The Unexpected Son (3 page)

W
aiting for a brief lull in the heavy late afternoon traffic, Vinita hastily crossed the street. College Road was lined with businesses that sold everything from saris to shoes, grains to office supplies. Vishnu Cinema Theater and the Free-Zee Ice Cream shop were snugly tucked in between a cobbler shop and a bookstore.

The theater and the ice cream parlor were the two businesses that attracted the young crowds the most.

Between the automobiles, rickshaws, bicycles, pedestrians, and stray animals, it was a wonder there weren't more traffic accidents in this neighborhood. Drivers just seemed to slither and sway in and out of one another's way by instinct, like schools of fish in the ocean.

She stopped briefly to study the giant poster planted outside the theater, advertising the movie she and her friends were planning to see the following Sunday as a post-exam celebration. Then they would go next door to have a cup of tutti-frutti ice cream and discuss the movie, critique it, moan about it, laugh over it.

Engrossed in admiring the movie's hero, the dashing man she had a secret crush on, she paid little attention to her surroundings.

The bustle of pedestrian traffic didn't bother her. People carrying loaded
pishwis
—shopping bags made of jute—pushed past her with their burdens. Brushing against one another in that casual fashion, yet ignoring everyone was the norm in the swarming streets of their town.

The odors of fresh vegetables, flowers, and herbs mingled with the stench of the semi-open sewers of the back alleys. No amount of modernization seemed to stop certain segments of the population from using the more discreet alleys as public toilets. Palgaum's laid-back residents seemed to accept it without complaint.

But Vinita noticed such things, disliked them, disdained them. Sometime in the not too distant future, she'd get out of Palgaum and its cloistered environment, just like her brother had. She had dreams of finding a career in a big city, where she could earn her own living, be independent. Two more years and she'd be out of here. She wouldn't have to put up with Papa and Mummy's conservative ideas and their constant reminders about how a good Marathi girl should behave.

If and when she decided to get married, she'd choose a man who respected her choices in life, allowed her the freedom to have a job, and treated her as an equal. She stared longingly at the hero on the poster. Now
there
was a man who loved a woman like she deserved to be loved. And he was so damn handsome, too.

She bit back a delighted grin at the thought of seeing him in all his heroic glory on the movie screen soon. Sunday couldn't come soon enough.

Behind her the rickshaws and scooters putt-putted like buzzing insects, raising clouds of red dust and exhaust. And the automobiles honked for no apparent reason. Many of the folks who could afford a car loved to show off their expensive toys by tooting their horns. That, too, was something the townsfolk took in stride.

Well, her father owned a car, too, albeit an outdated Fiat with a rusty bumper. But someday she'd have a car of her own.

In the next instant, raised voices startled her out of her fanciful thoughts. She turned her attention back to the road.

As she resumed walking down the footpath, she saw a crowd of men rushing toward her, shouting something. They were chasing two young men who seemed to be running away from them. Both were barefoot. One of them had his white shirt hanging open, exposing his skinny chest and belly.

The unexpectedness of it made her freeze in her tracks. The two men, or rather boys, sped by, nearly knocking her down. Even at that speed she could see the sweat running down their faces, smell their fear. Instinctively she huddled against the nearest store window so she wouldn't get trampled by the angry mob pursuing them.

They whooshed past her like a cresting ocean wave, men of various ages, colors, and sizes. “
Saalyana thaar maara!
” they chanted in Marathi. Kill the bastards.

Vinita's stunned eyes followed them. Who were they? What was going on?

It took her confused mind a moment to recognize another Kannada-Marathi clash. The two language-based factions, the one that spoke the Kannada language and the other that spoke Marathi, were constantly warring with each other.

As a border town located on the dividing line between two states, with two distinctly different languages and somewhat differing cultures, for several decades Palgaum had been the hotbed of cultural clashes and riots, many of them violent. Palgaum's population consisted of approximately equal numbers of individuals from both sides, with each group vying for supremacy.

