After the Storm

by Sangeeta Bhargava

  Mili stood still for a moment, not knowing what to do.

  Pointing to the table in the centre of the room, he said, ‘Put the blossoms on the table there and ask me to sit down here.’ And he pulled up a chair and sat down.

  ‘Yes,’ mumbled Mili and put the flowers down.

  Raven stole a glance at her. How beautiful she looked. And so peaceful. In her starched pink sari and a white blouse with lace around the edges. Her hair was tied neatly into two plaits. He looked around the simple hut. It had a cane table, some cane chairs, a small bed, a cupboard and some bookshelves in the name of furniture.

  ‘You mean to say, you have given up all that jewellery that you so loved, the palace, the luxuries, for this?’

  ‘I have indeed.’

  ‘Hmm …’ He propped his chin on the palms of his hands ‘I also heard Gandhi’s wife has to clean her own toilet in the ashram?’

  ‘I’m not that noble, sir. I refuse to clean the toilet and I still can’t accept sweets from a driver. But—’

  Raven put a finger on her lips. ‘But you have blossomed into a fine young lady and I’m proud to have taught you.’

  ‘Just proud?’

  ‘So does that mean that if I asked you to eat some beef to prove your love for me, you wouldn’t?’

  ‘Certainly not, sir.’

  Chuckling, Raven got up and took her hands in his. ‘Call me Raven,’ he whispered.

  Looking down, Mili answered, ‘How can I call you that, sir? It feels incomplete.’

  ‘You didn’t have any qualms calling me Ravan.’

  ‘Sir, it was Vicky … I called you that just once – when I made that drawing on the blackboard. It was Vicky who used to call you Ravan all the time.’

  ‘You want me to believe that?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said wringing her hands in the air. ‘I swear on Lord Kishan. I never called you that.’

  Raven chuckled again. ‘All right, I’ll believe you, if you get me some water.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said Mili. ‘That ought to have been the first thing I asked. You must think I’m a rotten hostess.’

  She came back from the kitchen with a glass of water. ‘Sir, how about some aloo-poori?’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to eat simple, live simple, in the ashram?’

  ‘Once in a while is all right, sir,’ she said with a grin as she made her way to the kitchen, with Raven close on her heels. ‘It’s not every day that I have a guest,’ she said as she took out some flour and prepared the dough.

  ‘Look at you now. You even know how to cook. Whoever would have thought? There was a time when you couldn’t even do your hair by yourself. Did you know, before I saw you for the first time, I’d been told you were a princess. But when I saw you – with your hair like Medusa’s – I said to myself, ‘Princess? No way. She’s too shabby to be a princess.’

  Mili laughed as she rolled out the pooris.

  Raven kept speaking.

  ‘You used to be such a girl back then. Twittering over silly things …’

  ‘So, I’m not a girl now?’ Mili asked, trying to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear with the back of her hand.

  ‘No, you aren’t,’ he replied, curbing the desire to hug her from behind. ‘You’re a woman now and a beautiful one at that …’ He pointed to the pooris she had rolled out. ‘I can’t say the same for these, though. Aren’t they supposed to be round?’

  Mili sniggered. ‘I was just trying to show you the new map of India.’ She picked up some potatoes and washed them under the tap. Then wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, she began to peel and dice them.

  ‘That’s not how you dice potatoes,’ said Raven. He snatched the knife from her hand. ‘Let me show you.’ Within seconds he had chopped up the potatoes into perfect one-inch-by-one-inch pieces.

  ‘I didn’t know you were so “at home” in the kitchen.’

  This time Raven did hug her from behind. ‘My dear child-woman, what you know about me is just the tip of the iceberg. Come with me to England and you’ll learn a lot more about me.’

  Shrugging out of his embrace, Mili turned around to face him.

  ‘You’re going back to England?’

  Raven looked away. ‘I have no choice.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I know I’m hated in this country, Mili.’

