After the Storm

by Sangeeta Bhargava

  ‘Oh sorry, sir. We thought Sir O’Michael lives here,’ said Gurpreet.

  ‘He lives four houses down the block, on the left. But what’s the matter?’

  ‘Sir, we’ve got a test tomorrow and we’ve misplaced our notes,’ said Jatin.

  ‘He didn’t make any notes. He was too busy watching the girls arriving at STH,’ said Gurpreet with a grin.

  Jatin kicked him.

  ‘Perhaps I can help?’ asked Raven.

  ‘No no, sir, we wouldn’t want to bother you,’ replied Jatin.

  ‘Now why would you say that?’ asked Raven. ‘Do you not like me? Or is it because you think I’m a cripple?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Jatin replied hastily, waving both his hands. ‘It’s just that you’re new …’

  ‘So because I’m new, you think I can’t teach? You’re casting a doubt on my abilities, young man.’

  Jatin replied, ‘No, sir … errr …’ He nudged Gurpreet with his elbow and muttered, ‘Why can’t you say something?’

  ‘Yes, sir; I agree, sir,’ said Gurpreet.

  Raven smiled as he saw Jatin rolling his eyes at Gurpreet’s reply. He led them to the drawing room. Pointing to the sofa, he said, ‘Why don’t you two take a seat.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ they replied in unison.

  Lowering himself awkwardly, Raven sat down heavily on the armchair. Something as simple as sitting down and getting up was a chore these days. But thankfully, not for too long. He was going to see the doctor tomorrow. He covered his legs with a blanket and let Jatin take the crutches from him and put them neatly beside the chair.

  ‘Look,’ he said, as he picked up his pipe from the table in front of him. ‘You must not hold what happened at the tuck shop earlier today against me. What you do in your free time or after class is none of my business.’ He put the bit of the pipe in his mouth and took it out again. ‘But if you’re going to disrupt my class, I will admonish you. Plain and simple as that.’ He fiddled with the tobacco. The smell of tobacco was addictive. He felt like lighting the pipe. But no. It was his policy never to smoke in front of his students. Or Mother. ‘For me, my teaching and my students are important,’ he continued. ‘And my doors are always open for my students. You can come to me any time.’ He paused to look at the clock and smiled at them. ‘Even if it’s the middle of the night.’

  Gurpreet and Jatin grinned.

  ‘So are you going to tell me?’ Raven asked.

  ‘Sir,’ replied Jatin, ‘in the grammar class yesterday, Sir O’Michael was—’

  ‘Who are these people, Raven?’ Mother asked as she came into the room. ‘Don’t they know you’re not well and shouldn’t be kept up so late?’

  ‘They’re my students, Mother,’ said Raven.

  ‘I don’t care who they are. Finish whatever you’re doing and go and rest.’

  ‘Mother, stop fussing, please’ said Raven, a slight irritation in his voice. When was Mother going to learn not to treat him as a little boy, especially in front of his students?

  ‘I just came to say goodnight,’ Mother grumbled as she straightened his blanket, threw an angry look at the two boys and left the room.

  ‘Goodnight, Mother,’ Raven called out as he smiled and shook his head. Mother found it difficult to trust anyone. She had not always been like that. It was after what happened with Father.

  Wednesday. Evening. The last three days had taught Mili that everything at STH ran by the bell. Dinner was served at 7 p.m. sharp in the refectory. It was bigger than the dining room in the palace. There were rows and rows of tables with uncomfortable wooden chairs.

  ‘I’m starving,’ Vicky declared as the food arrived.

  Mili looked at her plate – cutlets, boiled vegetables, mashed potatoes and bread pudding. That’s it? No roti? No rice? What kind of dinner was this? She thought of the dinners served at home. The thick yellow kadi, the cottage cheese with peas, fried brinjal, cauliflower cooked with potatoes and cumin seeds, the colourful pulao and her favourite – tadka daal. She could almost smell the cumin seeds being roasted, the mustard seeds popping and the sizzling sound accompanied with rising smoke as lentils were added to the dry-roasted spices and butter ghee.

  She glanced sideways at Vicky. She was wolfing down her food. She stole a look at the other hostellers. None of them were talking. All she could hear was the sound of cutlery. She looked at her plate in dismay. How was she expected to eat that? For the first time since she had left home, she felt homesick.

