After the Storm

by Sangeeta Bhargava

  He raised a brow questioningly. She lowered her gaze and said, ‘There’s no need for that, sir. I trust you.’

  This time it was Raven’s turn to look shocked.

  ‘I’m ashamed of my behaviour the other day,’ said Mili, continuing to look down.

  ‘Think nothing of it, little one,’ Raven replied softly as he strode towards his car.

  ‘I trust you,’ she had said. He felt like jumping over the gate and dancing a little jig right there – in the middle of the street. Or shouting from the roofs of STH: ‘SHE TRUSTS ME. MALVIKA TRUSTS ME.’ He switched on the engine of the car and stole a look at Mili, seated beside him. Thank goodness she could not read his thoughts. After all, they were just three simple words – and yet they had filled him with a profound happiness that he found hard to explain.

  Gurpreet sat outside the college gates, smoking his cigarette. He watched the smoke curling out of the chimney of the caretaker’s cottage. It reminded him of the smoke that came out of the funnels of train engines.

  Trains used to fascinate him as a child. He remembered the first time he had travelled by one. It was alone with Maji. They were going to Amritsar to see his grandparents. That was the last time he would see them. They were late and had to rush to the platform. And Maji in her nervousness had boarded the first-class compartment, which was only for the English. She realised her mistake only after the guard had blown his whistle and the train had started moving.

  Gurpreet had eagerly taken a window seat and looked around importantly. He had often looked at trains with longing and wondered what it must feel like to travel in one. And here he was. It felt grand, he had to admit. He felt delirious as the houses, trees, fields, shops, people on foot hurrying along, people on horseback, carriages, cars whizzed by. It was like watching a movie at the talkies or jogging really fast in a pair of running shoes.

  He noticed nobody was taking the seat next to him. Now and then someone would glance at the empty seat, then at him, then hastily walk away. They looked at him as though he had just crawled out of a septic tank. He didn’t mind. He was too young and having too much fun to be bothered by such things. This was the first time he was travelling by train and he was not going to let these firangis spoil it for him.

  He did look out of place, though. With his brown skin, his unsmart clothes, greasy hair and muddy feet. He noticed the English mem sitting across the aisle screwing up her nose at him and Maji and smiling disdainfully.

  Gurpreet took another puff of his cigarette. Yes, back then these racial discriminations didn’t bother him. But now they did. And very much so. It filled him with such a loathing for the English and an anger that he sometimes found hard to control.

  The train ride was all that he remembered of his last trip to Amritsar. Maji used to tell him how she would take him to the Golden Temple and how much he loved the langar food there. How he danced around the fire on Lohri with his grandmother. But they didn’t go there again. Because three months later, in the April of 1919, his grandparents were shot down like animals along with hundreds of others, in Jalianwala Bagh. He did not understand what it meant when he was told that his grandparents were no more. He just remembered his mother crying. A lot. For days. And it frightened him to hear her wails.

  He got up as he saw Jatin approach him with a mountain of books. Throwing down the cigarette stub and squashing it with his shoe, he took some of the books from his friend, then asked, ‘Done? Shall we go home?’

  Jatin nodded and the two of them made their way down the hill to Gurpreet’s house. He kicked the door to his room open and dropped the books on his bed. Then he hung his waistcoat on the peg. He looked at Jatin. He had pulled out the chair in front of his desk. Sitting down, he was now fiddling with the wick of the oil lamp.

  ‘Preeto, have you heard? There is talk about Gandhi planning another march across the country like the Dandi March in 1930,’ said Jatin.

  ‘I’m telling you, the Congress needs to change its leaders. Gandhi and Nehru will never get us freedom,’ said Gurpreet, sitting down on the bed and taking off his shoes.

  ‘Why do you keep saying that all the time?’ said Jatin, lighting the lamp.

  ‘Because he said the same thing in 1920. Did we become free? Been twenty long years since he said that. Besides, it was because of Bhagat Singh that the bloody Congress started demanding total swaraj. And Nehru and Gandhi got the credit for it.’

