After the Storm (12 page)

‘What was a dead cockroach doing in your pocket?’ asked Mili.

‘It looked so real, didn’t it?’ whispered Vicky. ‘But it’s not. I bought it from one of the Tibetan shops. When you were busy looking at the jewellery.’ She stopped speaking as she concentrated on cutting a piece of the chicken. ‘I was thinking of putting it in Ravan’s drawer. But, well …’ She shrugged her shoulders as she put the fork into her mouth.

The two friends quietly trekked back to the hostel, after enjoying a sumptuous meal at Nataraj. It was late evening and getting dark. Vicky burped loudly, then grinned as Mili looked at her in horror.

‘Be glad one of the teachers didn’t hear you,’ said Mili. ‘She would have jumped into her grave.’

‘These teachers don’t know anything. Nothing can beat the taste of a fraudulent chicken curry,’ Vicky said as she winked at Mili.

‘The poor chicken must be turning in its gravy,’ grinned Mili.

‘Very funny,’ said Vicky as she stuck out her tongue. She looked at Mili thoughtfully. ‘Mili?’

‘Yes?’

‘What would you have done if Bauji hadn’t given permission?’

‘But he did, Vicky. Lord Kishan meant us to be together, for ever. So the question doesn’t arise, you see.’

Vicky smiled. This is what she loved about her friend. She saw life so simply. ‘Your Lord Kishan has an answer for everything?’

‘Of course. He’s omniscient, omnipotent—’

Vicky covered Mili’s mouth with her hand. ‘And omnivorous,’ she finished for Mili.

Mili laughed. ‘That’s not Lord Kishan. That’s you.’

The two girls hastened their pace. The opposite hill was shrouded in indigo-grey rain clouds. The rain would soon be upon them. They ran into their room, still chatting and laughing, and found Angel waiting for them.

‘Your Uncle George was here,’ she said.

‘Whatever for?’ Vicky asked.

‘Your mother had called him up.’

‘Mummum?’

‘She was worried about you. Apparently, you haven’t spoken to her in ages?’

‘I’d better go. If I don’t call Mummum tonight she won’t be able to sleep,’ Vicky mumbled as she hurriedly put a set of nightclothes in her bag.

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Mili.

‘No no, Mili,’ said Vicky. ‘I’ll go myself. I’ll be back in the morning. Before school starts.’

‘It’s drizzling,’ Mili said, looking out of the window.

Vicky pulled out her mackintosh from under the bed and put it on. There was a clap of thunder.

‘Looks like a storm,’ said Mili.

‘Stop worrying,’ said Vicky, putting an arm around
Mili’s shoulder as they left the room. ‘I’m not made of sugar. I won’t melt.’

‘Don’t forget to sign the register,’ Angel called out after them.

Vicky shook her head and looked at Mili. They both laughed. ‘What would we do without our guardian angel?’ she said. Just as she was about to cross the road, a grey cat ran across.

‘Come back, Vicky,’ Mili yelled from the hostel door. ‘A cat just crossed your path. It’s bad luck.’

Vicky chuckled. ‘Mili, stop being superstitious.’ She waved to her, blew her a kiss and was off, her bag bobbing up and down as she marched down the hill.

She thought of Mummum. She felt guilty she hadn’t written or called her in a month. Her sweet, huggable Mummum. How helpless and lonely she must have felt after Papa’s death. All her relatives had cut off ties with her after she affronted them by marrying a
cow-eating
Englishman. And then the person for whom she had given up everything had left her – alone, with three children.

It was then that Mili’s mother, the ever-practical Queen of Mohanagar, had come to her rescue.

‘How can I work now? How will I cope with the house, the children, the loss of Francis?’ Mummum had protested.

‘If you don’t work now, you never will,’ Her Highness had said quietly.

Mummum had her doubts. Even though she had done some training in nursing, the only practice she had was on the cuts and bruises of her three brats. Yes,
Mummum had worked hard to bring the three of them up. Sometimes, by the time she got home, it would be very late. And even though tired and hungry, she’d sit beside them and ask them how their day had been. And if they were already asleep, she’d let Vicky sleep, but wake Michelle and Claudia up to enquire about her.

