“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.
Chapter 4
Through sleep-deprived eyes, Vinita tried her best to concentrate on her exam. Her fingers were hurting from holding the fountain pen at the correct angle for two hours. This economics exam was the hardest she’d ever encountered. All the cramming from the previous night hadn’t amounted to much. Every question was turning into a minor struggle to answer.
She could only pray she’d do well enough to pass the