“I’m sorry, Vishal,” she said, knowing full well that an apology didn’t even begin to address the guilt weighing on her conscience. “I know I’m responsible for Barve’s condition.”
He took off his shoes and socks at the door and nudged them into a corner of the entry foyer, where everyone left their footwear. He went into the drawing room, Vinita close on his heels.
“You don’t know that for sure, Vini,” he said quietly, turning on the television.
“But I feel like all this is happening because of me.”
“He’s not all that badly injured. It’s just a fracture and some bruises,” he said, sitting down on the sofa.
‘How do you know that?”
“I went to the hospital after I heard the news on the radio.”
“Why?”
“He is the father of my nephew, isn’t he?”
“Hmm.” Vinita stared at Vishal for a second. He’d never openly referred to Rohit as his nephew. “Did you get to see Shashi Barve?”
“No. Half the Marathi Samithi were there—Barve’s friends and followers. It was a mob scene, angry people crowding the hospital.”
She groaned inwardly. This was worse than she’d imagined. A pack of enraged men was nothing short of chilling. She recalled the gruesome scene from her college days, the day she’d witnessed the two young men bludgeoned to death—the day Som had put into motion his grand plan to seduce her. She suppressed the mild shiver that shot through her.
“So how did you find out about the extent of his injuries?” she asked.
“I asked someone in the crowd.”
“What are all those men planning to do?”
“I don’t know. They were milling around, incensed about what’s happened to their leader.” He inclined his head toward the TV set. “Maybe there is something on the news.”
The foul feeling in Vinita’s gut persisted—the premonition that something was about to happen. It was like a ticking bomb that one could hear, but couldn’t locate or determine when it was set to explode.
A minute later the news came on, capturing her attention and Vishal’s. After some major national headlines, the news moved on to local events. And Barve. A young male reporter standing outside the hospital gave a detailed account of the episode.
The police were apparently convinced that Barve’s accident was indeed attempted homicide. They were looking for a late-model black Maruti automobile. They even had the license plate number.
The camera swept over the crowd gathered outside the hospital’s main entrance, while the reporter’s clipped voice continued to issue his commentary. Her eyes combed the throngs of people for two familiar faces: Meenal Barve and Rohit. There was no sign of them. They were probably sequestered in Barve’s hospital room.
“This probably means the Samithi will retaliate, right?” she asked her brother when the segment ended.
“Of course. Each party wants to outdo the other,” he said, shutting off the TV and rising to his feet. “Come on, let’s go eat.”
“I’m glad Aneesh and Anmol are away from here.” The boys’ absence was a godsend. But they’d surely find out about any riots that made national news. She could only pray her nephews wouldn’t find out about the rest—not yet. In time, they’d have to be told about her secret. It wasn’t fair to keep them in the dark.
Her nephews were so young they might find it hard to comprehend any of this—their middle-aged aunt’s past sins coming back to affect their lives in such an abrupt and violent way. She didn’t want them to be touched by violence.
“Me too,” said Vishal. “They’re safer in Bangalore.”
At the dinner table, Vinita kept her gaze down most of the time and ate in silence, while her mother, Vishal, and Sayee discussed Barve’s attempted killing. All the while, she could feel her mother’s eyes on her.
Unable to sleep most of the night, Vinita got up early. She had to do something, or half the town could be destroyed by violence. And for what? Just so two obstinate and egotistical men could prove to the world which one of them had more power? But this time she had a role in their ridiculous testosterone-fueled war. Therefore it was up to her to do something about it.
After a bath and some breakfast, she felt a little calmer. On the pretext of going out for some window-shopping, she strode down to the end of the street. There she hailed a rickshaw and had the driver take her to the hospital.
It seemed like the hospital was becoming a second home. She’d expected that, since she’d come to Palgaum with the sole purpose of helping her dying son, but she hadn’t thought she’d be visiting the boy’s adoptive father as well.
She wasn’t sure if Barve was still there or had been released. But the previous evening’s news report had mentioned something about him staying in the hospital overnight for observation.
There was no crowd outside the hospital today—only a handful of people going in and out. Everything seemed normal. At the front desk, she found out that Barve was still in his room. She was asked to sign her name in a register, then given his room number and a visitor’s pass. This was not routine procedure. It appeared that the police were taking extra precautions to protect Barve. For Vinita there was some relief in knowing that.
As she approached Barve’s room, she heard men’s voices, loud and clear as the sound floated outside into the corridor. He clearly had visitors. Barve’s was the only voice she recognized.
She hesitated, debating whether she should go home and return later. But later could be too late. He could be released to go home. She had to do this now. Coming to a standstill, she eavesdropped for a few moments.
The rage was obvious in the men’s words. Do they think we are that stupid? If they consider us docile bakras, lambs, they are very much mistaken. As soon as you return home, Shashi-dada, we will assemble again and discuss this matter.
Fear snaked up her spine. They were planning to retaliate for Barve’s so-called accident. Assemble again and discuss. Most likely discuss how to continue the cycle of violence, she concluded. They talked some more before she heard them bidding Barve good-bye.
