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