  ‘Because of your father?’

  ‘No. Because of the colour of my skin.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Others do. I regard myself an Indian, but they don’t. I can’t change the colour of my skin, can I?’

  Mili did not answer. He watched her quietly serve the food. They ate in an uncomfortable silence, the buzzing of mosquitoes the only sound that could be heard. Raven sought her eyes across the table but she refused to look at him.

  After they had finished eating, he walked over to where she was sitting. He lifted her chin with his finger and forced her to look into his eyes.

  ‘I’m leaving in two days. Will you at least come to the station to see me off?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then this is – goodbye?’

  She did not reply.

  Raven sighed and shrugged his shoulders. He opened the door and left the ashram as quietly as he had come. He felt shattered. He had hoped to propose to her, ask her to come with him to England. But alas! An evening that had started so well had gone all wrong. What was he to do now? Not a single day went by when he did not think about her or miss her. How was he going to live his entire life without her? Mother was unwilling to stay in India any more. And he was reluctant to leave his heart behind.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you, Lord Kishan,’ Mili muttered as she reached the platform. The train was still there. But where was Raven? Biting her lower lip, she looked around. She smiled with relief as she finally spotted him. She should have known. Where else could he be, but at the bookstall?

  ‘Sir,’ she said, running up to him.

  ‘I knew you’d come,’ said Raven with a smile. ‘But the train is about to leave.’ As he said so, the train blew the whistle. He ran towards his compartment, followed by Mili.

  She wanted to stop him, persuade him not to go, but then, did she really have the right to do that? After all, she wasn’t even sure what he felt for her. He had not said he loved her. Not even once. And the only relationship that ever existed between them – that of student and teacher – was no more.

  Raven stopped at the door, turned to face her and handed her a long-stemmed red rose, just as the guard blew the whistle.

  ‘I’ll write to you,’ he promised.

  She watched him as he climbed into the train, then turned around and waved to her from the door. ‘Sir, don’t go,’ she finally shouted. But the train had started pulling away.

  He put his hand next to his ear to indicate he could not hear her.

  Running on the platform to keep up with the moving train, Mili cupped her hands over her mouth and shouted, ‘Don’t go, sir!’ But the train had gathered speed. She had left it too late. She stood there for a long time, waving slowly, as the train chugged out of sight, brushing the petals of the rose against her cheek, her eyes shining with unshed tears. A similar train had taken her to Kishangarh, just six years ago, and her life had changed for ever. And now another train was taking her life away from her.

  It shouldn’t have left so soon. She felt cheated. There was so much she wanted to speak to Raven about, to persuade him not to go to England. But now, it was too late. She walked slowly out of the station, a long, lonely life stretching ahead of her. She stopped at the main entrance. She felt as though she had left something behind. She looked around, then checked her belongings. Her purse, her hanky, her money, they were all there. The only thing missing was her heart. And she had given it to someone whom she may never see again.

  ‘Memsahib.’

  It was her driver.

  ‘What is it, Bhootnath?’ she asked.
/>   ‘Rumours of Hindu–Muslim riots again. We better get out fast.’

  Mili hurried to the car. Riots had indeed broken out. As the car drove through the city, she saw hundreds of Hindus carrying sticks, torches and tridents attacking Muslim homes. Shouts of ‘Jai Shri Ram’ rent the air. The car was now moving at a snail’s pace. She cringed as she saw half-burnt houses, courtyards strewn with split grain, broken crockery, burnt wood, torn photographs and bits and pieces of other personal belongings. She watched in horror as some rioters looted a shop. They threw out all the furniture from the shop and made a bonfire of it in the middle of the road.

  ‘I think we better abandon car and hide, memsahib. I scared they might set it alight.’

  Mili nodded and ran out of the car. Keeping low, they made their way through the crowd to a by-lane. They kept running till they reached a small park and hid behind some thick bushes and hedges.