  She took a bite of the cutlet. It was bland. It had no taste. The vegetables were the same. So were the potatoes. It was as though the cook had held them under a tap after he finished cooking, to wash off all the spices and flavours. She pushed it aside. Even Bhoomi wouldn’t eat such food. She took a spoonful of the pudding. It was horrendous. True, there was a ration on sugar because of the war, but dessert with hardly any sugar in it? Who in Lord Kishan’s name had hired the cook? In Mohanagar he wouldn’t even get a job as the pets’ cook. She pushed her chair back and got up.

  Vicky looked at her. ‘What happened?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ Mili replied. ‘I’m going to our room.’

  ‘I’ll see you in ten minutes,’ Vicky replied, stuffing herself.

  How could she eat that? Mili wondered as she left the refectory.

  She stood outside her room, looking at the little garden adjoining the hostel building. It was not tended. Some clothes lines with pegs stretched right across it. The grass was long, unruly. A potted plant had fallen over and the mud spilt out. She thought of the well-maintained gardens at the palace in Mohanagar. After all, they employed over sixty gardeners to take care of them.

  ‘Salaam saab,’ called Bahadur raising his right hand to his forehead. ‘Enjoy food?’

  ‘Enjoy?’ Mili pulled a face. ‘It was inedible.’

  ‘Memsaab, when you don’t like school food, go to Uncleji’s Tuck Shop,’ said Bahadur, pointing towards the main gate. ‘I work there, morning, afternoon and sometimes Sunday.’

  ‘But are we allowed to go there?’ Mili asked.

  ‘Yes, yes. It is just outside gate. Is part of school. Sometimes they serve hot food. And their sandwiches also nice.’

  ‘Thanks, Bahadur. I’m sure I’ll be one of their most frequent customers.’ So saying, she went inside.

  Just as she was getting into bed, a fair-haired, stocky girl entered their room. She had an exceptionally long nose but, overall, a pretty face. Until she opened her mouth. And her squeaky voice made you cringe.

  ‘Hello, I’m Angel, your room-mate,’ she said. ‘I know I’m the last to arrive but I didn’t think they’d make me share a room with natives,’ she scowled.

  Mili did not say anything but turned her gaze to Vicky who was glaring at their new room-mate over the rim of her glasses.

  ‘We aren’t delighted either, at having to share it with an Angrez,’ said Vicky.

  Angel looked up at the ceiling and said, ‘And we’ve got the freakiest room in the hostel.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ asked Vicky.

  ‘This is the only room in the entire hostel that has one of those fan things on the ceiling,’ replied Angel.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t even notice it. I wonder why?’ said Mili.

  ‘Maybe because it’s always had inmates full of hot air,’ laughed Angel.

  Mili raised her eyebrows at Vicky. Vicky shrugged her shoulders as they watched Angel leave the room to fetch her luggage.

  Mili looked at the fan again. Angel was right. Summers were cool and pleasant in Kishangarh. None of the houses there had fans. And definitely not ceiling fans. She wondered why this one had been installed. Maybe the room had been built for someone special. Or perhaps it was a mistake. She wasn’t sure. But of one thing she was certain – she and Vicky were never going to be great friends with Angel.

  Mili got into bed and rolled over on her side. Her stomach growled. She wondered if Vicky had heard it. But she was fast asleep. While sh
e was wide awake. How was she ever going to fall asleep on an empty stomach? And on a mattress that felt as hard and cold as the marble-topped dining table at home? She missed her soft eiderdown pillow and her white Rajasthani quilt with golden tassels. Next time she went home, she would remember to bring it along. It was one of her prized possessions. She had used it ever since she was two. It was soft and warm and whenever she snuggled into it she felt as though she had put her head on Ma’s lap.

  On the last night at the palace, Ma had come to her at bedtime, followed by Bhoomi, carrying a glass of milk.

  ‘Ma, I’m not a kid any more,’ Mili had protested.

  Ma lovingly pulled her cheeks and said, ‘Mili, let me fuss over you while I can. You will go away tomorrow. Then who am I going to spoil?’

  ‘Ma, don’t say such things. I’ll get all mushy,’ said Mili.

  ‘Remember to have milk twice a day at the hostel as well,’ said Ma. ‘And don’t start drinking tea or coffee like Vicky. Otherwise my fair and beautiful girl will become dark. Then how will we find a suitable boy for her?’

