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,
