Читать книгу The Unexpected Son - Shobhan Bantwal - Страница 11

Waiting 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.

Vinita felt something flutter inside her breast as she watched him draw the smoke deep into his lungs, then exhale very slowly, like it was the most sublime experience he’d ever had. In that instant she almost envied that cigarette he smoked with such total reverence.

“I see,” she said.

“Glad you understand.” The breeze disturbed his hair and he lifted a hand to tame it.

To be honest, she didn’t understand. She understood even less the joyful little thump in her chest at watching him do something as simple as rake his fingers through his thick hair.

She and Prema usually walked together to and from college. However, this afternoon Prema had gone home early with a headache, and Vinita was alone. “What did you want to talk about?” she asked, a little out of breath because she felt an insane urge to stare at him. Stare at his sculpted body.

His charcoal gray pants were trendily tight and his black shirt hugged his torso like a second skin. His hair was a little long and the sideburns bushy—all part of the latest in campus chic, and a trend started by the latest and hottest Hindi movie idol, Amitabh Bachchan. Even the scowling, angry-hero look was the Amitabh stereotype. The quintessential cigarette was also a fashion statement.

“I never thought I’d catch you alone,” Som said, tossing his unfinished cigarette on the ground and grinding it with the heel of his gleaming, pointy-toed shoes, adding to the hundreds of other butts already littering the footpath. “You’re always with Miss Swami, your bodyguard.”

“Prema Swami’s my friend, not my bodyguard.” Vinita tossed him an icy glare, in spite of the unexpected spurt of pleasure that shot through her at discovering that he had been trying to contact her after all.

Nevertheless, she started walking at a brisk pace. Her pulse was still scrambling, but at least the shaking was under control. The tears had dried up, too. By the time she reached her house, in about ten minutes, she’d be back to normal. She had to be.

He started striding beside her, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Folks were still staring at them. Young men and women like Som and her, walking beside each other, drew unnecessary attention. Besides, many of the shopkeepers on that street knew her parents and a few were her father’s clients.

She couldn’t risk being seen with Som, especially outside the college walls. At least on campus, girls and boys could socialize under the pretext of exchanging class notes and discussing homework. Besides, during the past two weeks she had managed to convince herself that Som was not a chap she should fraternize with, for all kinds of reasons. She could write an entire page of reasons.

“I didn’t mean to belittle your friend,” he apologized. “It’s just that I always see you with her—sometimes with a whole group of friends.”

“I prefer not to walk alone. I like walking with a friend.”

“In that case I’ll walk with you. And we can talk.”

“About what?”

“Friends can talk about anything.”

“But we’re not friends.” She turned briefly to face him as she repeated what she’d said the other day. “We have nothing in common. Even our mother tongues are different.” At that moment, for some odd reason, she wished she had something in common with him. He was such an interesting man.

He gave her one of his rare smiles, making her already compromised sense of balance wobble dangerously. “Didn’t I say we could remedy that?”

“You did?” When had he said that?

“Don’t I get a little credit for making you feel better after what that wild mob did to you?”

She groaned inwardly. He had certainly kept her from passing out or falling apart by showing up at the right time and distracting her. But it looked like he was going to use that little incident to his advantage. “I’m very grateful for the emotional support and the handkerchief.” She looked at the balled-up piece of fabric in her fist. “I’ll return it after it’s washed.”

“Keep it. It’s yours,” he said, with a dismissive gesture—like a movie star offering a wide-eyed fan a small souvenir.

“So, what is it you wanted to discuss?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You want me to do your homework or something…to return the favor?”

“Homework?” He erupted into sardonic laughter, drawing the attention of more passersby. “I don’t have homework. But I’m sure you’ve noticed that.” He looked at his wristwatch, a surprisingly plain watch with a brown leather band. “I had something else in mind. Why don’t you join me for that cup of coffee?”

“I can’t.” Coffee with him? All by herself? Her father would have a fit if she dared to indulge in such behavior. More than her father, it was Vishal, her brother, who was protective of her to the point of strangulation.

She suspected that Vishal liked playing the role of big brother. That way he could justify his bossy attitude, and get grateful looks from their parents on top of it. It saved them the trouble of disciplining her. Besides, a brother, especially an older one, more or less played a paternal role when it came to looking out for the women in the family. It was a brother’s duty to protect his sister. The good thing was, he lived in Bombay now and couldn’t watch over her that closely.

In any case, she wasn’t planning on telling anyone in her family about the scary episode a few minutes ago. They’d keep her locked up in the house if they found out. If they ever learned that a boy, a Kannada one at that, had touched her shoulder and held a long conversation with her in clear view of the public, they were certain to become upset.

As it was, her family barely tolerated her close friendship with Prema. They just couldn’t understand why she had to pick a Kannada girl for a best friend, when there were so many Marathi girls she could befriend.