  Tears rolled down Mili’s cheeks. Oh, Lord Kishan, you have no idea how much I’m missing Ma. She buried her chin in the rough, scratchy blanket and tried to get some sleep.

  A noise woke her up. It was the fan. It was whirring slowly. Then faster. And faster. The room began to turn icy cold as it rotated faster and faster. A cold chill ran down her back. Her teeth began to chatter and she shivered from the cold. And yet the fan continued to move faster. And faster. And then it fell on top of her. Her eyes flew open. She sat up. Thank you, Lord Kishan, it was just a dream. She leant over and shook Vicky hard.

  ‘What is it?’ Vicky mumbled sleepily.

  ‘The fan. It’s weird. Scary. I think it’s haunted.’

  ‘Stop talking nonsense, Mili,’ said Vicky, going back to sleep.

  Mili lay back and looked at the fan again. There was definitely something sinister about it.

  The next morning Mili sat on her bed, looking woefully at her bare arms. They had never been bare before. Not since she was a week old and Grandma had put two silver baby bracelets on her arms and silver anklets on her feet. She missed the way her bangles would clink each time she moved her hands. As for the drab school uniform, she almost gagged when she first saw it. Grey skirt, white blouse, grey cardigan and grey socks. And the thought that she had to wear it every single day had left her feeling quite desolate. Why, choosing what to wear and selecting jewellery to go with it used to be the high point of her day.

  She tugged impatiently at Vicky. ‘Get up, Vicky. It’s Thursday. I want to go to the temple and ask Lord Kishan for his blessings.’

  There was no response. Mili tugged at Vicki once more.

  ‘Let me sleep,’ mumbled Vicky. ‘I’ll see you in class.’ And she buried her head under the blanket.

  Mili threw a last look at Vicky as she left the room. She crossed the road with trepidation. Although there wasn’t any traffic other than a few mountain goats, led by girls in long Gypsy skirts and ponchos, she was still scared. She had never ventured out alone before. Beads of perspiration covered her forehead as she came to a wooden bridge over a stream. It was held together by thick, strong ropes. Halfway across, she paused and looked around. She could see the temple now. Its mammoth roof, in the shape of an upturned cone, dominated the surroundings. The stream culminated in a waterfall just behind the temple. Its roar was deafening and Mili could barely hear the temple bells. And yet peace reigned supreme. Just Mother Nature, Mili and her god. So unlike the temples in Mohanagar – always noisy, crowded and squalid.

  She remembered the time when she had gone to the Radha-Kishan temple with her cousins. She was thirteen then. Her aunts, uncles and cousins had come to Mohanagar for the summer holidays. She was about to run up the steps when Ma pulled her aside. ‘You can’t go inside the temple,’ she hissed. ‘You’re menstruating.’

  ‘So?’ Mili said, hands on her hips.

  ‘You are not allowed in the temple at this time of the month. Wait here near the steps till we get back.’

  ‘What happened?’ Chachi enquired. Ma whispered something in her ear. Chachi looked back at her and nodded.

  Neelima, her nine-year-old cousin, tugged the edge of her mother’s sari. ‘Why isn’t Mili coming?’ she asked.

  ‘You’ll come to know in a couple of years,’ her mother replied.

  Mili lowered her eyes as Neelima looked at her quizzically while the other children raced ahead to ring the temple bells.

  She had stood there – at the bottom of the steps, alone, feeling like a sinner when she wasn’t one, eyes brimming with tears and cheeks and ears red with embarrassment.

  She now took a deep breath. The air was cool and fresh and she felt her spirits lifting with a new taste of freedom. No silly age-old custom was going to stop her communion with her god today. She took off her shoes and entered the spacious courtyard. A statue of baby Kishan in a crib, eating a ball of butter, stood in the centre of the courtyard. She shivered. The temple floor was made of white marble and felt like ice. She was glad the floor was clean and dry. How can one pray when one’s feet are cold and wet?

  At the entrance of the inner sanctum, she raised her right hand to ring the temple bell, when something stopped her. Ma, Chachi, Neelima – they were all looking at her and shaking their heads in disapproval. Mili pulled her hand down quickly. The smell of incense, camphor and dhoop emanated from the inner sanctum. She looked at the life-sized marble statue of Radha and Kishan. Lord Kishan was playing on his flute. The priest was ringing a bell with one hand and performing the arti with the other. She joined her hands and closed her eyes. The priest had seen her and was beckoning to her to come forward and accept the prasad. But she could not take a single step forward. As though her feet were bound in heavy chains.

