The squirrel fluffed its brownish gray fur and vanished into the trees. Mitali raced after it, her laughter ringing through the woods. Layers of fallen leaves and yellow flowers crushed under her open-toed sandals. The sunlight filtered through the branches, bouncing off the stones and tree trunks.

 

Jalal ran with Mitali poking the undergrowth with a forked stick to ward off hidden snakes. They lay dormant but ready to strike anyone who might tread upon them.

 

"What should I get you from my home, Mitali?" Jalal caught her hand and led her away towards the university buildings. As they talked, he stroked Mitali’s shoulder-length hair with a feathery gulmohar leaf.

 

"Bring me some novels in Bangla by Bangladeshi writers," Mitali replied. “I want to know about the homeland my Thamma left behind.” She turned to watch the way Jalal’s eyes caught the sunlight playing upon his tanned, square face. "Remember the first time we met at the university admissions office? I can't forget how astonished you were, when I spoke to you in your own language."

 

“Yes,” said Jalal. “That rainy morning, when I waited to pay my fees. I recognized familiar faces in the crowd. They were busy with their pals and took no notice. Why did it always have to be like this?”

 

Jalal unbuttoned his collar. Sweat gathered in beads and trickled down his neck in little rivulets. He pressed a finger on the barley-sized mole on his chest, the one just below his right collarbone. “Whenever I feel far from home, this throbs with an aching, dull pain. It was hurting that day, when I first met you.” He put his arm around Mitali and drew her closer. “I’m now thousands of miles away in southern India, but you make me feel at home.” His words blended with the breeze rustling through the leaves.

 

The roar of an approaching motorcycle cut into the soft forest sounds. The rider halted, took off his helmet to reveal thick, curly hair, and shouted, “Hey Mitali, want a drop to the administrative buildings?”

 

Mitali ran up to the tall young motorcyclist, an old childhood friend. “Thanks Rahul,” she said. “I’ll walk it down with Jalal.” Rahul was always so concerned. He looked after her like a big brother at the university. Mitali felt secure just having him around. Rahul frowned and drove off in silence. She stood by watching his motorcycle zip down the winding road. Then, she turned back to join Jalal.

 

Mitali often strolled into the woods with Jalal after class. The peaceful shade of the trees drew them closer naturally. She longed for the day when the vermilion gulmohar flowers would set the woods on fire. But now the yellow flowers were everywhere, covering the sun-lit branches. These few weeks they reigned over the gulmohars, jacarandas, castor trees, pipals with their heart shaped leaves, thorny scrubs and date palms. The trees surrounded them, for the Bangalore University campus was built inside a forest at the edge of the city.

 

On this day too they read a little and talked a bit. Sitting in the shade of a mango tree, Mitali spoke about her family. “My grandparents came to India from East Bengal when India was partitioned.” She shuddered, edging closer to Jalal. “My Thamma told me about those terrible times.”

 

Jalal nodded. “As kids, we heard about the 'big' Hindus, who migrated to India long ago. The Hindus once lived in the mansions, which are now schools and government offices in my hometown.”

 

Mitali held Jalal’s hand and looked beyond the trees that surrounded them. In silence, she delved into inherited memories.

 

Racing home from school, Mitali would rush to the kitchen to taste Thamma’s creamy payesh and crisp luchis. Thamma narrated magical tales of kings and fairies in a hoary, quivering voice. But on dark, sleepless nights tears streamed down her withered cheeks. Her voice choked whenever she remembered the homeland, which became a foreign country. Shamsher Mian, who ran the ferry across the river, led the mob of Muslim neighbors into their home brandishing choppers and pickaxes. The family escaped through the back door. The neighbors screamed, hacking at the doors and windows in the front of the house. The family trekked through riot-torn villages to reach India. During the day they hid in the forests from marauding bands, which attacked the fleeing Hindu refugees. All the family brought with them was their education. They rebuilt their lives from nothing in a new land. Thamma would shudder, her eyes burning at the enormity of Shamsher Mian's treachery. How could a friend, whom they had always trusted, turn so vicious? Why did religion make such a horrible difference, when the Hindus and Muslims of their village had lived in peace all their lives?

 

Mitali’s gaze focused on the leaves moving in the sunshine. She rested her cheek on Jalal’s chest, listening to the soothing percussion of his heart. “Why were those times so violent? What made people hate each other so?" Her soft words parted the curtain of silence.

 

"I wish I knew," Jalal said, putting his arm around Mitali. "We read about riots and wars in the papers, see the images on TV. Such things could happen anywhere."

 

Mitali kept her head on Jalal’s chest, feeling the softness of his white cotton shirt. His familiar scent of cologne mingled with cigarette smoke and a hint of sweat, was soothing, reassuring. After a while she looked up into his face and picked out a tiny yellowing leaf from inside his steel-rimmed glasses. Then she rose and strolled toward the trees.

 

"Don't go deep into the woods. Stay here, near the main road." Jalal dusted a large rock by the roadside and motioned for her to sit. "Watch out for snakes! "

 

"This place is called Nagarbhavi. In the local language it means 'the well of snakes'."