Not wanting to be caught snooping, she quickly tiptoed to a safer distance down the corridor. When the men eventually came out, she would start walking toward Barve’s room once again, pretending she was just another visitor for some other patient in the same wing.
A minute later, the men spilled out into the hallway—five of them, perhaps in their forties and fifties, considerably younger than Barve. No wonder they’d addressed Barve respectfully as Shashi-dada. They were so busy talking amongst themselves they barely noticed her.
She stood at the door to Barve’s room. He was lying on his back, his eyes shut, one arm resting over his chest. The other arm was enclosed in a cast. There was an adhesive bandage over his left cheek. A dark circle had formed around one eye, making him look like a tired pirate, past his prime.
He looked vulnerable like this, so unlike the commanding man in the photographs hanging in his home, so different from the fearless leader of an organization that committed the most atrocious crimes in the name of heritage.
With some relief she noted that neither Meenal nor Rohit was there. Barve was alone. His eyes remained closed. He was probably exhausted from having visitors. She hesitated for a moment before knocking softly on the door.
His eyes flew open. He stared at her with raised brows, clearly surprised to see her. “Vinita-bayi!”
She joined her hands in a namaste and approached his bed. “Sorry to disturb you, Shashi-saheb.” They had gradually progressed to using first names, albeit with a respectful suffix. She called his wife Meenal-tayi—older sister.
He studied her with wary eyes. She didn’t know what to make of it. Did he suspect her role in this latest development? If so, he probably wanted her gone. She’d brought him enough trouble.
“I wanted to see you…briefly,” she said.
He nodded and pointed to the chair beside his bed, motioning to her to s
it down. “Meenal has gone home to bring some fresh clothes for me,” he explained. “She will be back before they release me.”
“I see.” She sat in the chair, wondering how long it would be before Meenal showed up.
He looked uncomfortable, probably because women who weren’t immediate family didn’t usually visit a male patient alone. But her circumstances were hardly normal.
She moistened her lips. “I’m sorry about what happened.”
He shrugged, then winced, as if that slight movement was excruciating. “Being a leader of a sociopolitical organization has its dangers,” he murmured.
“Are you in a lot of pain?” she asked.
He took a deep breath but didn’t say a word, clearly loath to admit weakness.
He turned his gaze on her. “Why did you want to see me?”
“This attempt on your life has made your members and friends very angry, I suppose?”
“Killing is something to be angry about, is it not?”
She nodded. “I saw the TV report last evening. It seems your organization is looking to launch some sort of counterattack.”
He frowned. “Why do you think that?”
“A clear-cut assassination attempt on a popular community leader and an angry group of his supporters coming together can mean only one thing, Shashi-saheb.”
“It is not that simple.”
She studied the drawn look on his face, wishing it were that simple. “Can’t you stop the violence if you choose to?”
“Being a leader is not being a father.” He smiled. It was an unexpected gesture that made him appear benign. “Even a father cannot control his children these days. You can see Rohit rarely listens to my advice.”
“But you’re a charismatic leader. You’re highly respected. You have to do something to stop this from escalating.”
“Some things have their own momentum…like a raging river during the monsoon season. No one can stop it.”
“Building a dam can,” she prompted.
“Ah, but a dam takes money and years of hard work. As you can see, I am an ordinary man. I am no dam, Vinita-bayi.”
Exasperated by his indifference, she raised her voice. “Let’s just forget the metaphors for now. Can’t you see what this will do to this town? Killing each other is not the answer to anything. Why can’t you men just get along?” They were acting like brats.
His eyes narrowed on her slowly…suspiciously. “Why are you so concerned about all this?” he demanded.
Vinita lowered her gaze. “Rohit needs you now, as a father and supporter. If you’re involved in political activities, you can’t give your son your undivided attention.”
“Is that all it is, your concern for Rohit?”
“Of course it is. What else would it be?”
“Somesh Kori was…is Rohit’s father. Your sympathies are naturally with the Kannada people, I presume?”
“My sympathies are with Rohit,” she snapped. “He’s my only concern.”
“We appreciate that,” he said with reluctance. “But we were told you cannot be a donor.”
“I’m sorry. It was most unfortunate that I contracted malaria.”
“Not your fault, but naturally we are disappointed.” His sigh was loud and long. “It will be impossible to find another donor.”
“Never say impossible, Shashi-saheb. There’s no reason to give up hope…yet.” She couldn’t tell him that she’d approached Som. That wretched man would probably never come forward to save his son, of course. But her stubborn heart still had a fragment of hope left—mainly because Rohit was his only son. Surely there had to be a heart beating in Som’s chest. “Meanwhile, wouldn’t it make sense to put an end to the violence?” she reminded Barve.
“It is not easy to explain.” He shifted, wincing again. “But surely you must understand community spirit and dedication to a cause.”
She chewed on it for a moment. “I was never into community spirit at any time in my life. After having lived in the U.S. for so many years, I’m even less interested in that sort of allegiance to any organized movement. My dedication is reserved for my family and friends, and for my career.”