Although Karnataka, the Kannada state, officially claimed Palgaum as part of its territory, the Marathi faction refused to accept the fact. They'd vowed to fight, and keep fighting to make Palgaum a part of Maharashtra, the state of the Marathi people. There was no end in sight for the bitter feud.

Vinita observed the scene, realizing there had been no warning about anything like this in the papers. If there was a planned communal march, it was usually announced ahead of time to prepare the townsfolk. And Vinita and her friends stayed home on those days. It wasn't safe for young women to be outdoors when violence could erupt at any moment. Her parents would never have allowed her to walk home alone if they'd known about this.

As she continued to watch in fascinated horror, the pursuers caught up with the two boys, and surrounded them like a swarm of killer bees, spilling into the street. They were no more than a hundred feet away from where she stood. All the traffic converging onto the intersection came to a screeching halt. It was a miracle no one was run over.

Although she couldn't see through the thick circle of enraged men, she clearly heard the sounds of violence—the dull thuds and thwacks, the crack of splintering bones. Pained moans from the victims made her cringe.

Those boys were being beaten mercilessly. Oh dear God! They'd never survive. She looked about her, eyes wide with desperation. Why didn't someone do something to help those poor chaps?

Several other pedestrians stood frozen beside her and stared, helpless to do anything. She'd seen minor skirmishes, heard irate cursing and threats tossed around, and she'd read about the thoughtless carnage resulting from these cultural clashes, but this was the first time she had witnessed a violent incident.

Gradually some of her fellow gapers came out of their trance, started to move, and advanced toward the crowd. A few brave men plunged into the fray in an attempt to stem the damage.
“Bus kara, baba.”
Stop it, fellows.

A minute later, two policemen arrived on foot, pulled out their
lathis
—wooden sticks—and started to tackle the melee. Nonetheless, several seconds later the frenzied mob was still at it, and the policemen seemed powerless against what could only amount to potential slaughter.

Vinita's feet were glued to the pavement, despite her disgust. How could people casually beat someone to death like that? And all in the name of caste, language, and culture? The sheer horror of it made her stomach turn. Without warning she started shaking.

She hugged her handbag to herself, turned around and leaned her forehead against the store's sun-heated window, fiercely trying to curb the nausea and bring her racing heartbeat under control. She could not—would not—shatter to pieces in the middle of a busy street. She had to get home somehow. If she could only stop trembling.

Feeling a firm hand clamp over her shoulder, she stiffened. When she attempted to scream, what emerged was a weak squeal.

“Shh, don't panic,” said a calm voice—a vaguely familiar one. “It's okay.”

She pivoted on her heel and faced him. “Mr. Kori!”

“Are you all right?” he asked, the usual frown deepening with concern.

She swallowed to restrain the fear and nausea, shook her head. The crowd gathering around the scene was swelling, their voices getting louder. While she'd been trying to gain control over herself, most of the people around her had shifted to watch the action. They were certainly braver than she. “I—I…saw what just h-happened and I…” She was stuttering like a baby learning to talk.

“I understand,” he said, sounding like a worried father. “I saw it, too.”

His sympathy, instead of helping to alleviate her dread, made it worse. Tears started to burn her eyelids. “I'm sorry. I've never seen anything…like this before.”

“Why should
you
be sorry?” He narrowed his eyes against the sun and turned his head to look at the mob. “It's those prejudiced
goondas
who are up to their bloody riots again.”

More policemen arrived in a Jeep. They joined the others who were still trying, without success, to contain the crowd.

“Maybe now they can do something about it,” Vinita croaked, trying to wipe away the hot tears dampening her cheeks.

The troop of uniformed men charged the mob with their
lathis
and the crowd finally started breaking up. The moaning from the victims had stopped a while ago. It wasn't a promising sign.

Som Kori turned his attention back to her. “I'm sorry you had to witness that.” Noticing her tears, he pulled out a blue and white checked handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.