  ‘So Gandhi hasn’t been successful yet. But tell me, have violent means met with any success? You know what happened to Bhagat Singh, Sukhdev and Rajguru? All three of them were hanged. And have you forgotten what happened in 1857? The way the Uprising was crushed? The carnage, the killing, the destruction – all in the name of retribution.’

  ‘1857 was different.’

  ‘How was it different? They were also fighting for freedom. Besides, violence leads to so many innocents getting killed.’

  ‘And non-violence leads to hundreds of innocents being beaten up and put behind bars.’

  ‘Look, we can never match them in the field of battle. They’re much too strong. Ahimsa is the only way we can defeat them. You’ve got to believe – there’s a different kind of strength in non-violence.’

  ‘I don’t think I believe in anything now, not after Vicky’s death.’ Gurpreet walked over to the window and curled his fists tightly around its bars.

  ‘Preeto,’ whispered Jatin, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Let it be, yaara, you’ll never understand because you’ve never been in love.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong. I’m not only in love, I have even proposed to her.’

  As soon as he had said that, Gurpreet punched Jatin so hard, he toppled over and fell.

  Just then Maji knocked on the door and entered. ‘You’re home, Preeto?’ she asked with a smile. Then she noticed Jatin on the floor. ‘Haiyo Rabba, what happened?’

  ‘Nothing, Maji,’ Jatin mumbled. ‘I just fell off the chair.’

  ‘Oh, do be careful,’ Maji said, as she put two glasses of lassi on the table and left.

  ‘What’s wrong? Why did you hit me?’ Jatin asked.

  Gurpreet punched him again.

  ‘Stop it. I believe in Ahimsa, otherwise I can also hit back.’

  ‘When were you planning to tell me? After your secondborn started going to school?’ said Gurpreet.

  ‘Stop being so dramatic. I was going to tell you.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Vidushi.’

  ‘That girl in the orphanage at Jeolikot?’

  Jatin nodded.

  ‘That explains … all those visits to your mysterious “relatives” in Jeolikot.’

  Jatin grinned, caressing his cheek where Gurpreet had hit him.

  Gurpreet walked over to the table, picked up the glass of lassi and emptied the tumbler in one gulp. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He loved Maji’s lassi. So cool and invigorating. He used to call it ‘liquid yogurt’ when he was little.

  He turned back to Jatin. ‘But have you gone insane? You want to marry a widow?’

  ‘You talk of winning India’s freedom?’ Jatin’s voice rose. ‘First free yourself from these age-old prejudices, Preeto. Then talk about freedom.’ He strode angrily to the window. Gurpreet walked up to him and handed him his glass of lassi. Jatin snatched it from his hand and took a sip. He spoke again. ‘And for that matter, that Vicky, she wasn’t a Hindu either. You were planning to marry her, weren’t you?’

  ‘What’s the point of talking about her when she’s no more?’ said Gurpreet, averting his gaze. He busied himself in putting away the books he had carelessly thrown on the bed, onto the bookshelf. For some reason, the mere mention of Vicky’s name made his eyes burn and throat go dry.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that it upset me … the way you lashed out. I’d thought you’d be happy for me when I broke the news. Now I wish I hadn’t told you.’

  ‘Hey, hey, hey, this wishing business ca
n be very dangerous. I mean, Jatin … just imagine that this girl you love … umm – what’s her name?’

  ‘Vidushi,’ replied Jatin, glaring at him.

  ‘Relax. It’s a difficult name, I’ll memorise it eventually. As I was saying, let’s suppose Vidushi is …’ He winked at Jatin.

  Jatin kicked him hard.

  ‘Ouch! Yaara, we’re just supposing. So where was I? Yes, supposing she’s sitting in her classroom and wishes you were there with her and her wish is granted. And precisely at that moment you’re taking a bath and you’re transported to her classroom. Wahe guru, can you imagine the scene?’ he chuckled.

  Jatin slapped his forehead, then burst out laughing.

  Gurpreet put his arms around his friend. ‘So when are you taking me to meet her?’

