‘With my heart still beating fast, I picked you up. The moment I did that, you stopped crying and Victoria stopped kicking. Just like that.
‘Shortly after that your mother came. She snatched you from my arms. “Who are you?” she asked suspiciously. I think she thought I was going to steal her baby. I narrated the whole incident. Her eyes grew moist and she showered a hundred kisses on you. And then she thanked me profusely. “You saved my baby. The cats would have mauled her for sure.” “Speak nothing of it,” I replied. “I was only doing my job.”
‘Then she demanded where the midwife was, in whose charge she had left you. We searched and found the deaf midwife fast asleep on the other side of the crib. She was sacked and I became your mother’s best friend and counsellor.’
‘Oh, Mrs Nunes, I had no idea,’ Mili said, her voice choked and moist.
‘That’s not all,’ Mrs Nunes continued. ‘A few months later, when Victoria was born, your mother brought you to our house to see her. You smiled and cooed at my little princess. And then you grabbed her little finger and closed your fist around it and—’
‘And our friendship was sealed. Yes, Ma told me this part,’ Mili said, with a soft, sad smile.
Mrs Nunes caressed her hair. ‘You were more of a sister to her than either of the two brats,’ she said lovingly. ‘I can understand your loss, my child.’
‘Oh, Mrs Nunes, I can’t live without her,’ Mili sobbed, hiding her face with her hands.
After some time, Mrs Nunes got up to leave. She hugged Mili once again. ‘Come and see me whenever you’re in Mohanagar.’ She looked heavenward. ‘I’m sure Vicky would like that.’ She covered her mouth with her hand to control her sobs from escaping and rushed outside.
Mili stood alone in the room, with only the angels in the painting that hung on the wall staring down at her. She felt lost. And alone. Yes, for the first time in her life she was alone. How was she going to live without Vicky? Who was going to tell her what to do? Vicky had always been there to take care of her, to protect her. But now … Mili swallowed. She was afraid. Very, very afraid. Oh Lord Kishan. Why did he do this to her? Why did he snatch her away from her? Mili sat down on the sofa and held her head between her hands as tears flowed down her cheeks yet again.
She did not know how long she sat there. Or when the evening gave way to twilight. It was the caretaker, who had come to lock up for the night, who found her there – curled up on the sofa like a foetus, two vertical lines running down her smooth cheeks, eyes swollen from too much crying.
Chapter Fifteen
Gurpreet swaggered into Uncleji’s Tuck Shop and sat down at his favourite table, right at the back of the room. He was sipping a cup of coffee when Mili walked in. He waved to her with one hand and pulled out a chair for her with the other. Then he clicked his fingers at Bahadur. As Bahadur approached his table, he gulped down the remaining coffee and, banging the cup down, asked him to get him another one.
‘How are you?’ Mili asked.
‘How do I look?’ he answered in a clipped tone.
Mili fell silent. Gurpreet listened to the radio. Gandhiji was again waffling about how dishonourable it would be to launch a campaign against the Raj when it was engaged in a life and death struggle with the Fascists. He looked at Mili and said, ‘I feel like defecting to the Forward Bloc. Gandhi and his idealisms!’
‘What’s Forward Bloc?’ Mili asked.
‘Netaji’s army? Haven’t you heard of Subhas Chandra Bose?’ he asked irritably.
‘Oh, yes yes,’ replied Mili, biting her thumbnail. ‘Where’s Jatin?’
‘He’s gone for a meeting. With Guruji.’
‘You didn’t go?’
Gurpreet did not answer. He fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes, found them, lit one, then blew out smoke. ‘Mark my words, Mili,’ he said, ‘India is never going to become independent. This Congress and the Angrez are going to keep playing their cat-and-mouse game …’ He drummed his fingers on the table before continuing, ‘I want to get out of this country. I don’t mind going anywhere, be it Australia, Canada, America – anywhere. I want to forget everything that happened here. I don’t feel like talking to anyone any more. I want to be left alone.’