“Thank you, Mr. Kori,” she said, accepting the kerchief. She dried her eyes and nose with as much poise as she could muster. It was deplorable to expose her fragility in front of the strongest, most sought-after boy in college. Inside, he was probably laughing at her for being such a weakling.

“Som,” he reminded her gently, examining her face. There was no sign of amusement in his expression, only concern.

“Thank you…Som,” she repeated. How had he managed to show up when she was at her most vulnerable? And how could he look so cool and unruffled after what he'd just witnessed? She caught a flash of that hard-as-steel strength again. Was he as cold as steel deep down, too? Or was it just a façade to mask something else?

“I'm glad I happened to be only a few steps behind you,” he said, dismissing her gratitude. “I saw what was happening.” He scowled in the direction of the crowd. “Bastards! They're out for blood. I'm ashamed to call myself a Kannada man when I see such behavior,” he spat out.

She knew what he meant. It was disgusting what her fellow Marathi folks did in the name of communalism. From what she'd gathered, at the moment they were doing a fine job of butchering those Kannada boys.

“Those young chaps could be dead,” Som said, voicing her own fears.

She shuddered at his words. These kinds of violent conflicts between the factions were happening too often in Palgaum lately. And the bloodshed was escalating each year, too. Sometimes a minor disagreement turned into a battle. Nearly a dozen casualties had affected both sides within the past three years.

Along with Som she watched as several members of the offending gang were rounded up, handcuffed, and tossed into the police van like sacks of potatoes.

The sad part was, there wasn't an iota of remorse on any of their faces. Although most of them looked either angry or defiant, one or two of them sported smug smiles.

She saw one of the policemen go down on his knees to examine the fallen youths. Their clothes were filthy now, and soaked with blood. They lay facedown on the street, limp as rag dolls. The policeman gingerly turned one of them over onto his back. The face was a mangled mass of blood and flesh. Vinita turned away in despair. The nausea returned in a rush.

“Let's hope that's the end of that,” said Som, expelling a long sigh.

“It's not over yet,” she cried, pressing her bag to her churning stomach. “It'll never be over as long as the clashes continue.”

“You're probably right.”

They stood in silence for a minute, immersed in their own thoughts. Then he finally said, “They're loading them in the Jeep. Probably driving them to a hospital.”

Or the morgue,
figured Vinita, swallowing her distaste. Their town didn't even have an ambulance. Patients were driven to hospitals in ordinary vehicles. Now that the moment had more or less passed, she realized the enormity of what had just happened.

“You're shaking.” Som scowled again as the Jeep took off, belching puffs of exhaust. “Why don't I buy you a cup of coffee? You look like you need something to calm your nerves.”

She shook her head. How could he mention coffee when two young men had just been battered to a pulp?

“I know what you're thinking,” he said, reading her thoughts. “But there's not much you and I can do for those chaps. The police will take care of them.” He gave a casual shrug. “The world is full of violence, Vinita. Let me help you feel a little better.”

At his words she instinctively raised her hand to pat her disheveled hair back into place. There wasn't much she could do about her swollen eyes. “Thanks, but that's not necessary.”

“You need to collect yourself before you go home.”

That part was true, Vinita allowed. She couldn't return home looking like she did. Her mother would want to know the reason for it. Taking a few calming breaths, she willed her stomach to settle. As her mind started to function more rationally, a thought occurred. “Did you say you were close behind me?”

He nodded.

“But you don't live around here.” Everyone knew the Kori family lived in a more exclusive part of town. In a mansion, no less.

“Well…actually I was trying to catch up with you when it all started,” he said.

“Why?” All at once she became conscious of the people around them. Now that the crime scene had been cleared, a few were staring at Som and her.

“Because I wanted to talk to you in private,” he confessed. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigarette and a bright red, plastic lighter. With practiced ease he held one hand against the breeze, lit the cigarette, and pocketed the lighter.