After Love by Subhash Jaireth Page A

returned from Bucharest.
    During the dinner Aunty Olga asked Vasu about his family in India and he told us how he had been brought up by his older sister, his Jijee-ma, after his mother had died giving birth to him. Both Papa and Aunty Olga seemed shocked, and to get over this Aunty Olga told him about Tonya, my mother, who had also died before I knew her.
    I sensed that at this moment Vasu would want to look at my face. But I turned away and suddenly the fluorescent light in the library exploded and we were plunged into darkness. I asked Vasu to help me carry in the lamp from my room.
    Together we set it up next to the table and resumed eating as if nothing had happened.
    â€˜Why did you come to Moscow?’ Papa asked Vasu.
    â€˜Because of Uncle Triple K,’ he replied. ‘He told me that Moscow would change my life forever. Although he teaches French literature and philosophy he also speaks good Russian.’
    â€˜Has it changed you?’ Papa asked.
    â€˜I suppose so,’ Vasu said. ‘Before I came here someone gave me Doctor Zhivago . After I read it I couldn’t stop thinking about Russia.’
    We watched his face as he spoke. His Russian was good and his slight accent made the words – and him – even more attractive.
    Aunty Olga sat back in her chair, impressed.
    â€˜What I liked most was the description of the changing seasons,’ Vasu continued. ‘In India they tend to come and go unnoticed. Here the change is so swift and intense.’
    â€˜But I love sun and heat,’ I said, to tease him. ‘Winter is depressing.’
    â€˜What a liar,’ Aunty Olga interjected. ‘You should read Prishvin and Paustovsky,’ she said to Vasu in her typical teacher’s voice.
    But he turned to Papa and asked about the taiga , the Siberian forest. ‘Yes, the taiga is breathtakingly beautiful, but treacherous,’ Papa said. It was a subject dear to his heart. Then he began the tale Aunty Olga and I had heard many times before, about the time he had spent working in the taiga supervising exploration for gold, diamonds and gas. ‘A young couple used to work for me,’ he said. ‘Their job was to find the diamonds trapped in ancient volcanoes. They were in love and did everything together. The girl told me they wanted to save money to get married and their youthful exuberance cheered everyone up. But one day out among the trees a hungry bear attacked and killed them. It was a tragedy! I was asked to identify the bodies and couldn’t stop cursing myself. I shouldn’t have let them go out so far on their own. I felt terribly guilty; I still do. They were so young. Look at me, old and useless and unscathed. But I shouldn’t complain. It’s good to be alive, even if I do feel such guilt and shame.’
    He paused for a moment, took off his glasses, wiped them with his napkin and said: ‘I’ve got some photos of them somewhere.’ He got up and went into his room. We all noticed the slight limp in his walk.
    â€˜ Voina (war),’ Aunty Olga sighed. ‘I’ll bring you some fresh coffee,’ she said and disappeared into the kitchen.
    Papa returned with a box of colour slides. He set up his little projector on the table and arranged a white screen against the wall near the piano. Then he turned off the lights, ignoring Aunty Olga’s ‘It’s getting late, Leynya.’
    As he adjusted the focus on the first slide, he cleared his throat and started his story. Papa talked and talked and when he finally finished showing us slide after slide of his life on the sweeping taiga it was too late for Vasu to get back to his room in the hostel.
    Midway through the show, Aunty Olga had left the room. She came back to say that she had made Vasu a bed in her room. Vasu started to object, but I told him to stop. Arguing with Aunty Olga would get him nowhere. ‘She’ll sleep in my room, on the camp bed,’ I