After the Storm (24 page)

‘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.

‘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?

She hid a mischievous grin as a thought flashed across
her mind. Looking sombre, she pointed to a cane chair next to her desk and said, ‘Kindly be seated.’

Raven sat down.

‘And what brings you here, sir?’ she said, leafing through the papers on her desk. She suppressed her smile as Raven scrunched up his eyes and studied her face.

He then gave her a lopsided smile and cleared his throat. ‘Ma’am, I’d sent an application for marriage some time back. I was wondering if you have been able to find the time to consider it.’

Mili pointed to the pile of papers on her desk. ‘I’ve had so much to do, I haven’t yet had the time to look at it.’

‘I’m sorry to have wasted your time. Good day to you, ma’am.’ He got up and turned to leave.

Mili could control herself no longer. She burst out laughing and flung her arms around his neck. ‘Of course I will marry you,’ she whispered.

Raven smiled and held her in a tight embrace. ‘I love you so much, my child-woman.’

‘I love you too, Raven S—’ But before she could say ‘sir’, he had covered her mouth with his.

And as they kissed, the rays of the setting sun filled the room with a warm glow. The day was about to end, only to be reborn the next day.

As a child, I spent nine glorious years of my life in the hill stations of Kumaon, now a part of Uttarakhand. I have drawn upon my childhood memories of places like Almora, Nainital, Pithoragarh – to create this idyllic village-town called Kishangarh.

The other two fictional places in the novel are Mohanagar and Shaampur, as also the river Bhoori. I chose these names as Mili, the protagonist of the novel is a devotee of Lord Krishna, who is also known by a number of other names including Kishan, Mohan and Shaam.