And now here was Som, talking about going out for coffee like it was an everyday occurrence. That was another thing—drinking coffee instead of the traditional tea that most Palgaum folks consumed. Sipping coffee from large, thick ceramic mugs instead of ordinary cups and saucers was the trend lately. Coffee was what Americans drank, so it was more sophisticated than the colonial custom of drinking tea. British traditions were passé, while American habits were worth emulating.

“Aw, come on,” he teased. “It’s only a harmless cup of coffee. Besides, I’m buying.”

“It’s not that. My parents don’t like me socializing with boys,” she confessed.

“Your parents don’t mind you going to a café with your other friends, I’m sure.”

“My other friends happen to be girls.”

He shook his head. “Gender really shouldn’t matter.”

“It’s not that simple…at least with people like my parents.” She tossed him a challenging scowl. “I’m sure your parents are the same way.”

It was no secret that his parents were orthodox Lingayats, a sect belonging to the Vaishya business caste. Just because they were rich and popular on the club scene didn’t mean they didn’t adhere to their conservative traditions in their home. Rumor had it that they all wore their traditional lingams, the sacred symbol of Lord Shiva, on a thread underneath their fancy clothes. The Koris were zamindars—landed gentry—with vast ancestral tracts of farmland.

Matter of fact, Vinita’s information came from a reliable source. Prema’s family was well acquainted with the Koris. Everything Vinita knew about Som Kori’s private life came from Prema.

“Sure, they’re old-fashioned, but they don’t get involved in my social life,” Som explained. He looked at his watch again, then raised a brow at her. “So you want to join me for a cup of coffee or not? Do I have to beg?”

Recalling the way his hard hand had pressed into her shoulder, Vinita felt her cheeks burning. She was ashamed to admit to herself it had felt good, very good—like a branding iron, but without the pain. His invitation was tempting, too. His smug yet gently mocking variety of begging was even harder to resist.

Most girls would be thrilled to receive an invitation to have coffee with Som. No boy had ever invited her before. Now here was this college idol asking her, and instead of doing happy cartwheels, she was riddled with doubts. Why? Because he was a playboy. He was a pukka badmaash. A thorough ruffian. He smoked and drank alcohol, too. Plus, he was a dud when it came to academics.

And that reminded her of something else. “How come you’re walking today instead of driving?” He was usually behind the wheel of his car, a sleek, black-as-kohl Ambassador.

“I knew you’d probably refuse to get into a car alone with me.”

“You’re right.” She managed to raise her eyes and meet his gaze. “Why me?” There were a dozen beautiful girls salivating over him on any given day. So why was he asking a studious girl like her, a girl who’d be rated average on her best day?

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand her question. “Because you’re an attractive and bright girl,” he replied, shooting an arrow of desire right through her middle with those odd yet mesmerizing eyes of his. “Isn’t that reason enough?”

“Most certainly,” she said with a wry laugh. She knew she was bright. But attractive? She tossed him a you’re such a liar look.

“I’m serious, Vinita,” he insisted. “Why would I lie to you?” His expression was candid, his eyes wide and guileless.

Well, from a certain angle, her profile wasn’t too bad, she supposed. She had a decent figure and nice hair. So maybe he wasn’t lying…Just maybe. What was the harm in having one small cup of coffee? As long as her family didn’t know about it, it wouldn’t hurt them. And it wasn’t like she was having some wild affair with Som or anything.

After another moment of hesitation, she stopped in her tracks. “Okay.”

“Good,” he said, his face relaxing.

“But I can’t stay long. My mother’s expecting me home soon.”

“Why don’t we go to Bombay Café? It’s close by,” he suggested.

At the next intersection, they made a right turn toward the café instead of the usual left Vinita would have made to go home.

The wizened old beggar who had made a home for himself on the footpath outside Bombay Café stuck his hand out for alms. He looked like a skeleton clad in a tattered shirt and pants. His cheeks stretched like crepe paper over his cheekbones and his beard was nearly long enough to reach his belly. Despite her feelings of deep sympathy for his condition, Vinita looked away, embarrassed at being stopped by a panhandler.

Beggars were everywhere—too many for even the most generous souls to sustain. No matter how much one gave, it was never enough. Most of them harassed citizens by falling at their feet, tugging on their clothes, and following them around until their quarry capitulated from sheer mortification and gave something. This old man wasn’t all that tenacious, and yet she couldn’t help turning her gaze away to avoid his hollow eyes.

But Som stopped beside the beggar. Vinita couldn’t help but stop, too. She looked at Som, wondering what he planned to do.

He surprised her when he dug into his pocket, pulled out a coin, and placed it in the beggar’s outstretched hand. It brought a tired but grateful smile to the old man’s haggard face.

“Ram-Ram, Kori-saheb,” the beggar murmured, pocketing the change and raising his hand to his forehead in a gesture of gratitude.

So, Som was generous in his own way. And the old man knew him by name. That, too, was a revelation. She was learning some interesting things about Som. But then, what was a single coin to a man who drove an Ambassador?

