11.1 Vir
The Higher KG classroom of the playschool was dark and deserted. Joshi had reported to Bhandarkar in my presence that Viveka had been seen running up this street and then climbing over the gate of this compound. At that point, Joshi had ordered the policemen pursuing her to watch the exits to make sure she didn't escape and wait for us to arrive. They hadn't seen her leave.
I spoke softly, keeping my voice pitched low to avoid startling her. "Viveka? It's me, papa."
The stillness of the room was eeiry. I had visited this same room so many times when my children had studied here. Viveka had been the first, of course, as my eldest, and I still remembered how I would arrive to pick her up and often find her bent over her ABC book, writing painstakingly.
"Daddy, I don't want to go home. I'm still writing," she would say, even though she had finished her work for that day. She loved school. I wondered if that was why she had come back here in this moment of crisis: seeking out a familiar, safe place with so many warm and comforting associations.
But then, I remembered, this wasn't my Viveka. It couldn't be... or could it? I still wasn't sure what had happened in the house, or why Viveka had attacked Sarla, but I knew that there was something more going on here than met the eye. And yet, this old, familiar setting made it hard for me not to feel a powerful tug of paternal love. My little Viveka, a murderer?
"Viveka?" I repeated softly, moving carefully between the rows of tiny chairs and desks. "Bete, there's no reason to be afraid. I'm here to help you. Come out, talk to me. Let's try to work this out together."
In the faint streetlight bleeding in from the window behind me, I thought I glimpsed a bulkier shadow over by the blackboard. I turned to face it, then crouched down, squinting in an effort to penetrate the darkness.
"Viveka? It's me, papa, bete. Kuchh to bolo. Say something."
A low growl was the only response. But it made me feel strangely better. She was there. I could almost see her now, huddled there in the corner to the left of the blackboard.
I moved as close as I dared to, then sat on a tiny desk. It was hard to believe that this creature crouching in the dark corner, this wanted murderer of four men, my daughter, had once sat at one of these little tables too, writing her alphabet earnestly.
"Viveka? Bete, apne papa se baat to karo. At least talk to me."
I could smell her now. The acrid odour of blood and booze hung around her like a feverish cloud. She was making a low, strange sound that I couldn't understand. It took me several more moments to realize that it wasn't growling as I had thought at first: It was crying. Viveka was crying.
I moved forward, raising my hands to embrace her, soothe her, comfort her. "Bete, I know how you must be feeling--."
She moved faster than I had ever expected. Before I could do more than raise my arm, she had leaped on me. I crashed backwards, sending little wooden desks and chairs tumbling, scraping my neck on a corner, falling with a heavy impact on my back, the breath knocked out of me.
In the half-light I saw her crouched above me, straddling my chest. She had a blade in her hand - I had a fraction of a second to wonder in sudden fear if it was the same poisoned knife with which she had slashed Sarla - and then it was at my throat. Even in the dimness, I could see the flash of her bared teeth and her eyes shining like an animal's.
"The name is Anusuya, Southerner. Princess Anusuya," she snarled.
I spoke softly, keeping my voice pitched low to avoid startling her. "Viveka? It's me, papa."
The stillness of the room was eeiry. I had visited this same room so many times when my children had studied here. Viveka had been the first, of course, as my eldest, and I still remembered how I would arrive to pick her up and often find her bent over her ABC book, writing painstakingly.
"Daddy, I don't want to go home. I'm still writing," she would say, even though she had finished her work for that day. She loved school. I wondered if that was why she had come back here in this moment of crisis: seeking out a familiar, safe place with so many warm and comforting associations.
But then, I remembered, this wasn't my Viveka. It couldn't be... or could it? I still wasn't sure what had happened in the house, or why Viveka had attacked Sarla, but I knew that there was something more going on here than met the eye. And yet, this old, familiar setting made it hard for me not to feel a powerful tug of paternal love. My little Viveka, a murderer?
"Viveka?" I repeated softly, moving carefully between the rows of tiny chairs and desks. "Bete, there's no reason to be afraid. I'm here to help you. Come out, talk to me. Let's try to work this out together."
In the faint streetlight bleeding in from the window behind me, I thought I glimpsed a bulkier shadow over by the blackboard. I turned to face it, then crouched down, squinting in an effort to penetrate the darkness.
"Viveka? It's me, papa, bete. Kuchh to bolo. Say something."
A low growl was the only response. But it made me feel strangely better. She was there. I could almost see her now, huddled there in the corner to the left of the blackboard.
I moved as close as I dared to, then sat on a tiny desk. It was hard to believe that this creature crouching in the dark corner, this wanted murderer of four men, my daughter, had once sat at one of these little tables too, writing her alphabet earnestly.
"Viveka? Bete, apne papa se baat to karo. At least talk to me."
I could smell her now. The acrid odour of blood and booze hung around her like a feverish cloud. She was making a low, strange sound that I couldn't understand. It took me several more moments to realize that it wasn't growling as I had thought at first: It was crying. Viveka was crying.
I moved forward, raising my hands to embrace her, soothe her, comfort her. "Bete, I know how you must be feeling--."
She moved faster than I had ever expected. Before I could do more than raise my arm, she had leaped on me. I crashed backwards, sending little wooden desks and chairs tumbling, scraping my neck on a corner, falling with a heavy impact on my back, the breath knocked out of me.
In the half-light I saw her crouched above me, straddling my chest. She had a blade in her hand - I had a fraction of a second to wonder in sudden fear if it was the same poisoned knife with which she had slashed Sarla - and then it was at my throat. Even in the dimness, I could see the flash of her bared teeth and her eyes shining like an animal's.
"The name is Anusuya, Southerner. Princess Anusuya," she snarled.
posted by Ashok K. Banker at 12.10.05
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home