"Be careful. I grew up in a small place where there were many snakes. I know how they crawl up close and strike out when you least expect them." Jalal’s rich baritone voice drifted in through the trees.

 

"Tell me more about your home in Bangladesh, Jalal." Mitali turned back and approached him. “About the funny little shrimps, which grow in your waterlogged paddy fields.”

 

“My Amma Jaan cooks the shrimps with coconut and mustard paste.” The sparkle grew behind Jalal's glasses as he reminisced. “My Amma Jaan wastes nothing. Even the skinny limbs and tails flavor her spicy spinach curry.”  His smile spread a glow from his crinkling eyes, across his wide cheeks and square face.

 

As Jalal spoke on, Mitali wanted to run with him down the country lanes on his way home from school. She shared his thrill of stealing yellow mangoes bursting with fragrant, sweet pulp from the village headman’s orchards. She stood by with him among the goggle-eyed audience, as Hamid the fisherman narrated his heroic struggle with an enormous carp, the prize catch of the day.

 

Jalal looked into her almond shaped eyes. His hand went up to her hair twirling the strands around his slim fingers. "You're the only Indian girl I've made friends with here. Why do you care so much?"

 

"That's how I am. I take friendship seriously." She looked down, twisting a leaf with her fingers.

 

He drew her closer, his cheek resting against her cheek, his breath coming deep and quick upon her neck. "That's what sets you apart, makes you special."

 

The sunlight faded, stealing the brightness from the trees and flowers. A gust of hot summer wind blasted through the woods, swirling up dust and fallen leaves. A large raindrop fell upon their moist, joined lips. They inhaled, breathing the smell of rain on the parched earth.

 

Another raindrop fell on Mitali's face. "This looks like a teardrop," Jalal whispered, wiping it off as it trickled down her cheek. "I don't want to see tears on your cheeks. Ever."

 

The shadows darkened and the raindrops fell faster. They hurried down the road to a parking shed. Some students and professors stood under the corrugated asbestos roof waiting for the skies to clear. Rahul waved and called out, "Mitali! Stand here, near me." He held his helmet in the crook of his arm, patting his shiny red motorbike possessively.

 

Mitali smiled and ran towards Rahul. "Thanks. Jalal and I can wait out the rain here."

 

Rahul put down his helmet and folded his arms across his chest. A derisive sneer spread across his aristocratic, handsome face.

 

"See you later, Mitali," Jalal said, looking up at Rahul's narrowing eyes and stiffening jaws.

 

"Stay here, Jalal. You'll fall sick if you get wet." Mitali pleaded with her eyes.

 

"I've got some work." Jalal trudged off, his shoulders hunched against the rain. Was the mole on his chest aching again, making him feel alone and far from home?

 

Rahul motioned to his companion, a freckle-faced, red-haired girl in jeans. "Here Deirdre, sit on my bike till the skies clear. I'll give you a lift to town." Mitali had met Deirdre a couple of times before. She was an Irish research scholar, here for a few months to gather material for her thesis on some suitably esoteric aspect of Indian Philosophy. Mitali smiled at Deirdre as Rahul led her to the opposite edge of the shed, away from the others waiting out the rain.

 

 "Mitali, I want to tell you something," Rahul began in a muted voice. "I'm all for plain speaking. I don't like you getting so close to that foreign chap."

 

"Jalal's all right. I know his language, and he's good company."

 

"He's after you for some quick, cheap fun," Rahul said, spraying fine droplets of spit over her face.

 

Mitali's trusting eyes widened as she gasped.

 

"Stay away from that foreign fellow, if you know what's good for you. They have a different religion, a different set of values. They're not like us." Rahul’s hushed words coiled around Mitali’s chest, choking her voice.

 

"But…why should we shun others because they're different? We're all human beings."

 

"If you want to mix with all sorts of riff-raff, it's your funeral. It's just that your parents told me to look after you here at the university. I've known you ever since you were a kid, Mitali. You know how much I care for you."

 

Mitali looked up at Rahul and nodded, as one of her earliest memories flashed in her mind. They were in the playground taking turns on a slide. Rahul was holding her plump little legs, helping her to balance as she climbed, first the red step, then the blue one. He stayed right behind as they slid down, his small hands ready to grasp her if she should fall. Whee! She felt the rush of air on her face. The trees, swings, the parallel bars and the seesaws whirled around as she listed dangerously to one side. Rahul pulled at the straps of her pink romper, ripping off the yellow and white kitten patchwork embroidery. Mitali knew she would have fallen off, if Rahul hadn't grabbed her tight. Back home, nobody understood. Rahul quietly bore a scolding for tearing her new dress.

 

Mitali looked up into Rahul’s large brown eyes. The adult Rahul, who saw her to her rooms after late evenings and rushed her to the doctor at the first sign of a sore throat.