Once again she became aware of people throwing curious glances at the two of them. What would they say about a strictly raised Marathi girl like her walking with a Kannada chap—a notorious one like Som Kori? And especially in the volatile climate of their town, where extremism seemed to be mounting instead of diminishing after nearly thirty years of independence from the British?

The earlier doubts came tumbling back, but she quashed them by telling herself this was a one-time thing—a simple cup of coffee with a…friend.

Nonetheless the blood racing in her veins at the thought of sitting at a table with him wasn’t the kind of reaction one would have to a friend. That, too, she brushed aside as first-time nerves. Once she had that first sip of delicious, frothy coffee, her pulse was sure to settle into its normal pattern.

A minute later they entered the cool café, with its black marble floors, shiny wooden tables, red upholstered chairs, and ultramodern light fixtures. The aroma of coffee and biscuits filled the air. It stood apart from all those plain, boring tea shops scattered around town.

Som whispered something to the solicitous waiter who jumped forward to greet them. It was obvious the waiter knew him well and was eager to please a favored customer. He addressed him as Som-saheb.

In seconds they were seated at a quiet, discreet booth, away from probing eyes. The booth was even curtained to ensure privacy. How accommodating was that? And exactly how many girls had sat inside that booth with Som, their skin tingling with anticipation?

Fortunately the place was almost deserted, maybe because it was late afternoon, when the sun was still beating down and most people didn’t drop in for coffee and tea. In a couple of hours, however, once the offices closed and the sun went down, the crowds would pour in. For the time being, Som and she more or less had the place to themselves.

“See, this is so nice and relaxing—nothing to worry about,” declared Som, leaning back in his chair, looking entirely too comfortable. Like he owned the place. Maybe his family did own the place.

Vinita was tongue-tied. She wasn’t exactly shy, but this kind of socializing was different. “I must look terrible after what happened earlier,” she remarked, just to break the awkward silence.

Arms folded, he leaned across the table to examine her face. “No, you look perfectly all right,” he assured her.

Now that she had a rare chance to study his face up close, Vinita noticed all the imperfections. His teeth had brown nicotine stains and the lower row was crowded. His nostrils were flared, like a bull’s. His eyebrows were heavy and sat low over the sockets. Maybe it was the brows and nostrils which made him look so fierce. His extraordinary gold-colored eyes were his best feature. Cat’s eyes.

No, he wasn’t good-looking by any standard, but the overall image, with the tall, athletic build and wide shoulders, was imposing. There was something about this man that many females found irresistible, some male element that was both primitive and wild. Despite her resistance, it was slowly reeling her in at the moment. And she didn’t appreciate the loss of control.

Within minutes their coffee arrived, steaming and fragrant, with a delightful head of foam, bubbles popping. Gratefully, she picked up the spoon to add sugar to the mug. It gave her fidgety hands something to do. In the next instant the spoon flew out of her fingers and crashed to the floor with a metallic ping.

Self-conscious, she bent down to pick it up, but Som was there before her, retrieving the spoon and putting it back on the table. He offered her his spoon instead of ordering a new one. “I don’t take sugar in my coffee.”

“I’m sorry,” she said with a rueful smile, and accepted the spoon. “I’m usually not this clumsy.” Her hands were shaking uncontrollably.

“Don’t give it another thought. For some reason I seem to have that effect on girls,” he informed her. And he seemed dead serious, too.

She suppressed the urge to roll her eyes at the narcissistic remark. At twenty-two—or was it twenty-three?—with all the fooling around he’d done, he was an experienced flirt. So of course he had that kind of impact on girls like her—sheltered young teenagers who couldn’t resist the bad-boy image and the ego as large as the Indian Ocean.

Despite all her valiant efforts at reining in her heart, she felt it slide a little.

And her pulse, instead of stabilizing after that first sip of caffeine, only crept up another degree. She was already regretting her impulsive decision to accept his invitation. But the naughtiness of it and the excitement had been too great to resist.

She looked at her surroundings once again. Was it really she, the awkward bookworm, sitting at a chic table in a small, private café with a man like Som Kori? There was a surreal quality to the scene, like an out-of-body experience. If she hadn’t been so nervous, she probably would have detected the humor in it.

When she reached home sometime later, slightly dazed, her nerves still vibrating from the rush of having done something extraordinary, she was relieved to find that her mother hadn’t noticed she was late. Or maybe she was under the impression Vinita had a dance lesson that afternoon.

But then Vinita learned from their maid that both the boys involved in the street incident had died from the assault. Her heart took a dive. They were merely boys, killed by a heartless crowd of zealots. And apparently the reason was trivial: the Kannada boys were caught teasing a Marathi girl in their neighborhood.

That night, as she lay in bed, she realized it had been the most bizarre day of her life. Both violence and adventure had abruptly invaded her otherwise ordinary existence. The terrifying sights and sounds of the youths being chased and then murdered would haunt her for months.

Som Kori would haunt her a lot longer.