  ‘We wait here till dark,’ said Bhootnath. ‘Then we escape to ashram.’

  Nodding again, Mili looked around. It looked like a quiet residential area. The park, which must fill up with children on a normal evening, was empty today. Just then, a mob rounded the corner and approached the house opposite the park. They were Muslims. Mili held her breath. She watched in terror from behind the bushes as they banged on the door.

  A postman came along. ‘Why are you bothering them?’ he asked the throng.

  ‘We were told a wealthy Hindu family lives here,’ said someone from the crowd.

  ‘No they aren’t. They’re Muslims like you and me,’ said the postman.

  The crowd hesitated as they debated whether to believe the postman or not. They decided not to and broke down the door.

  ‘Bloody liar,’ shouted one of the men at the postman who was trying to slink away. He held him by his collar and kicked him hard. Mili gasped as the crowd then broke into the house and dragged a boy of about twelve and his father out. The boy was trembling and crying while his father was pleading with the irate Muslims to spare his son. But it was in vain. Mili covered her mouth with both her hands to stop herself from screaming as a dagger slit the boy’s throat. She closed her eyes, keeping her hands tightly clasped over her mouth, and sobbed silently. After what seemed like a very long time, there was silence. She listened carefully. All the voices had died away. Opening her eyes, she peered through the bushes. She could see the slashed bodies of the boy and his father covered in blood on the parapet in front of the house, under the peepul tree. They seemed to have been cut into pieces. Mili swallowed and closed her eyes again. She felt numb. And cold. As though a block of ice had been placed on her forehead.

  Much later that night, as Mili sat on a mat in her kitchen, holding a comforting cup of tea in her hands, she thought back on the happenings of that day. It seemed like one long nightmare. First the hasty goodbye to Raven, which left her feeling bereft, then the orgy of looting and bloodshed. And then the never-ending flight back to the ashram under cover of darkness. She had never run so much or so fast in her entire life.

  She felt a deep sadness. Like she had felt at the time of Gurpreet’s hanging. He had avenged Vicky’s death, but at what cost …? India was now free. But was this the price she was to pay for her freedom? ‘Our country has been reborn,’ she had heard people say. But was this hatred and killing what she and the rest of the country had been waiting for? Rejoicing for? Was this the new India that all the leaders had fought for, laid down their lives for?

  Maybe Raven was right to leave the country. How could anyone live in a place so wrought with hatred? She felt angry, drained. Today the Hindus and Muslims were at each other. Who knows? What if tomorrow they turned their hatred to the handful of English who had stayed behind? No, she would write to him. Tell him he mustn’t tarry and must leave this country as soon as possible.

  She got up and put away the cup. Sitting down at her desk, she tore a sheet of paper from her notebook. ‘Dear Raven Sir,’ she wrote. Then crumpled the paper and took out another sheet. ‘Dear Raven,’ she wrote again. Shaking her head shyly, she tore it up. ‘Dear sir …’ she finally wrote.

  It was the first week of January and cold winds had been sweeping from the north for almost a week. Mili wrapped her shawl tightly as she sat on the rug on the veranda, teaching a group of girls how to use the spinning wheel. She glanced at the gate for the tenth time that morning, to see if the postman was coming. No sign of him yet.

  It had been four months since Raven had left and four months since she had posted her letter to him. She hoped he had reached England safely by now. She tried to forget him, but she couldn’t. Eating, sleeping, working, drinking tea – he was constantly on her mind. If only he hadn’t come to her hut in the ashram. If only he had not touched her, held her, kissed her, it might have been easier to forget him. If only …

  ‘Sister, letter for you.’

  Mili looked up. It was the postman. Finally. She snatched both the letters that he held out to her and ran indoors. Bolting the door, she tore open one envelope. It was from Vidushi. She and Jatin had settled down in a small village in Nepal, it said. They had a two-year-old son. Now that India was free, she felt it was safe to finally get in touch with her again. Mili looked at the other envelope. It was from Mausi. Her heart sank.