  ‘Soon,’ Jatin replied with a shy smile.

  Mili yawned. When was the history class going to end? She was trying her hardest to listen to Dr Anne Miller’s lecture. But she was droning on and on and on: ‘… As I was saying, this book here – Down the Ages – is your bible, especially if you want to pass your Senior Cambridge history exam with distinction. You’ve got to read it, chew it, digest it, then read it all over again until you know it back to front and can even see it in your dreams.’

  Mili groaned. That was all she needed. Dream about books. Whatever next? She was pleased when the bell rang and class was over. As she left the classroom, Bahadur came running up to her.

  ‘Raven saabji calling you to his office, Mili baba.’

  As she knocked on the door, Mili wondered what she had done wrong now.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Afternoon,’ Raven replied and nodded to her to take a seat.

  She sat down carefully and looked around.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about what you told me the other day. About that English lad who was harassing you. Now, don’t get me wrong, but I won’t always be there to drop you home. So how do we solve this problem?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ Mili replied, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Maybe I should leave early for home, before it gets dark?’

  Raven shook his head. ‘No, that’s not a solution. During the last semester you might have some extra classes that may run late …’

  ‘Sir, please don’t ask me to come back to the hostel,’ Mili begged, chewing her thumbnail.

  ‘No, of course not … Although hitting that lad was the right thing to do.’

  Mili shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘And I’m proud of you, that you didn’t get intimidated by him,’ Raven continued.

  Mili looked down at her hands and didn’t say anything.

  ‘Why don’t you arrange for a palanquin to take you home everyday? Or perhaps a pony? I’ve heard the syce in Kishangarh are simple and loyal and they’ll take good care of you.’

  ‘Oh no, sir, not a pony, never.’

  Raven raised a brow. ‘Why? What happened?’

  ‘Sir, the only time I rode one was on Vicky’s insistence in Mohanagar. I sat on the horse, straight and tense, too scared of falling off. That night, when I lay in bed, my entire body was stiff and aching all over. It was then that I swore never to go riding again. Even the horse had not taken to me for some reason. It galloped off at top speed, as soon as I got off, with the horseman running and swearing after it.’

  Raven laughed aloud. Mili smiled. She marvelled at how his eyes changed colour with his emotions. When he used to scold her and Vicky, they used to flash angrily and turn dark; they looked almost black then. But right now, as he laughed, they looked light brown. He had the softest, warmest eyes she had ever seen.

  ‘Your horse must have seen a terror called Vicky approaching,’ he was now saying.

  She smiled sadly and said, ‘No, sir; Vicky was brilliant with horses. And they in turn used to love her.’ She again looked down at her hands and whispered, ‘It was Vicky’s dream to rid me of my fears and make me adept at horse riding one day.’

  Leaning forward, Raven put his forefinger under her chin.

  He had long, tapering fingers, Mili noticed. Slowly, she lifted up her eyes to his.

  ‘Let go of old dreams, Malvika,’ he said softly, ‘and new ones will follow.’

  Mili nodded, a lump in her throat and tears pricking her eyes.

  ‘And I’ll teach you to ride … but no …’ he said as he remembered something.

  Mili looked at him, puzzled.

  ‘Not any more. I can’t ride a horse any more, not after the accident.’

  ‘What exactly happened, sir?’

  ‘It happened a few months back, during one of the demonstrations against the English. Although it was a peaceful protest at the start, some of the revolutionaries got carried away and began pelting the English with hand grenades.’ Raven stopped speaking, pulled out a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his brow.

  ‘Someone threw a bomb at a building right next to where I sat on horseback. Prancer, my horse, panicked and reared up. I was thrown off his back. My knee hit a sharp rock as I fell. Prancer began to gallop. My left foot was still in the stirrups and I was dragged along for half a mile. My knee got totally smashed. When I came around, my foot was touching my knee as the bones and cartilages had got crushed. It’s a miracle I can walk still …’

  ‘It must have been so painful …’ Mili said.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ He frowned. ‘But why am I telling you all this? Go now,’ he said with a wave of his hand. ‘And remember to get a palanquin from tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I will.’

