After the Storm (7 page)

‘Can you two run to the shops and get me some fresh strawberries while I fix lunch?’ Aunt Ethel was now asking.

Nodding, Vicky and Mili headed off towards the Mall. As they passed one of the shops, Vicky noticed some packets of cigarettes. She winked at Mili. Then turning to the shopkeeper, she pointed to the cigarettes. ‘One of those for my uncle. And a box of matches please.’

As soon as they left the shop, Mili pounced on her. ‘What do you need cigarettes for?’

‘Mili, I’m sixteen. And you’re seventeen. About time we tried it. Claudia and Michelle had it when they were twelve.’

‘I don’t think—’ Mili began to protest.

‘Shh,’ hissed Vicky as she put a finger to her lip and pulled Mili to the back of Uncle George’s cottage. She took out two cigarettes, gave one to Mili and held the other one to her nose. Ah, the ethereal smell of tobacco. She then put it between her lips. Her hands shook as she lit hers first and then Mili’s. She lifted her chin in the air, feeling all grown-up and glamorous. She winked at Mili and together they drew their first puff.

And then she coughed and coughed. ‘What the devil!’ she spluttered and coughed some more. Tears were now rolling down her cheeks and she did not feel that glamorous any more.

‘I feel giddy,’ Mili said as she began to retch.

Vicky looked up with a start as a shadow fell across her. A burly middle-aged man had appeared out of nowhere and stood towering over them. He had to be Uncle George.

‘Get inside the house, you two,’ he barked.

The two girls scuttled indoors.

‘So which one of you is Victoria?’ he asked, his lips curling in disgust.

‘I am,’ Vicky answered quietly.

‘I should have known,’ he said. ‘How could I have expected anything better from that heathen’s daughter?’

Vicky shot him a venomous look. How dare he speak of Mummum like that? If Mili hadn’t put a restraining hand on her arm and implored, ‘Don’t say anything, Vicky, please,’ she might have hit him.

Raven thrust his hands in his pockets as he walked across the fields. The fields in Kishangarh were not flat like in the plains. They were terraced – in the form of giant steps cut into the hillside. He could see the hill women, singing as they tended their fields, in their blue gypsy skirts and heavy gold jewellery around their necks, arms and ankles. They were hard-working – hardy, stoic but always smiling. Some of them even had their little ones tied to their backs – fair-skinned, chubby babies with runny noses and red cheeks. And grime on their hands and mouth.

He looked down and espied two girls walking down the Mall. They looked familiar. He turned to Jatin who was walking beside him. ‘Aren’t they Malvika and Victoria?’ he asked.

Jatin followed his gaze. ‘Oh yes, they are,’ he said. ‘They must be on their way back from Vicky’s local guardian’s place.’

Raven looked at the two girls again. He hoped they were not up to any mischief today. He remembered the drawing they had made of him on the board. They had written ‘Prof. RAVAN’ under the picture. Whatever did they mean? Who was Ravan? He knew a little of Indian mythology. He had read the Upanishads and the Mahabharata. But he simply couldn’t recall Ravan. Maybe it was a spelling mistake.

‘We’re almost there.’ Jatin’s voice broke into his thoughts.

‘Are you sure she’s in this ashram?’

‘I’m certain, sir. Her own mother told me.’

‘How long did you say you’ve known Vidushi?’

‘Ever since we were little. We were neighbours. But I lost touch with her after she got engaged. Her parents and her in-laws are orthodox.’

‘I can see that. Who would put a mere child in an ashram otherwise? I’m glad you overheard me when I was making enquiries about her.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Jatin replied.

As they neared the ashram, Raven became aware of a deep silence. The only sound that could be heard was the murmuring of the Bhoori river. An uneasy chill seemed to grip him. He saw a woman with short grey hair, clad in a white sari … ‘Where can I find the head priest?’ he asked. The woman pointed towards a small door. Raven lowered his head as he walked in through the door. The smell of incense and sandalwood greeted him. It was dark in there. And oh so cold. As though summer had abandoned the ashram. Just like the widows left there by their families – neglected and forgotten.

A thin, bald man in a saffron robe entered the room. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ replied Raven. ‘I believe a student of mine called Vidushi is here and I would like to see her.’

‘That’s not possible. Widows are forbidden from interacting with men.’

‘In that case I will have to take the help of the authorities,’ Raven said.

The priest stared at him. Raven stared back. Was he really the head priest? Or was he Jack Frost?

‘I see,’ the priest finally replied. ‘I will send her in. But please keep it short. Ten minutes.’

‘I will. Thank you,’ Raven replied.

He looked around. It suddenly struck him that the room had no windows. He suspected the rest of the rooms in the ashram were the same. He turned as a slight figure approached the door. His mouth fell open when he saw Vidushi. Her head had been shaved and she was clad in a flimsy white cotton sari. She stood before him, her head lowered, bare toes curling on the cold stone floor. This was not the Vidushi he used to teach. The girl with two thick plaits, who knew all the answers. Whose hand was up even before he had finished asking the question.