Vicky smiled sadly to herself. Children can be so cruel sometimes. The next day she would tell Mummum she was a terrible mother, coming home late at night, leaving her kids all alone. Mummum would laugh then, her loud boisterous laugh, and pulling her cheeks, say, ‘Sorry, Grandma, it won’t happen again.’ Vicky would then feel very pleased and grown-up for telling off her own mother. She’d push back her spectacles, then with nose in the air, she’d say, ‘It’s all right. Next time be home before dark.’ Mummum would give her a salute and say, ‘Aye aye, captain.’

The drizzle had now turned into a heavy downpour. Vicky hastened her pace. Kishangarh was depressing during the monsoons. Not like Mohanagar, where she could make paper boats and splish-splosh in the puddles all day. But the smell of rain was the same. Oh, how she loved the earthy, heavenly smell of rain. It was just seven in the evening but it was already dark. A solitary frog croaked noisily from a nearby puddle. Vicky pulled up the collar of her mackintosh to stop the raindrops from seeping in. A strong, gusty wind brought with it the stench of an overflowing bin. Vicky stepped aside to let a mother and her little boy pass. The boy tripped and let out a long, annoying wail.

But the rains were a little different tonight, she
thought, as she heard the thunder rumble, followed by a streak of lightning. She ducked instinctively. There was more variety today. As though the rain of the last few days had been a rehearsal and today was the final performance, with all the sound and light effects.

Aunt Ethel’s marigold-coloured house soon came into view. Vicky looked at it through a veil of rain. It did not look pretty and sunny any more – rather, like a stain on a rain-shrouded Kishangarh. The gate creaked as she opened it. It was wet and slimy and smelt of rust.

‘So you decided to grace us with your presence,’ said Uncle George as the servant led Vicky into the living room.

Vicky looked at him as he lay sprawled on the sofa, smoking a hookah. When Mummum had told her she had an uncle in Kishangarh and he was a collector, she had visualised him as a lean, athletic, suave man, not a slothful hippo. She looked around as she unbuttoned her mackintosh. ‘Where’s Aunt Ethel?’ she asked.

‘Her father was very ill. She rushed to Calcutta a couple of days back. He died this morning.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Vicky mumbled. This was great. The day just kept getting better. Now she had to sit and make small talk with Uncle George. She looked down at her feet. Drops of water were dripping from her raincoat and forming a puddle where she stood. Absent-mindedly, she began tracing a pattern on the water with her shoe.

‘I think you’d better speak to your mother,’ said Uncle George, pointing to the telephone. ‘She sounded rather worried.’

‘Yes,’ replied Vicky as she took off her mackintosh and
handed it to the servant. She picked up the mouthpiece and waited for the operator to connect the line.

‘Hello, Mummum?’

‘Victoria, my poppet,’ Mummum gushed. ‘How are you? Why haven’t you written to me or called me up for so long?’

‘I’m fine, Mummum. Don’t you worry,’ replied Vicky.

‘The telephone in your hostel is always engaged,’ said Mummum. ‘And I heard about your aunt. Please give her my condolences.’

‘I will, Mummum.’ She paused to look at the servant who was standing at the door. He had come to announce that dinner had been served. ‘I’ve to go now,’ she said into the mouthpiece. ‘I’ll call you again. Soon.’

Dinner was a dismal affair. Well, not quite, since Uncle George had decided to have his meal in silence, which suited Vicky just fine. She had already eaten, so she just nibbled at some salad. After the servants had left and she sat on the sofa in the living room, sipping her coffee, Uncle George finally broke his silence.

‘I heard you were almost expelled from school,’ he said. ‘Have you come here to study or to run riot with boys all night?’

Ah, so that was the reason for the silence. Wouldn’t do a collector good to admonish his niece for playing truant in front of the servants, would it now? Vicky smiled disdainfully at his choice of words.
Run riot
indeed.