  ‘Good, now off with you,’ he said, and without waiting to see if she had left the room or not, he opened a file and began leafing through its contents.

  Shaking her head Mili quietly left the room.

  That night, Mili lay in bed, a book in one hand and absent-mindedly plucking the bobbles on the blanket with the other. She smiled to herself as she saw a face: Raven – his hazel eyes, his smile. She saw him throw back his head and laugh. He looked so handsome whenever he laughed – so young, boyish even. And he was laughing at her. He wasn’t scolding her, he was laughing. And then she heard him say, in a voice so tender … ‘Let go of your old dreams, Malvika, let go of your old dreams … and new ones will follow.’ Mili smiled again. She hugged her pillow, rolled over and tried to sleep.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A couple of days later, Mili and Mausi were walking down the cobbled streets of the inner Mall. They passed Vikram Bhandar, the local grocery store; then the tiny candle shop which sold candles of every shape and form. Candles in the shape of Christmas trees; candles shaped as ducks – yellow ducks, black ducks, red ducks, ducks with golden beaks and wings. She had bought a candle shaped like a beautiful Kathak dancer once. Vicky had lit it after the warden had turned off the lights, when she had managed to smuggle a copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover to the hostel. They had giggled through the night, until the entire candle had burnt away. What a mess that candle had left behind and what a lot of trouble they were in the next day.

  They had reached Mehta School Uniforms. Stepping inside the shop, Mausi and Mili sat down on the chairs provided, while the shopkeeper attended to another customer. Mili tapped the counter top with her fingers and looked around. She wrapped her coat tightly about her. It was extremely cold today and a fierce wind was blowing.

  Hearing footsteps, Mili turned around, and who should be coming up the steps leading to the shop? George. He looked stouter and more slothful than the last time she had seen him. Her first impulse was to hide. But it was too late. He had seen her.

  ‘Now, isn’t that our dear Malvika?’ he piped.

  Mili squirmed inwardly and looked at him with disgust. He had never addressed her so lovingly before. What was he playing at now, the bastard?

  ‘You seem to have forgotten the way to our house,’ he was saying. ‘Come over sometime. Ethel will be pleased to see you. She misses the two of you.’

  The gall of that man. Mili glared at him
, speechless. ‘You murderer!’ she shrieked. ‘Have you no shame? Speaking to me as though nothing has happened?’

  Uncle George looked around surreptitiously, nodded politely at Mausi who looked totally baffled, then said, ‘Now now, child, calm down. I have no idea what nonsense you’re talking about.’

  Oh, how she hated that man. Clenching her hands into fists, Mili opened her mouth and spat on his face.

  ‘Mili!’ exclaimed Mausi, shocked.

  Uncle George wiped his face with the ends of his muffler. ‘You forget who I am. You shall pay for this. Uncivilised heathens!’ he said, before turning on his heel and walking away.

  On the way back to Mausi’s house, sitting huddled in a palanquin, Mili felt her anger rise again as she remembered her encounter with George. The injustice of it all. Her innocent friend had paid with her life for a crime that he had committed, while he himself roamed free, totally unaffected by what had happened. The more Mili thought about it, the angrier she became.

  She did not sleep at all that night. By the time dawn was breaking, her mind was made up. Once she had completed her studies, she would do something to help other girls like Vicky and make sure people like George got what they deserved. She did not know how she was going to do it, but do it she would. ‘I’ll do it, Vicky,’ she whispered hoarsely to Vicky’s photograph, kept on her bedside table. Yes, she would make things happen. She’d show everyone how the British Raj was hollow and rotting from the inside. She’d make everyone sit up and listen. She would challenge the court. She would change the world in which innocents suffer and the criminals go scot-free. She would not let another Vicky commit suicide. You wait and see, George, you wait and see.

  Mili was still fuming over her encounter with George the previous day when Raven called her into his office during the lunch break. There was a small bouquet of flowers on his desk.

  ‘What type of flowers are these, sir?’