Vinita observed the scene, realizing there had been no warning about anything like this in the papers. If there was a planned communal march, it was usually announced ahead of time to prepare the townsfolk. And Vinita and her friends stayed home on those days. It wasn’t safe for young women to be outdoors when violence could erupt at any moment. Her parents would never have allowed her to walk home alone if they’d known about this.
As she continued to watch in fascinated horror, the pursuers caught up with the two boys, and surrounded them like a swarm of killer bees, spilling into the street. They were no more than a hundred feet away from where she stood. All the traffic converging onto the intersection came to a screeching halt. It was a miracle no one was run over.
Although she couldn’t see through the thick circle of enraged men, she clearly heard the sounds of violence—the dull thuds and thwacks, the crack of splintering bones. Pained moans from the victims made her cringe.
Those boys were being beaten mercilessly. Oh dear God! They’d never survive. She looked about her, eyes wide with desperation. Why didn’t someone do something to help those poor chaps?
Several other pedestrians stood frozen beside her and stared, helpless to do anything. She’d seen minor skirmishes, heard irate cursing and threats tossed around, and she’d read about the thoughtless carnage resulting from these cultural clashes, but this was the first time she had witnessed a violent incident.
Gradually some of her fellow gapers came out of their trance, started to move, and advanced toward the crowd. A few brave men plunged into the fray in an attempt to stem the damage. “Bus kara, baba.” Stop it, fellows.
A minute later, two policemen arrived on foot, pulled out their lathis—wooden sticks—and started to tackle the melee. Nonetheless, several seconds later the frenzied mob was still at it, and the policemen seemed powerless against what could only amount to potential slaughter.
Vinita’s feet were glued to the pavement, despite her disgust. How could people casually beat someone to death like that? And all in the name of caste, language, and culture? The sheer horror of it made her stomach turn. Without warning she started shaking.
She hugged her handbag to herself, turned around and leaned her forehead against the store’s sun-heated window, fiercely trying to curb the nausea and bring her racing heartbeat under control. She could not—would not—shatter to pieces in the middle of a busy street. She had to get home somehow. If she could only stop trembling.
Feeling a firm hand clamp over her shoulder, she stiffened. When she attempted to scream, what emerged was a weak squeal.
“Shh, don’t panic,” said a calm voice—a vaguely familiar one. “It’s okay.”
She pivoted on her heel and faced him. “Mr. Kori!”
“Are you all right?” he asked, the usual frown deepening with concern.
She swallowed to restrain the fear and nausea, shook her head. The crowd gathering around the scene was swelling, their voices getting louder. While she’d been trying to gain control over herself, most of the people around her had shifted to watch the action. They were certainly braver than she. “I—I…saw what just h-happened and I…” She was stuttering like a baby learning to talk.
“I understand,” he said, sounding like a worried father. “I saw it, too.”
His sympathy, instead of helping to alleviate her dread, made it worse. Tears started to burn her eyelids. “I’m sorry. I’ve never seen anything…like this before.”
“Why should you be sorry?” He narrowed his eyes against the sun and turned his head to look at the mob. “It’s those prejudiced goondas who are up to their bloody riots again.”
More policemen arrived in a Jeep. They joined the others who were still trying, without success, to contain the crowd.
“Maybe now they can do something about it,” Vinita croaked, trying to wipe away the hot tears dampening her cheeks.
The troop of uniformed men charged the mob with their lathis and the crowd finally started breaking up. The moaning from the victims had stopped a while ago. It wasn’t a promising sign.
Som Kori turned his attention back to her. “I’m sorry you had to witness that.” Noticing her tears, he pulled out a blue and white checked handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.
“Thank you, Mr. Kori,” she said, accepting the kerchief. She dried her eyes and nose with as much poise as she could muster. It was deplorable to expose her fragility in front of the strongest, most sought-after boy in college. Inside, he was probably laughing at her for being such a weakling.
“Som,” he reminded her gently, examining her face. There was no sign of amusement in his expression, only concern.
“Thank you…Som,” she repeated. How had he managed to show up when she was at her most vulnerable? And how could he look so cool and unruffled after what he’d just witnessed? She caught a flash of that hard-as-steel strength again. Was he as cold as steel deep down, too? Or was it just a façade to mask something else?
“I’m glad I happened to be only a few steps behind you,” he said, dismissing her gratitude. “I saw what was happening.” He scowled in the direction of the crowd. “Bastards! They’re out for blood. I’m ashamed to call myself a Kannada man when I see such behavior,” he spat out.
She knew what he meant. It was disgusting what her fellow Marathi folks did in the name of communalism. From what she’d gathered, at the moment they were doing a fine job of butchering those Kannada boys.
“Those young chaps could be dead,” Som said, voicing her own fears.
She shuddered at his words. These kinds of violent conflicts between the factions were happening too often in Palgaum lately. And the bloodshed was escalating each year, too. Sometimes a minor disagreement turned into a battle. Nearly a dozen casualties had affected both sides within the past three years.