‘Vidushi? What happened?’ Raven asked.

She looked at him, then at Jatin, her lips quivering. ‘My husband is no more. Soon after the wedding ceremonies he got a telegram and left for the war.’ She swallowed. ‘Two weeks later he was shot.’ Vidushi paused and covered her mouth with the edge of her sari. ‘I didn’t get the chance to be alone with him even for a
minute.’ She looked down again and rubbed the floor with her big toe.

‘And yet they have confined you to this?’ said Raven, barely able to control his temper. ‘I’m not leaving you here. You’re coming with me.’

Vidushi gave him a startled look.

‘I’m going to speak to Miss Perkins,’ said Raven.

‘Who will pay the fees, sir?’ said Vidushi quietly. ‘My parents have already forsaken me.’

‘Hmm. We have an orphanage in Jeolikot. I’ll arrange for them to take you. Anything will be better than this.’

‘I agree,’ said Jatin, who had been too shaken until now to speak.

‘Sir, leave me to my plight,’ said Vidushi.

Raven came closer to her. Vidushi sprang back in fright.

‘Is this the same Vidushi who had come crying to me a couple of months back?’ he asked. ‘Begging me to plead with her in-laws to let her continue her education after marriage? Do you think I prostrated before them only to let you rot in this place for the rest of your life?’

Vidushi did not say anything.

Lowering his voice, Raven said, ‘Vidushi, I’m going to get you out of here. You’re too intelligent to waste your time in this hellhole. All right?’

Vidushi nodded. Her eyes were brimming with tears. She bent down, touched his feet, stole a sideways look at Jatin and fled from the room.

Kicking the door shut, Jatin muttered, ‘Damn,’ through clenched teeth.

Raven looked at him. He had spoken just once since
he had seen Vidushi and had kept his gaze averted while she was there. Yes, it must have been a big shock for him. Raven put a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ll get your childhood friend out of here, whatever it takes, I promise,’ he whispered.

Jatin looked at him and nodded gratefully.

Later that night, Raven sat at his desk at home, before a pile of essays written by his students, but he could not concentrate. He could hear some noises outside, in the kitchen garden. Must be that fox rummaging through the rubbish again. He pulled the cord to ring the bell.

‘You called for me, sir?’ Digachand asked, as he came and stood behind him, head lowered.

‘Yes, Digachand. Go and see what that noise is outside, and if all is well, you can go home now.’

‘Yes, sir, good night to you, sir,’ replied Digachand as he performed an awkward salaam and left the room.

Raven smiled as he heard Digachand cursing the fox. Then a yelp. He must have hit it with a stick … And now it was quiet again. Raven stared absent-mindedly at the framed photograph of his father that hung on the wall. But his thoughts were in the ashram. He was enraged by what they had done to that girl. He hated these Indian customs and practices. They held the Indian woman in its grip and crushed the life out of her; like a python tightening its coils round its victim until its bones get crushed. He knew he would not be able to rest in peace until he succeeded in getting her out of that hellhole.

So engrossed was he in his thoughts that he did not hear Mother walk into the room.

‘Raven,’ she said.

Raven turned around with a start. But he did not get up. His leg still hurt on days when he walked a lot, especially at the end of the day.

‘You’re still awake?’ She straightened Father’s picture, then averting her gaze asked, ‘Do you miss your father?’

Raven was taken aback. It was an unwritten rule in their house – they never spoke about Father.

‘No, Mother, never.’

Mother stood behind his chair and ruffled his hair lovingly. ‘Are you just saying that? Not to hurt me?’

‘No, Mother, really. I did miss him earlier, when I was little. But not any more. You’ve been for me all that he could never have been.’

‘But surely you must wonder sometimes … where he is …’

Raven did not say anything. Yes, he used to wonder. And hear rumours. Some said his father had left for England for good. Some said he had settled down with an Indian girl and even had a secret family. How much truth there was in those stories, he could not tell.

He looked at Mother. ‘But why this question? Suddenly?’

‘I was sorting all the things in the storeroom today. I came across some old pictures. Of our wedding. It suddenly dawned on me that it would have been exactly thirty years this year, if we were still together.’

Raven got up and winced. He shouldn’t have walked so much today. He couldn’t have driven to the ashram as there were no roads, but he could have hired a palanquin or a rickshaw.

‘Are you all right? Is it hurting?’ Mother asked, lines creasing her brow as she spoke.

‘A little,’ Raven replied, accepting the support of her arm as he limped to his bed. He smiled fondly as she tucked the blankets around him.

‘It’s a miracle you can walk again, though,’ said Mother. ‘Most of the doctors had given up hope.’

‘Yes, Mother, we have much to be grateful for,’ replied Raven. He held her hand and kissed it gently. ‘We don’t need anyone else, Mother. Let’s forget what happened so many years ago, shall we?’

‘If only it were that easy,’ she sighed. ‘Goodnight, son,’ she whispered, kissing him on the forehead.