‘They’re my friends.’

‘But why? Why do you spend so much time with those bloody natives? Your father was English, have you forgotten?’

‘So? My mother is an Indian. I live in India. I look like an Indian. I
am
an Indian. And what I do is none of your business,’ she replied. She realised her voice had gone shrill and she was shouting.

‘Oh yes it is. I’m your local guardian, remember? And while you’re in my charge, there’s no way I’m going to let you become a hussy like that mother of yours.’

Vicky walked slowly towards Uncle George, anger written all over her face. ‘How could you speak about my mother in that manner?’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘How dare you? Just because she’s an Ind—’

‘Ha! Don’t I know? She was pregnant even before she tied the knot with Francis.’

Vicky was livid. Before she knew what she was doing, she had slapped Uncle George right across his face. He looked stunned for a moment. And then he slapped her right back, so hard that Vicky staggered and almost lost her balance. ‘How dare you?’ he spat out. ‘You hit
me
? The Collector of Kishangarh? Whom everyone respects?’ he barked as he pushed her down on the floor. He pinned her hands above her head with one hand and hit her again with the other. This time the blow landed on her nose and it began to bleed.

Vicky’s eyes widened with fear as he fumbled with his trouser buttons. She tried to pull her hands free but his grip was much too strong. He was now on top of her. She felt suffocated. His heavy frame was smothering her. She wriggled as he yanked up her frock and tried to push him off with her feet, but he was much too heavy. Vicky began to shake and broke out in a sweat.
Her heart was beating rapidly. She felt numb. And cold. So cold. She wanted to scream, but all that escaped her lips was a defeated sob. She heard a clap of thunder. She had always been afraid of thunderstorms. ‘Papa,’ she sobbed.

Raven massaged his knee with his hand. It had been a long day. He switched off his lamp and was about to get into bed when there was a frantic knock on the door. It was still raining heavily. He frowned. Who could be out in this kind of weather? Pulling on his robe over his pyjamas, he answered the door. Gurpreet, Jatin and two other boys rushed inside even before he could ask them to come in. Gurpreet shut and bolted the door, then leant against it with a sigh.

Raven raised a brow as he looked at him and then at the other three lads. ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Have you lost your notes again?’

‘No, sir – the police,’ replied Jatin, panting.

‘What?’ asked Raven.

Just then there was a knock on the door. Raven pursed his lips and looked at the boys. They looked at him pleadingly, with folded hands. Pointing to a door, he
said, ‘Go into the living room.’ Once the boys had done his bidding, he opened the main door. There were two policemen.

‘Yes?’ he said.

‘Some natives have been creating trouble at the theatre. They made their escape before we could catch them,’ said one of the policemen.

‘What kind of trouble?’ asked Raven.

‘They were enticing the Indians to protest against the management for not being allowed in the balcony,’ said the same policeman. ‘They might have come this way. Have you seen them?’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Raven replied brusquely. He looked at his watch and then pointedly at the two men at the door.

‘We’re sorry to have bothered you at this hour, sir,’ said the other policeman. ‘We shall take our leave.’

Nodding, Raven shut the door. He strode into the living room. ‘You lads have some cheek. Coming to your teacher’s house in the dead of the night to hide from the police? What were you thinking?’

He glared at Gurpreet and Jatin as they looked at each other.

‘But sir …’ said Gurpreet. ‘You yourself said we could come to you for help any time, day or night …’

‘As students. For your studies,’ barked Raven.

‘You helped Vidushi, sir, so I though—’ muttered Jatin.

‘That was a different matter,’ said Raven walking out of the room. He came back after five minutes with a couple of blankets that smelt of mothballs. Throwing
them on the sofa, he said, ‘You can stay the night in this room. But I want you out of here at daybreak. Have I made myself clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the boys answered softly in unison.

Raven left the room.

‘I told you so,’ he heard Gurpreet speak and stopped at the door to listen.

‘After all, he’s an Angrez. Son of a murderer. These firangis are no good, Jatin. You can never trust them. Never ever.’