‘I know, I understand,’ replied Mili. ‘I too am tired of hearing the same empty words over and over again. They say time heals all wounds, it’s not at all true.’ She bit her thumbnail, then continued, ‘The pain, the loss will always be there. Yes, perhaps I’ll learn to live with it. Some people say they understand my loss. How can they? It was a very personal loss which only I can understand.’
‘Why did she do it, Mili? Why? I feel like burning down this whole world. Everything. Set this bloody canteen, school, college, everything ablaze. A world that did not have room for Vicky doesn’t deserve to exist. All of us should be dead. You, me …’ He got up abruptly and pushed the table over with all his strength. Their cups and saucers smashed to the floor.
‘Get a hold on yourself, Gurpreet,’ said Mili turning red.
He noticed everyone had gone quiet in the canteen and was staring at him. He didn’t care.
Mili got up and, tugging at his sleeve, pulled him towards the door.
Uncleji walked up to them. ‘Hello, son of Bhim, where are you sneaking off to?’
‘We’ll pay for all the damage, Uncleji. Just leave him alone at the moment and let us go,’ Mili pleaded.
Uncleji looked at Gurpreet, then at Mili. ‘All right, but I’m sending the bill to your hostel through Bahadur. You better pay up or …’ he looked threateningly at Gurpreet.
‘Yes, we will,’ Mili muttered pulling Gurpreet out of the canteen.
‘Do you know somewhere quiet?’ asked Gurpreet.
‘I know just the place.’
Just then, they bumped into Raven.
‘Mili,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir?’ Mili answered, walking over to him.
Gurpreet leant against the canteen wall and lit another cigarette as he watched Raven and Mili speaking to each other.
‘So what was Raven saying? Was he scolding you again?’ he asked, as they made their way up the Hide-and-Seek Road.
‘No, no. He was just saying that if I have any problems, I can approach him anytime.’
‘He can be nice sometimes. During the first trimester, Jatin and I went to his house in the dead of the night. He was most understanding and said studies were more important than anything else in the world, even sleep … But he’s an Angrez after all. You just can’t trust them.’
Mili nodded.
‘Isn’t this where you and Vicky used to sit often?’ he asked as Mili led him to a mound behind the hostel building.
Mili nodded again. She brushed aside the prickly pine needles before sitting down. They sat in silence for a while, Gurpreet pulling impatiently at the blades of grass and Mili tracing patterns with a little stick on the muddy ground.
‘You can see the lake from here,’ he observed.
‘Yes, just a glimpse,’ said Mili, smiling slightly. ‘Vicky used to say—’
Gurpreet cleared his throat. ‘I haven’t mentioned this to anyone.’ He felt Mili’s eyes on him as he continued. ‘A few days before Vicky died, she had come with me to my aunt’s place.’
‘Yes, she told me about it.’
‘Then she must have also mentioned that she saw some puppies there …’ Gurpreet plucked a grass and chewed its tip. ‘It was then, as I watched her playing with those puppies, that I realised I was in love with her.’
He looked at Mili from the corner of his eye. She did not say anything for a while but continued making patterns on the ground with her stick. ‘I had guessed,’ she said finally.
‘You know after the cricket match? Remember, we won the match and I made a century?’
Mili nodded.
‘She came running onto the field, hugged me and said, “You play well.” The whole of MP College was on its feet at the time, cheering and shouting my name, but all I cou
ld hear were Vicky’s words – “You play well, you play well …” I did not know …’ Gurpreet’s voice broke and he could not continue. After a long time he spoke again. ‘Siyappa … why did she do it, Mili?’
‘I guess, because of low grades in class,’ Mili answered carefully, avoiding eye contact.
‘Rubbish,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Surely you don’t believe that? A girl like Vicky is not going to commit suicide for something so trivial.’
Mili did not answer.
‘You know, Mili, if I ever come to know the cause of her death, I will kill the person responsible. Whoever or whatever it is that caused her death, I will annihilate it from the face of this earth,’ he said, as he yanked an entire tuft of grass.
He looked at the blades of grass he had just pulled up, clenched his teeth and crushed them with his fingers. He felt like setting fire to the whole universe. Reduce it to ashes. Just like his Vicky had been reduced to nothingness.