Raven fluffed his soft, cold pillow and lay down. He watched mother as she switched off the light and slowly made her way to her room. She must get lonely sometimes. If only she would listen to him and marry again. But she was right. It was not easy to forget the past. And even if you did, it caught up with you when you least expected it.

Monday morning. Mili sat in the refectory and took a sip of the disgusting tea. There was so much din in the room at this time of the day. The sound of cutlery on china, the scraping of chairs on the floor, footsteps going in and out of the room, tea being poured noisily out of kettles and the incessant chatter. She looked at Vicky, who was busy wiping the crumbs on her mouth with a serviette. The mountain air had done her good. She had not been ill even once since they had left Mohanagar.

‘Hurry up, Mili,’ Vicky said. ‘We can’t be late today.
Ravan must be furious about the drawing of his cartoon on the board.’

Mili took a huge bite of the dry toast and got up.

‘It’s not good to gobble your food like a wolf, you know,’ said Angel.

‘Not her again,’ she heard Vicky mutter as she grabbed her hand and dragged her out of the refectory.

‘Oh Lord Kishan, my Krishna, please save us from Raven Sir’s wrath,’ Mili mumbled as the two of them quietly slipped into the classroom with the rest of the girls and took their seats right at the back.

‘What is it?’ asked Mili as Vicky nudged her with her elbow. Vicky pointed to the blackboard. Oh dear, her cartoon was still there. Nobody had rubbed it off. The whole class’s eyes were glued on it and they were sniggering and whispering.

Raven clapped his hands and a hush fell in the classroom. ‘Okay, class, I’m sure all of you have had a good look by now. I’m happy to announce that we have a talented artist in our midst. Would she do us the honour of standing up please?’

Mili stood up. Her head was bowed, her cheeks and ears flamed, and she was chewing her thumbnail mercilessly.

Vicky stood up as well. ‘Sir, it was I who instigated her to do it,’ she said.

‘Never mind that,’ Raven said, brushing her aside with a wave of his hand. ‘Girls, we now know who we need to turn to when we have to make posters for the annual play and school fete.’ Then picking up the duster he looked at Mili. ‘Now, if you can kindly clean
the blackboard, we can commence our work. Today we shall be looking at the Renaissance poets …’

Taking the duster from Raven’s hand, Mili stole a glance at him. He wasn’t smiling but his eyes seemed to mock her. She started rubbing the board vigorously, coughing slightly, choked by the chalk swirling in the air. Having rubbed off the last of the ten heads, she heaved a sigh of relief and slunk to her seat.

‘Malvika?’ said Raven, as he finished the lesson for the day.

Oh no. She looked up from her book, at Raven. Lord Kishan, what did he want now? And to think she had been congratulating herself for getting away so lightly. But no. He was a sadist. He was going to mete out his punishment bit by bit.

‘Who is Ravan?’ he asked.

Licking her lips, Mili stood up.

Raven picked up a piece of chalk from the chalk box, broke it into two and looked at her again. ‘Malvika,’ he said staring at her. ‘I’m waiting for an answer.’

‘Sir, he was the ten-headed demon king of Lanka,’ said Mili. ‘He abducted Sita and her husband Lord Ram had to wage a war to win her back.’

‘So I’m a demon?’ Raven asked, raising an eyebrow and smiling at her sardonically.

‘No, sir,’ Mili protested. She looked at Vicky, her eyes imploring her to help her out.

Vicky sprang to her feet. ‘No, sir, it was a spelling mistake. She meant Rav
en
, not Rav
an
.’

Raven smiled his cruel smile again. ‘All right, if you say so. Why don’t you two write a ten-page essay on
this Ravan for homework? And I want it on my desk by tomorrow morning.’

‘But sir,’ Vicky wailed. ‘We also have to submit our history project tomorrow …’

‘I think Miss Agatha gave you that project two weeks back. You ought to have finished it by now,’ Raven replied as he left the classroom.

The other girls began filing out of the room but Mili continued to sit at her desk. Pouting. Ten pages on Ravan. What was she going to write?

Vicky exploded as soon as Raven was out of earshot. ‘What the devil! He
is
a demon. Ravan.’

Mili looked around to see if anyone had heard, then giggled. ‘Yes,’ she whispered and giggled again.

Mili leant against the pine tree as she watched the birds flying back to their nests. It was two and a half months since she and Vicky had left theirs. By now she had got used to life in a hostel. She had even got used to getting dressed and making her bed all by herself, without the help of Bhoomi. But she hadn’t yet got used to queuing up outside toilets every morning, drinking tea that smelt of kerosene oil – just like the tea sold on railway stations – taking showers in tiny bathrooms without any bathtubs and gulping down the inedible food. The only things that were the same as Mohanagar were the classes; they were boring.

And the test tomorrow? She hadn’t even started studying for it. But she had better. Unless she wanted to be admonished again by that Raven Sir. She grinned as she remembered the image she had made of him on the blackboard some days back.