Along with Som she watched as several members of the offending gang were rounded up, handcuffed, and tossed into the police van like sacks of potatoes.
The sad part was, there wasn’t an iota of remorse on any of their faces. Although most of them looked either angry or defiant, one or two of them sported smug smiles.
She saw one of the policemen go down on his knees to examine the fallen youths. Their clothes were filthy now, and soaked with blood. They lay facedown on the street, limp as rag dolls. The policeman gingerly turned one of them over onto his back. The face was a mangled mass of blood and flesh. Vinita turned away in despair. The nausea returned in a rush.
“Let’s hope that’s the end of that,” said Som, expelling a long sigh.
“It’s not over yet,” she cried, pressing her bag to her churning stomach. “It’ll never be over as long as the clashes continue.”
“You’re probably right.”
They stood in silence for a minute, immersed in their own thoughts. Then he finally said, “They’re loading them in the Jeep. Probably driving them to a hospital.”
Or the morgue, figured Vinita, swallowing her distaste. Their town didn’t even have an ambulance. Patients were driven to hospitals in ordinary vehicles. Now that the moment had more or less passed, she realized the enormity of what had just happened.
“You’re shaking.” Som scowled again as the Jeep took off, belching puffs of exhaust. “Why don’t I buy you a cup of coffee? You look like you need something to calm your nerves.”
She shook her head. How could he mention coffee when two young men had just been battered to a pulp?
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, reading her thoughts. “But there’s not much you and I can do for those chaps. The police will take care of them.” He gave a casual shrug. “The world is full of violence, Vinita. Let me help you feel a little better.”
At his words she instinctively raised her hand to pat her disheveled hair back into place. There wasn’t much she could do about her swollen eyes. “Thanks, but that’s not necessary.”
“You need to collect yourself before you go home.”
That
part was true, Vinita allowed. She couldn’t return home looking like she did. Her mother would want to know the reason for it. Taking a few calming breaths, she willed her stomach to settle. As her mind started to function more rationally, a thought occurred. “Did you say you were close behind me?”
He nodded.
“But you don’t live around here.” Everyone knew the Kori family lived in a more exclusive part of town. In a mansion, no less.
“Well…actually I was trying to catch up with you when it all started,” he said.
“Why?” All at once she became conscious of the people around them. Now that the crime scene had been cleared, a few were staring at Som and her.
“Because I wanted to talk to you in private,” he confessed. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigarette and a bright red, plastic lighter. With practiced ease he held one hand against the breeze, lit the cigarette, and pocketed the lighter.
Vinita felt something flutter inside her breast as she watched him draw the smoke deep into his lungs, then exhale very slowly, like it was the most sublime experience he’d ever had. In that instant she almost envied that cigarette he smoked with such total reverence.
“I see,” she said.
“Glad you understand.” The breeze disturbed his hair and he lifted a hand to tame it.
To be honest, she didn’t understand. She understood even less the joyful little thump in her chest at watching him do something as simple as rake his fingers through his thick hair.
She and Prema usually walked together to and from college. However, this afternoon Prema had gone home early with a headache, and Vinita was alone. “What did you want to talk about?” she asked, a little out of breath because she felt an insane urge to stare at him. Stare at his sculpted body.
His charcoal gray pants were trendily tight and his black shirt hugged his torso like a second skin. His hair was a little long and the sideburns bushy—all part of the latest in campus chic, and a trend started by the latest and hottest Hindi movie idol, Amitabh Bachchan. Even the scowling, angry-hero look was the Amitabh stereotype. The quintessential cigarette was also a fashion statement.
“I never thought I’d catch you alone,” Som said, tossing his unfinished cigarette on the ground and grinding it with the heel of his gleaming, pointy-toed shoes, adding to the hundreds of other butts already littering the footpath. “You’re always with Miss Swami, your bodyguard.”
“Prema Swami’s my friend, not my bodyguard.” Vinita tossed him an icy glare, in spite of the unexpected spurt of pleasure that shot through her at discovering that he had been trying to contact her after all.
Nevertheless, she started walking at a brisk pace. Her pulse was still scrambling, but at least the shaking was under control. The tears had dried up, too. By the time she reached her house, in about ten minutes, she’d be back to normal. She had to be.
He started striding beside her, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
Folks were still staring at them. Young men and women like Som and her, walking beside each other, drew unnecessary attention. Besides, many of the shopkeepers on that street knew her parents and a few were her father’s clients.
She couldn’t risk being seen with Som, especially outside the college walls. At least on campus, girls and boys could socialize under the pretext of exchanging class notes and discussing homework. Besides, during the past two weeks she had managed to convince herself that Som was not a chap she should fraternize with, for all kinds of reasons. She could write an entire page of reasons.
“I didn’t mean to belittle your friend,” he apologized. “It’s just that I always see you with her—sometimes with a whole group of friends.”
“I prefer not to walk alone. I like walking with a friend.”
“In that case I’ll walk with you. And we can talk.”
“About what?”
“Friends can talk about anything.”