Raven strode back into the room and walked up to Gurpreet. ‘I’m sorry for what happened to your grandparents, but I had nothing to do with it. I was only six. It wasn’t in my hands, was it?’ He retied the belt of his gown which had come undone and looked Gurpreet in the eye. ‘It was my father who did it. And who knows? Maybe it wasn’t in his hands either? Maybe he had no choice but to obey the orders.’

Gurpreet smiled scornfully. ‘If you say so, sir.’

‘Look, I’m not here to defend my father,’ said Raven. ‘Hell, I don’t even know whether he still lives or is no more. All I’m saying is that I’m not him.’ He waved a finger at the four of them. ‘If I was, you’d all be in prison right now.’

With that he left the room and made his way slowly to his bedroom. Taking off his slippers and robe, he lay down, but sleep eluded him. He lay on his bed, his head resting on his arm, staring up at the ceiling. He wondered why he was so upset. Was he upset because his own students were plotting against his fellow brethren? Was he really angry with them or with
himself? Because he did not know where he belonged? Because he himself could not decide whether he was English or Indian?

The next morning dawned bright and sunny. As though the storm that had raged all night had never happened. Raven squinted as he traversed the short gravel path leading up to the church. He winced as the church bells began to ring. He had slept badly and his head hurt. He was about to enter the church when he heard a voice from behind.

‘I say, Raven …’

He stopped in his tracks and turned around. It was the vice chancellor.

‘Yes, Prof. Keating?’ he said, stepping back and away from the door to let the others enter.

Prof. Keating led him to the back of the church. ‘It has come to my notice that you gave shelter to some Indian boys in your house last night,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘You hid them from the police. Are you insane, Raven?’

Raven raised a brow. News travelled fast in Kishangarh.

‘I did no such thing, Professor,’ Raven lied. ‘They were my students and had come to me for help with Shakespeare.’

‘This is most irregular,’ said Professor Keating, shaking his head.

‘What is, Professor? I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

‘Oh yes you do,’ said Professor Keating giving him a long hard look.

Raven looked askance.

Prof. Keating spoke again. ‘You’re getting too involved with your students, Raven. Protocol requires a certain distance be maintained.’

‘Yes, Professor, I shall keep that in mind.’

‘You had better. Otherwise the consequences can be worse than you could ever imagine.’

‘Yes, Professor. Good day to you,’ said Raven, lifting the edge of his cap slightly, and he walked into the church without waiting for Prof. Keating to reply. He sat on the empty pew right at the back and closed his eyes as the smell of roses and lilies enveloped him. It was peaceful in there. He wished he could say the same for himself.

Mili was still in bed. She could hear the other inmates stirring – washing, cleaning, getting dressed. She knew she ought to get out of bed, but she didn’t feel like attending classes today. Not today, not the rest of the week, not ever. She wished Bhoomi was there with her. To tidy her bed, help her dress, braid her hair and to bring her breakfast in bed. Mili rolled over on her stomach. Then propping her chin on a hand, she lifted the curtain with the other and looked out of the window. She blinked as she looked at the calm sun. Not a trace of the storm last night. There wasn’t a single cloud in the sky. Not even those soft, fluffy clouds that looked like cotton balls. It promised to be a beautiful day. And yet she felt that lurking fear, the kind of dread she had felt seeing the look on Ma’s face – just a minute before she had told her that Nani was no more.

The door creaked open and Vicky walked into the
room quietly. Mili looked at her, surprised. It was not like Vicky to enter a room softly. She burst into rooms. ‘What’s wrong?’ Mili asked as Vicky slumped down on her bed. Mili let out a gasp of horror as Vicky lifted up her eyes and looked at her. Her eyes – they were not twinkling. They were dull, vacant and lifeless and were staring at the wall beyond.

Mili looked at her friend carefully. Her lips were puffy, as were her cheeks. There were scratches and bruises on her cheeks and neck. Her frock was torn at one shoulder and crumpled. Mili clutched Vicky’s hands. ‘What happened, Vicky? Didn’t you go to Uncle—?’

