She couldn’t let that man interfere with her studies, her plans. Her life. She wouldn’t.
Chapter 3
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