With October came Diwali, the festival of lights. Everywhere Mili looked, there were signs of celebration. Houses decked with diyas, which glittered like gold jewellery on a pretty maiden. And yet her heart was plunged in darkness. The hostel was almost bare – most of the inmates had gone home for Diwali. Mili had decided not to go. She did not know how to cope with Vicky’s death in front of her family.
She thought of home. It must be beautifully lit today. All her favourite sweets – barfis and laddoos – and dahi vadas and puris must have been prepared. Their chef was famous for making the softest dahi vadas in all of Mohanagar. They would be soaked in curd and sweet-and-sour tamarind chutney and would melt the moment you put them in your mouth. And there would be a grand fireworks display in the palace gardens after dark. Hey Lord Kishan, when will there be light in my life?
There was a polite knock on the door. It was Bahadur. ‘Phone for you, Mili baba,’ he said. Mili sprinted to the common room. It must be from home. Sure enough, Ma was on the other end of the line.
‘Happy Diwali, my child. We are all missing you so much. Why didn’t you come home?’
‘I have a lot of work to do, Ma,’ Mili lied. She cleared her throat. ‘Exams are around the corner.’
‘And how is Vicky? Wish her happy Diwali as well.’
So Mrs Nunes had not told them yet. Mili took a deep breath. ‘She’s no more.’
‘What?’
‘She killed herself because she …. because of … she failed her exams.’
‘Hey Ram. Mrs Nunes must be devastated.’
‘Yes, Ma, do go and meet her.’
‘But what about you? How are you?’
Mili pushed back the lump that had risen in her throat. ‘Don’t worry about me, Ma. I have lots of friends. Even the teachers are very supportive. They are all mollycoddling me.’
‘Are you sure, Mili? I’m getting worried now. No wonder you didn’t want to celebrate Diwali.’
‘Ma, I’m fine. Really. Don’t worry. There are a lot of people here to take care of me.’
‘Listen, Mili, I’ll come there.’
‘No, Ma, no. Don’t come here. You cannot leave home on Diwali. You’re the Lakshmi of the house.’
‘But …’
‘Ma, I’m fine. Believe me, there are lots of people here. And then, in a couple of weeks, our exams will be over and I’ll be home for the winter holidays.’
‘All right, if you insist. But I’ll call you again tomorrow.’
‘Yes, Ma.’
Mili went back to her room to study for the forthcoming exams. Her mind began to wander. She thought of home and the long summer vacations when she was studying in Mohanagar. Much of her summer holidays were spent in Nani’s home. There was a little temple dedicated to Lord Kishan in the house. And not only the temple, but the whole house smelt of sandalwood. It was a huge mansion built in the seventeenth century, sprawling across acres and acres of land. Central to the building was a large square courtyard with rooms all around it. The floors and steps were made of huge slabs of stone, which were always cold, no matter what time of the year it was. There were marble-topped tables and walls and floors covered with ornate tiles and mosaics.
At one end of the terrace was a single low-roofed room. It had a large window covered with net from where the entire neighbourhood as well as the local bazaar could be seen. Once the room had been used for storing grain, but it had lain empty for the last few years and had become the favourite haunt of Mili and her younger cousins.
The children’s makeshift bedroom used to be a long hall without any furniture. The floors were covered with row upon row of mattresses, and it was here that all the children gathered around Nani every evening after dinner.
Nani would take out a paan from her betel box, fold it from all sides, then tuck it into the right-hand corner of her mouth. She would then clear her throat and start. She would tell them stories from days long gone by, about brave kings and warriors, tales from Indian mythology and from the two great epics, the Ramayan and the Mahabharata.
The story Mili liked most of all was that of Prithviraj Chauhan, the valiant Rajput king of Mewar. Her eyes would light up each time Nani reached the part where Prithviraj came riding to Princess Sanjogta’s swayamvar, and whisked her off on his horse, much to the amazement and chagrin of the assembled kings and princes. Every other day Mili would ask Nani to tell them the story of Prithviraj Chauhan, until Nani exclaimed in exasperation, ‘Mili, I will tell you any other story but that!’