“But we’re not friends.” She turned briefly to face him as she repeated what she’d said the other day. “We have nothing in common. Even our mother tongues are different.” At that moment, for some odd reason, she wished she had something in common with him. He was such an interesting man.
He gave her one of his rare smiles, making her already compromised sense of balance wobble dangerously. “Didn’t I say we could remedy that?”
“You did?” When had he said that?
“Don’t I get a little credit for making you feel better after what that wild mob did to you?”
She groaned inwardly. He had certainly kept her from passing out or falling apart by showing up at the right time and distracting her. But it looked like he was going to use that little incident to his advantage. “I’m very grateful for the emotional support and the handkerchief.” She looked at the balled-up piece of fabric in her fist. “I’ll return it after it’s washed.”
“Keep it. It’s yours,” he said, with a dismissive gesture—like a movie star offering a wide-eyed fan a small souvenir.
“So, what is it you wanted to discuss?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You want me to do your homework or something…to return the favor?”
“Homework?” He erupted into sardonic laughter, drawing the attention of more passersby. “I don’t have homework. But I’m sure you’ve noticed that.” He looked at his wristwatch, a surprisingly plain watch with a brown leather band. “I had something else in mind. Why don’t you join me for that cup of coffee?”
“I can’t.” Coffee with him? All by herself? Her father would have a fit if she dared to indulge in such behavior. More than her father, it was Vishal, her brother, who was protective of her to the point of strangulation.
She suspected that Vishal liked playing the role of big brother. That way he could justify his bossy attitude, and get grateful looks from their parents on top of it. It saved them the trouble of disciplining her. Besides, a brother, especially an older one, more or less played a paternal role when it came to looking out for the women in the family. It was a brother’s duty to protect his sister. The good thing was, he lived in Bombay now and couldn’t watch over her that closely.
In any case, she wasn’t planning on telling anyone in her family about the scary episode a few minutes ago. They’d keep her locked up in the house if they found out. If they ever learned that a boy, a Kannada one at that, had touched her shoulder and held a long conversation with her in clear view of the public, they were certain to become upset.
As it was, her family barely tolerated her close friendship with Prema. They just couldn’t understand why she had to pick a Kannada girl for a best friend, when there were so many Marathi girls she could befriend.
And now here was Som, talking about going out for coffee like it was an everyday occurrence. That was another thing—drinking coffee instead of the traditional tea that most Palgaum folks consumed. Sipping coffee from large, thick ceramic mugs instead of ordinary cups and saucers was the trend lately. Coffee was what Americans drank, so it was more sophisticated than the colonial custom of drinking tea. British traditions were passé, while American habits were worth emulating.
“Aw, come on,” he teased. “It’s only a harmless cup of coffee. Besides, I’m buying.”
“It’s not that. My parents don’t like me socializing with boys,” she confessed.
“Your parents don’t mind you going to a café with your other friends, I’m sure.”
“My other friends happen to be girls.”
He shook his head. “Gender really shouldn’t matter.”
“It’s not that simple…at least with people like my parents.” She tossed him a challenging scowl. “I’m sure your parents are the same way.”
It was no secret that his parents were orthodox Lingayats, a sect belonging to the Vaishya business caste. Just because they were rich and popular on the club scene didn’t mean they didn’t adhere to their conservative traditions in their home. Rumor had it that they all wore their traditional lingams, the sacred
symbol of Lord Shiva, on a thread underneath their fancy clothes. The Koris were zamindars—landed gentry—with vast ancestral tracts of farmland.
Matter of fact, Vinita’s information came from a reliable source. Prema’s family was well acquainted with the Koris. Everything Vinita knew about Som Kori’s private life came from Prema.
“Sure, they’re old-fashioned, but they don’t get involved in my social life,” Som explained. He looked at his watch again, then raised a brow at her. “So you want to join me for a cup of coffee or not? Do I have to beg?”
Recalling the way his hard hand had pressed into her shoulder, Vinita felt her cheeks burning. She was ashamed to admit to herself it had felt good, very good—like a branding iron, but without the pain. His invitation was tempting, too. His smug yet gently mocking variety of begging was even harder to resist.
Most girls would be thrilled to receive an invitation to have coffee with Som. No boy had ever invited her before. Now here was this college idol asking her, and instead of doing happy cartwheels, she was riddled with doubts. Why? Because he was a playboy. He was a pukka badmaash. A thorough ruffian. He smoked and drank alcohol, too. Plus, he was a dud when it came to academics.
And that reminded her of something else. “How come you’re walking today instead of driving?” He was usually behind the wheel of his car, a sleek, black-as-kohl Ambassador.
“I knew you’d probably refuse to get into a car alone with me.”
“You’re right.” She managed to raise her eyes and meet his gaze. “Why me?” There were a dozen beautiful girls salivating over him on any given day. So why was he asking a studious girl like her, a girl who’d be rated average on her best day?
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand her question. “Because you’re an attractive and bright girl,” he replied, shooting an arrow of desire right through her middle with those odd yet mesmerizing eyes of his. “Isn’t that reason enough?”
The Unexpected Son Page 3