‘He raped me, Mili,’ Vicky sobbed, tears flowing down her cheeks. ‘First he hit me … my nose and lips were bleeding.’

Mili wrapped her arms around her friend.

‘It … hurt … so much,’ said Vicky. She was crying hysterically now.

Mili held her best friend to her bosom, her tears falling onto Vicky’s face and mingling with her own. They clung to each other, holding tight, cradling each other and crying softly – for a long time.

‘I want Papa. I need him. He’ll clobber him …’ Vicky sobbed, as she put her head on Mili’s lap, her knees drawn up.

‘Shh,’ whispered Mili, caressing her hair and face. ‘I know, Vicky, I know. Relax. Don’t speak any more.’

‘Mummum will die. She was so happy. That I got admission here. How proud she was. Announced it to the whole world. This will kill her. She can’t show her face to anyone. No more.’

‘No, Vicky, she loves you,’ said Mili, wiping her tears with the back of her hands.

‘But I’ve let her down. She always called me her bravest child. She’ll never forgive me. For being such a coward.’ Vicky started shivering uncontrollably. ‘I’m cold – very, very cold,’ she whispered.

Mili wrapped a shawl around her, then covered her legs with a blanket. She then started rubbing her hands with hers. Vicky slowly drifted off into a deep sleep.

Getting up, Mili hastily got dressed. She had to get some help. Should she get a doctor? But she didn’t know any doctors in Kishangarh. Who should she go to? She’d go to the warden. Yes. She’d know what to do. She went to the warden’s room and was about to knock on the door when Angel appeared out of nowhere.

‘She’s away. The dean is in charge now,’ said Angel.

‘Dean? Raven Sir?’

‘Yes, now if you’ll excuse me, I’m getting late for class. And you’d better hurry as well.’

Mili hesitated outside the hostel building. She wasn’t sure what she ought to do. It was Vicky who always decided what was to be done in moments of crisis. Should she speak to Raven Sir? But he hated the two of them. But then, he was also in charge. Yes, he would know what to do. Mili headed for the faculty residences. She banged frantically on Raven Sir’s door. No answer. She banged again. And again. Then tired, emotionally and physically, she sat down on the parapet at the edge of the front garden. She gazed absently at the dirty gutter flowing behind the parapet. She thought of Vicky, her bruised appearance and what she had told her. She
wasn’t sure she fully understood the meaning of rape, but it must be something horrific to have affected Vicky in that manner.

Now, where was Raven Sir? It must be around ten o’clock in the morning. Mili knew he didn’t have any class that morning. Then where? Could he be taking a class in MP College? Mili scratched her head. Or maybe he was in the library? Yes, it was his favourite haunt. Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

He was indeed in the library. Mili rushed over to his table. ‘Sir, sir …’ she said.

Raven put his forefinger on his lips. ‘This is the library,’ he said in a low voice. ‘We can’t talk here, as you know. Wait for me outside. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

‘It can’t wait,’ Mili said, on the verge of tears.

‘What is it?’ Raven folded his arms and looked at her.

Mili averted her gaze. ‘Sir, Vicky has been raped.’

‘What?’ said Raven, shocked.

Mili nodded her head.

‘Where is she?’ he asked.

‘In the hostel.’

Raven sprang to his feet and followed Mili to the hostel. It was eerily quiet. All the inmates were attending class. Mili tried to open the door of her room but couldn’t. It was bolted from the inside. Raven banged on the door and called out Vicky’s name several times. Mili did the same. She then looked at Raven and wondered what they ought to do now. He did not reply, but taking a short run, threw himself at the door. Nothing happened. He did it again. And again. The fourth time the bolt gave
way and the door opened. Raven fell into the room.

‘Oh Christ,’ she heard him mutter as she entered the room. She stared. And stared. Beads of perspiration broke out on her forehead. She wanted to scream but not a sound left her throat. She turned white and clutched onto Raven’s sleeve.

Vicky’s body swung from the ceiling fan, Mili’s red dupatta wrapped tightly around her neck.