Mili then saved up her pocket money to buy the book. She would often read it before going to bed and fantasise that one day a prince, equally valiant and handsome, would come and sweep her off her feet. But even in her wildest dream, she had not thought that men could be animals like George. How she loathed men now, especially the Angrez. Maybe men like Prithviraj Chauhan were only found in fables? Maybe they never really did exist …
Autumn had given way to winter. Gurpreet rubbed his hands together in an effort to warm them as he looked around the examination hall. He had not studied for the exams. He might fail again. He didn’t mind. He wasn’t here to garner marks, but freedom fighters. He looked at the clock at the back of the classroom and yawned. Half an hour was still left.
He glanced at Jatin, who was sitting in front of him. He had been studying all night and was now scribbling furiously on his answer sheet. Leaning forward, he whispered, ‘Why are you writing so much?’
‘Shut up. I have two more questions to answer.’
‘I’ve finished,’ Gurpreet grumbled. ‘I’m getting bored.’
‘No talking in the class, please,’ boomed Raven’s voice, as he looked pointedly at Gurpreet.
‘Sorry, sir,’ he whispered and looked down at his answer sheet. Ever since he had called him the son of a murderer, he had been unable to look him in the eye. He shouldn’t have called him that. After all, Raven was his teacher, his guru and had only ever been good to him. It wasn’t fair to hold him responsible for what his father had done. But then, how could he forget what had happened to his grandparents?
He looked at Jatin again. He was calculating something on his fingers; now he had gone back to writing. Gurpreet smiled. He remembered the first time he had noticed Jatin. It was last year, in the same hall, during their history exam.
Gurpreet had raised his hand.
‘You want to drink some more water?’ the invigilator asked, walking over to him.
‘No, I need to go to the toilet,’ replied Gurpreet.
The invigilator looked at him incredulously, over the rim of his glasses. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t give you permission for that,’ he finally said.
Gurpreet turned his question paper over and pointed to the instructions. It was mentioned that students could be given permission to go to the toilet one at a time.
‘I’m afraid I don’t have any instructions to that effect,’ said the invigilator.
‘Sir, it’s urgent,’ replied Gurpreet.
‘Why did you drink so much water?’ the invig
ilator asked.
‘I was thirsty,’ replied Gurpreet. He grinned unashamedly as Jatin gave him a dirty look.
‘I’ll have to ask the principal,’ replied the invigilator. ‘Jatin, take my place and make sure no one cheats.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Jatin, standing up.
The invigilator soon returned. ‘You can go now,’ he said, looking at Gurpreet.
But Gurpreet was busy cutting and buffing his nails. Without looking up he said, ‘I don’t want to go now.’
He watched in amusement as the invigilator turned several interesting shades of red, blue and purple, before asking, ‘Why?’
‘I don’t need to any more,’ Gurpreet coolly replied. He hid his smile as the invigilator glared at him. He would have loved to strangle him, he was sure of that.
Jatin muttered under his breath, ‘Bloody drama king, doesn’t spare us even in the examination hall.’
Gurpreet had given him a lopsided grin and continued buffing his nails.
Whistling happily, now that the exams were over, Gurpreet had made his way to Uncleji’s Tuck Shop. He was about to go in when a couple of his classmates called out to him.
‘We have distributed all the leaflets,’ said one of them.
‘That’s good,’ replied Gurpreet, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Now don’t forget to come for the party meeting at Guruji’s house tomorrow.’
‘We won’t,’ replied the other. ‘We’ll be there.’
Just as the two lads left, someone caught hold of Gurpreet from behind, by his collar. Gurpreet turned around in surprise. It was Jatin.
‘Why the hell did you have to ask for water every ten minutes?’ he said through gritted teeth.
‘Why do you think? I was thirsty,’ said Gurpreet. ‘Ahh,’ he cried out in pain as Jatin punched his nose.
‘Thirsty indeed! Because of you I couldn’t finish my paper,’ thundered Jatin. ‘Sir, water … sir, toilet,’ he mimicked.
Swiping at the blood running out of his nose with the back of his hand, Gurpreet was about to hit Jatin back when Uncleji arrived on the scene.
After the Storm Page 14