  ‘Didi, come fast,’ called out one of the girls from the veranda.

  Leaving Vidushi and Mausi’s letters on the desk, Mili scurried outside. She was needed in the office. A badly beaten woman, found by the side of a road, had been brought in. She was too scared to tell anyone who had hit her. ‘Must be her useless husband,’ Mili muttered as she examined her. She gave instructions to the girls to take her to one of the huts and to call the nurse.

  Much later, as she came back to her hut and sat down to eat, her eyes fell on the unopened envelope from Mausi. Mili chuckled. She was sure she must have written, ‘I hope you’re reading the Ramayana everyday and not forgetting to wash your hands before meals.’

  She opened the envelope and began to read. My dear child-woman … This did not sound like Mausi. With a thumping heart, Mili quickly turned the sheets over. It was signed – Raven. But the letter had come from Kishangarh. That’s why she had thought it was from Mausi. She looked at the envelope. Yes, the stamp on it clearly said Kishangarh. Puzzled, she started reading the letter again.

  My dear child-woman,

  You will be surprised to see the postmark. Most of the English students have left Kishangarh, as also a large number of the English teachers. I ought to have left as well, but after much deliberation, I decided not to. How could I? At least not until the doctors have devised a way of staying alive in one country while one’s heart resides in another. Until such a day, I have decided to continue staying in Kishangarh …

  I know this is the coward’s way, but I don’t think I will ever be able to say this to you face to face. Maybe because I was your teacher once upon a time or maybe it is my ego …

  I don’t know where to begin. Do you remember what I said to you at the party in Lakeview Club that night? That I was falling in love with you? I meant it then, just as I mean it now … It killed me when you came to me the next day and I had to lie to you. And the look on your face when I said I didn’t remember anything – it cut me to pieces. I felt like a worm …

  But what could I do? I was your teacher. I was eleven years older than you. I had to let you go … grow … blossom …

  And after you left Kishangarh and the years flew past, I thought I had got over my feelings for you. But the truth is, when I saw you last year again in Kishangarh, I found myself falling in love with you all over again.

  When you came to my house that evening, you were this woman who spoke so zealously about her work, her organisation, her paper, her dreams – so different from the child-woman I had kissed goodbye some years ago. And yet the same smile, though not that shy any more, just a little, perhaps. And the same laughter, the same dark, intense eyes. Do you know how beautiful your eyes look when they flash with
anger or excitement? I knew then that this was the woman I wished to have and hold for the rest of my life.

  There is one image of you that I can never get out of my mind. Do you know which one? When we had gone to Hem Parvat and you had quietly slipped your little hand into my large calloused hand so trustingly, so innocently, so confidently, that I had almost lost control …

  We will have a wonderful life together, Malvika … Cooking together, like we did at the ashram, reading together, setting up our home together. I am waiting eagerly for you to say yes and be mine.

  Yours truly,

  Raven.

  P.S. By the way, will you marry me?

  P.P.S. I forgot to mention, in the last letter that you wrote to me, there were three grammatical errors and four spelling mistakes. The comma was also missing on two occasions.

  ‘Oh sir, I’m not your student any more,’ Mili muttered with a grin. She kissed the letter, held it close to her bosom with both her hands and swirled around, doing a little jig.

  Mili was sitting at her desk, looking through some papers, when one of the inmates of the ashram announced that there was an English gentleman here to see her. Mili looked up. Raven? ‘Send him to my hut,’ she replied. Her heart began to beat erratically. She took a deep breath. ‘Relax, Mili, relax,’ she told herself.

  Five minutes later, Raven lifted the khus mat hanging over the door and walked in. He wore a white shirt with sleeves rolled back carelessly and a pair of khaki trousers. He looked like that Greek god he had taught them about in the English class. What was his name? Adonis?