  She felt ashamed of herself. Would she never be able to break free of these illogical beliefs and customs? She wished she was like Vicky – she always did as she wanted, without the slightest care.

  Mili turned back and fled and did not stop running till she reached the gates of STH.

  Vicky was waiting for her at the main entrance.

  ‘What took you so long?’ she hissed as the two of them sprinted towards their classroom.

  ‘Whose class is it?’ Mili asked, panting.

  ‘English. Some Prof. Raven. He’s a new teacher I’m told,’ replied Vicky.

  The two of them stole a glance at Prof. Raven from the door. He was buried in some papers and did not notice them. Mili and Vicky slunk to the back of the class and took their seats.

  ‘Thank goodness. He didn’t see us,’ whispered Vicky.

  Raven looked up. ‘You two,’ he said, pointing at them. ‘Stand up, please.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Vicky groaned as she and Mili stood up.

  ‘What are your names?’ Raven asked.

  ‘Victoria Nunes,’ Vicky replied.

  ‘Malvika Singh,’ Mili said in a small voice.

  ‘You’re late,’ chided Raven, waving a finger at them. ‘Please don’t make this a habit.’

  ‘Yes, sir; sorry, sir,’ said Mili and Vicky in unison.

  As they sat down, Vicky asked Mili, ‘What happened to your hair today? It looks like a sparrow’s nest.’

  ‘How should I know? I’ve never done it before. Bhoomi always did it for me,’ replied Mili. She glared at Vicky as she giggled, then opened her book. She looked at Raven. He now stood in front of the class on the rostrum, his sleeves rolled up and his top button open. He was addressing the class. ‘… and what sets our school apart from the rest of the schools in the country are our excellent facilities – not only is our library stacked with copies of the latest edition, but it is also open all hours …’

  Mili’s mouth fell open as she realised something. She tugged at Vicky’s sleeve and whispered, ‘Vicky, he’s the same handicapped man we saw the day we arrived … But today he’s standing on his own two feet.’

  ‘Y
ou’re right,’ replied Vicky. ‘What the devil …’

  Raven stopped speaking and looked at Vicky. ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked.

  Vicky stood up. ‘No, sir. We saw you on Sunday, on crutches, and thought … you …’

  ‘That I was a cripple and, to your immense disappointment, I’m not?’ said Raven.

  ‘No, sir. I meant …’ Vicky’s voice trailed off.

  ‘I was in an accident a few months back. One of my many injuries was a smashed knee. The plaster was cut some days back.’

  ‘But, sir, the crutches?’ said Mili.

  ‘I had to use them for some days after the plaster had been removed,’ replied Raven. ‘Now, if your curiosity has been satisfied, shall we get back to our books?’ He raised his eyebrows questioningly at Mili. ‘You have already disrupted our class twice today.’

  Mili looked down, her cheeks crimson. The entire class was looking at her. Without looking up she nodded her head and muttered, ‘Yes, sir.’ She felt humiliated and could feel her ears turn hot and scarlet. How dare he scold her in front of the whole class? She had never been admonished in front of everyone before. Not even by Bauji.

  Chapter Five

  That evening, after class, Gurpreet and Jatin scurried to Guruji’s house, which lay in the valley, hidden by a clump of deodar trees. They stepped aside as four Bhutias carrying a doli huffed past.

  ‘Did you hear, the British merchant ships have taken a heavy toll in the war?’ said Gurpreet, looking at Jatin.

  Jatin nodded. ‘Yes, I read in the newspaper this morning.’

  ‘I still don’t understand Gandhi’s stance of not attacking the enemy when they are embroiled in battle with another. They are our oppressors, after all. Whoever waits for the enemy to become strong and then attack? It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Preeto, Bapu’s thinking is beyond the comprehension of thickheaded sardars like you,’ Jatin chuckled.

  Gurpreet was about to box Jatin but they had reached Guruji’s ramshackle cottage and Jatin was already knocking on the door. He ran a hand over his stubble and pulled a face at Jatin. A young lad dressed in a khadi kurta, pyjama and a waistcoat like himself answered the door.