open for Mili to step out.
‘Princess, His Majesty wants to see you in his room right away,’ she said.

‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ said Mili. She looked at Vicky anxiously. ‘Do you think he knows about the mob?’ she asked.

Vicky gave her a small smile of reassurance. ‘I’m sure he doesn’t. And don’t worry, it’s over. The crowd’s gone. You’re safe.’

Mili nodded. Vicky waved out to her friend as the car pulled out of the driveway and made its way slowly to her home, just two blocks away.

The evening prayers had just been said and the smell of incense and camphor greeted Mili as she entered the palace and was ushered into Bauji’s rooms. Bauji sat regally on the armchair that stood by the window. Everything about him was big and regal and sumptuous. His bedchamber was huge, the bed king-sized. The bed linen, the cushions, the drapes – they were all heavy, shimmery, velvety. Why, even the chandelier that was tinkling at her from the ceiling was the biggest in the whole palace. He himself was a large, formidable, swarthy man and Mili was a tad afraid of him. When angry, he looked like a rakshas. But when happy, and his belly shook with laughter, he reminded her of the elephant god Ganesh, the jolly, wise god. For Bauji was an extremely wise man too. He knew a lot. He had even gone to England for higher studies.

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.

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.