Barve’s eyes widened. “But you’re a Marathi woman married to a Marathi man. How can you not have pride in your roots?”
“I do have pride!” she tossed back. “But I don’t condone shedding blood to sustain it. Other communities, religions, and nationalities have an equal right to be proud and to coexist alongside us.”
“Don’t you understand this is not merely for pride?” He now had on his patient father-leader expression, making Vinita realize why his followers found him so irresistible. “We are fighting to make Palgaum a part of the state of Maharashtra. Karnataka State took over this small town several decades ago and made it their own. In the process they have ruined its prestige and rich culture. It is up to people like us to return Palgaum to its rightful place and restore its old glory.”
“And wasting precious human lives is how one goes about restoring glory?” Her voice quivered with contempt. “There’s neither pride nor dignity in needless violence. And I don’t particularly care which state Palgaum belongs to, as long as it’s peaceful and prosperous. As far as I can see, my small town has turned into a thriving city. Nothing’s wrong with it, if you ask me.”
He shook his head sadly. “You are obviously influenced by American ideas.” He said it as if she were suffering from some hopeless disease and deserved to be pitied.
“Nothing wrong with that, either,” she retorted. “It’s about time all Palgaumites—Marathi, Kannada, and the rest—stopped fighting like spoiled children and learned to get along.”
“I agree,” said a familiar voice, interrupting them. Meenal Barve stepped into the room, neatly groomed in a white and purple print sari, carrying a large plastic tote bag. Her gaze switched between her husband and Vinita. She greeted Vinita with a slight smile.
Vinita smiled back. “I hope you don’t mind that I came to visit Shashi-saheb.”
Meenal shook her head. “I’m just surprised, that is all.”
“I needed to discuss something important with him,” Vinita explained.
“About Rohit?” Meenal set her purse and bag on the floor and sat on the edge of her husband’s bed.
“Mostly about Rohit.” Vinita noticed the bleakness in Meenal’s expression the instant Rohit’s name came up. Now that Vinita had been dismissed as a possible donor, their last hope had been squashed, and Meenal appeared to be the one most affected by the news. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help him. I had…we had all hoped…”
“I know. I know,” said Meenal, sounding exhausted. “Are you planning to go back to the States, then?”
“Soon.” Vinita rose from her chair. “I have to check into available flights.” Leaving Rohit behind was going to be hard. The son she’d met only weeks ago had grown on her, become precious. Knowing she’d failed in her attempts to keep him alive was frustrating.
And yet, she had to accept it.
“I’d better leave now,” she said. “I’m sure Shashi-saheb is anxious to go home.” She moved toward the door. She turned to Barve. “I hope you recover quickly, sir.” There was so much more she wanted to say to him, make him understand why it was important to stop the rioting and carnage. But she’d have to leave that to his conscience.
He nodded his good-bye.
Meenal stood up and followed her. “I’ll walk you to the main door.”
“No need for that…really.” Vinita was out the door. “I know you have to help Shashi-saheb get dressed.”
“There is no rush.” Meenal started walking beside her down the corridor. “I have to talk to you about something,” she whispered.
“I had a feeling you did,” Vinita said. “I’m sorry this happened to Shashi-saheb because of me.”
“It is not your fault.”
“If I hadn’t told Rohit about Som Kori, it would never have happened.”
“This sort
of thing happens around here frequently, without much reason.” She looked at Vinita. “What exactly did you say to my husband?”
They’d reached the lobby now, but they still spoke in whispers because there were other people in the area. Vinita tossed Meenal a frank look. “I told him to put a stop to the violence. There’s been enough bloodshed in this town.”
“Very true.”
“Rohit’s life shouldn’t be the cause for more heartache.”
“What did my husband say?”
“Not much. He said these things have their own momentum…or something like that. He didn’t offer to do anything to stop it.”
“I didn’t think he would.” Meenal wrapped her arms around herself and rocked on her heels, like she was cold. The earlier distress was back in her face. “He is khaddoos, a stubborn old fool.”
Vinita’s jaw fell. Despite her own conclusion that Barve was a stubborn old fool, she’d never thought Meenal Barve was capable of calling her husband that. As far as she could see, Meenal was a pativrata—a dedicated wife. “Really?”
“Don’t you think I have tried to persuade him to give up his nonsensical politics? Do you know how many attempts have been made on his life? But does he ever learn from them?”
Vinita frowned. “You mean this isn’t the first time?”
With a shake of her head, Meenal let her arms fall to her sides in defeat. “At least three other times he has almost been killed. Even Rohit has tried to make him understand that this sentiment called Marathi pride is not worth dying for.”
“Rohit doesn’t approve of it, either?”
“Not at all. He dislikes violence. But my husband will not give it up. As long as Som Kori is the head of the Kannada faction, he will continue to fight him.”
“You mean it’s a personal thing rather than communal?”
“It is a long story.” Meenal looked around at the folks crowding the waiting room. She inclined her head toward the parking lot. “Let us talk outside.”
“I am not sure I should be telling you this,” Meenal said when they were at a safe distance from prying eyes and ears.
The Unexpected Son Page 26