 

After a pause, Rahul continued, "If you must know, I followed you into the woods a while ago worried for your safety." His deep voice was barely audible now, drowned by the staccato of rain beating down upon the roof. "You're a bloody fool to mess around with that guy. Don't forget, Jalal’s people once churned our land with violence. They drove out millions of Hindu families like yours to carve out Pakistan.”

 

Mitali's dry tongue stuck to her mouth, as a gust of cold wind stung her face. The invisible coils twisted tighter, paralyzing her. Wrenching her willpower into action, she fought back. "But Rahul, those horrible things happened long before either of us were even born. The past is dead and gone. Jalal and I never had anything to do with it. I think you're jealous of our friendship."

 

"Jealous? Damn you both and your goody-goody idealism!"  He pounded his fists together as if to crack her adamant will. His eyes narrowed into unblinking slits as he spat the words into her face.

 

Did Shamsher Mian's eyes look like this, when he led the villagers to attack Thamma's family?

 

Rahul's impatient voice hissed on with subdued rage. He clenched and unclenched his fists, grinding his teeth in a visible effort to gain control. "Why can't you listen to reason? You'll regret this. I don't understand how you ugly, stupid girls desperately throw yourselves after all sorts of guys."

 

Injecting his venom, Rahul glided away towards his bike and Deirdre.

 

Mitali held on to a rough wooden pole supporting the roof, as the dark trees swayed crazily before her. A spasm of disgust and anger writhed up inside her and smashed against her throat. She held her face under the stream of rainwater pouring down from the roof, until it slowed down to a trickle and finally stopped.

 

The crowd around her was thinning out. Rahul sped off on his bike with Deirdre on the pillion, her arms wrapped tight around his waist.

 

A silent laughter welled up inside Mitali. How would Deirdre's white-skinned friends warn her against Rahul? To them, Rahul might be a dusky pagan savage, perhaps even a cannibal.

 

The dark clouds floated away, revealing patches of clear blue sky. A cuckoo's call pierced the woods. A fresh, moist breeze shook the trees, showering droplets of water upon Mitali. She willed herself to walk up the muddy track, away from the empty shed.

 

She had to see Jalal again. She needed to cleanse out the poison that was corroding her system. It would be a relief to unburden her worries. Jalal would understand and make her feel better.

 

Mitali stepped over the streams of muddy water balancing her feet upon stones on the track. Flesh-tinted earthworms emerged from the drenched soil twisting and writhing around her feet. A branch crashed down from a nearby tamarind tree spraying droplets of water over her face.

 

She slowed down as she approached Jalal's rooms. She had known and trusted Rahul all her life. She remembered how he kept her from falling, when he taught her to balance on a bike.  And the time Rahul and his sister baked a huge cake to celebrate her passing out of school. They had laughed together trying to extricate the knife from its gummy center.

 

Today, the same Rahul showed such hostility. She shuddered from the memory of that parting insult, of those clammy coils choking her mind and soul.

 

And Jalal? He cared enough to be so gentle with her. But then, how long had she known him? Just a few months… What lurked deep down beneath that kind, thoughtful surface? Mitali remembered that time last week, when she dropped over unannounced to return a book. Jalal took a while to emerge from his room. The stench of cigarettes and alcohol burst out, as he closed the door behind him. His eyes darted from the pillared hallway to the trees outside, then towards her chest for a split-second before settling on his twisting, writhing hands. He grabbed the book and rushed back into his room without any attempt to exchange their usual pleasantries. She caught a fleeting glimpse of some students from Mauritius and Eastern Africa through the half-open doorway. Someone said amidst a burst of raucous male laughter, "Having fun snaring exotic Indian birds, Jalal?"

 

Did Jalal too have a hidden dark side like Rahul?

 

Rahul's words were like pebbles thrown into a pool. The pebbles were gone, but circles of shock waves were spreading all over.

 

Mitali did not enter the building where Jalal stayed. She waited for Jalal outside the gates this time, at the barbed wire fence.

 

"Are you okay?” Jalal asked. “You seem troubled. You can tell me. You might feel better."

 

"Oh… it's… nothing. I'm… fine." Mitali's fingers tightened around a knot in the cold barbed wire. Her unblinking eyes fixed on the droplets of water upon it.

 

 "You look like you could do with some rest," Jalal said. "Take good care of yourself. Shall I call you tomorrow? "

 

Mitali looked up at Jalal, her fingers numb to the sharp barbs she clutched tight.

 

Jalal's gaze lingered on her waiting for an answer.

 

Mitali turned her face up to the sky. The setting sun bathed the clouds with gold, orange, pink, and fuchsia. A noisy flock of parrots flew off in an emerald flash through the trees. She looked down at the cold, gray fence. The raindrops on the barbed wire glowed like opals reflecting the hues of the evening sky.

 

Her fingers unclasped the knot on the wire.

 

Jalal placed his hand on the fence, his eyes steady on Mitali’s.

 

"See you tomorrow," Mitali replied. The embers of the dying sun warmed her cheeks and touched her moist eyes. Her fingers, bruised with the barbs, inched forward to touch his.