The Girl with the Golden Parasol

THIRTY-FIVE

When Anjali visited Room 252 of Tagore hostel for the fourth time, after O.P. had padlocked the room until four o’clock and left singing in his special camel-like style, as Rahul took Anjali’s hand into his, and their fingers became entangled, until both of their bodies were enveloped by an electromagnetic storm, or swept up in a twister, or tossed by big waves in an unsettled sea in which they’d shed their clothing, and as they were beginning to swim like two tiny fish crashing into one another in an attempt to pierce one another through and through, just then. .

. . there was a knocking noise. Anjali and Rajul froze and looked up.

In the ventilation space above the door were two faces. One of the faces belonged to hostel warden Chandramani Upadhyay’s servant, and the other to Gopal Dwivedi. It was the same Gopal Dwivedi who had spoken with Acharya S. N. Mishra and secured Rahul’s admission to the Hindi department. “Esteemed brother,” he had called him. Rahul shuddered. These were the very eyes underneath which was the nose that sheltered the infamous black moth of a moustache made notorious during the 1930s and ’40s. It was frightening, like an evil omen.

The two covered themselves with the bedsheet.

The faces vanished from the ventilation space.

The worst of it was nothing could be done: the door was padlocked from the outside. O.P. had locked it, and wouldn’t be back until four o’clock.

Sometime around two-thirty the sound of footsteps was heard somewhere outside; it was the sound of feet marching closer, until they stopped in front of the door. The key turned in the lock; it snapped open; the sound of the latch handle squeaking. The door opened.

The six-foot-three ostrich stood outside; his face was drained of color. His heron-like neck was totally rigid with fear. His lips were quivering. Five others were with him: warden Dr. Chandramani Upadhyay, Anjali’s brother D. K. Joshi, and three unknown individuals — massive, flat-faced characters.

“Come.” Anjali’s brother flatly issued this directive in a voice like cold iron.

Anjali grabbed her bag from the table and quietly exited. Rahul stood in the middle of the room.

The others escorted Anjali away. Her brother D. K. Joshi and O.P. remained standing in the doorway. Looking at Rahul with eyes at once cold and penetrating to his very core, the former said: “I don’t want to ‘create’ a ‘scene.’ This is a question of honor. But you’d better think twice before making a move. Keep your mouth shut. If you try to do anything nasty, you’ll end up as a corpse in the city hospital waiting for a postmortem in the same place as that little monkey motherfucker Sapam.”

Having said this, he turned and left. After a few steps he spun around to add, “Did my words sink into that head of yours? Think before you act.” And he continued on his way.

O.P. looked at Rahul with deeply frightened eyes.