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A part of him knew that it wouldn’t help if he was angry, it would in fact make the ordeal all that much harder to bear. He was shooting himself in the foot like this, but he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t stop. He was livid. He was furious. Alight just the same way as the burning across his knuckles.
The corridors blurred into an awfully messy grey whirl, George knew he was stamping his feet and walking too fast, and breaking goodness knows how many other rules he’d looked over on the ride to Weston, with Harold poring over his shoulder, excited despite himself, and wanting to make his father proud. He could hardly hear himself over the sound of his breaths, though, as they came out sharp and ragged, like blackboard chalk to his ears, but he still couldn’t stop.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t, it wasn’t, it wasn’t. Forget that, it was just stupid. Asinine, senseless, ludicrous. Doltish, cretinous, imbecilic. He wouldn’t go to chapel, he couldn’t, how could he? He wasn’t Christian, he was Hindu, and he didn’t want to go stand or kneel or whatever it was that the rest of the students did there, and chant along with the rest. Not because he was averse to praying, no, he knew that the gods and goddesses would hear him regardless of where he was or what he was doing, but the fact that nobody else would understand. No, they’d absolutely refuse to see reason. They’d take it as a victory, they’d relish in the control they had over him. They’d see it as ‘George Mukherjee is seeing the light at last’, and becoming Christian. Taking away what he was, painting over it, to see him as what they wanted.
He couldn’t ever, ever let them think that, never. Not after his mother. Not after- no, he had to get himself together. This wasn’t working. This wasn’t- he ought to do that counting thing that Harold had taught him, but Harold wasn’t here, where was Harold? How did Harold do this every day? He almost wished he hadn’t thought of his brother, because now, he was overwrought by a desperation, to be with him right now, safe in his arms, even if nowhere was really safe- or by his father, soaking in the warmth and comfort of his presence, but instead- instead, he was here, except goodness knew where here was, this wasn’t like him, he usually paid attention to his surroundings rather well- he was slipping. Deva, he was slipping, and if he slipped and fell here, goodness knew what what happen to him- to Harold, to his father-
He’d walked out into the grounds, which he knew would land him an instant detention if he was seen. Thankfully, playing spies with Harold had taught him to be discreet enough - for now, anyways. He’d have to work on these things if he was to survive in this awful place for the next - six years? Ishvar, give him strength. He didn’t know if he could - but he had to. He had to.
Tucking himself into a corner beside the games shed, he sat down and hugged his knees to his chest. Weak, weak, weak a voice in his head said, but he gritted his teeth and shook his head. He just needed a few minutes, and he’d go back. He didn’t know what he was going to do, but sometimes the script got handed to him once he put himself onstage. He ought to trust the world, it’d kept him alive this far, so, statistically speaking, that ought to continue for a while longer. Breathe.
The sky was overcast, not a smudge of out of place cloud, nor a crack of sky, it was an immovable sheet of grey. He’d have to be that, then. He’d have to be that, and the thought made his skin crawl. He didn’t want to be dull, to be accepted. He didn’t want to hide away the parts of himself that made him happiest - and if he did, surely that went to show that the world was broken? Or he was broken. He didn’t know which was worse. And that in itself was an extremely daunting thought.
George wanted it to rain. It would’ve been cathartic, and the light pressure of raindrops against his skin would’ve been grounding. The rain was so, so beautiful- he remembered his father’s songs about how the rain came and brought all the green and glowing fields of crops alive in their villages, running and playing with H and the rest back when they were smaller, the water feeling like a magic meant specially for them, the exaltation, the liberation of running in the rain- it wasn’t for him anymore, apparently.
Great, he’d done it again. Made everything sad. With that thought, he sighed and opened his eyes, and found - a figure picking its way towards him from across the mown lawn. Unlike him, it clearly wasn’t doing its best to keep hidden, although it did have its shoulders ever so slightly bent in a very particular manner which he’d recognise almost instantly. His brother’s face came properly into view as he sauntered over, somehow managing to look like a lord in his own right while he did so. Deva, he wished he could do that. One day, he promised himself, he’d be like dada. Infinitely kind and understanding and with unending reserves of patience and tolerance for people that they didn’t owe anything to. He’d be a lord too.
“George,” Harold greeted, squatting beside him, giving the ground a wary glance. “Why are you out here?”
Oh, that was hard, all of a sudden. Twenty different answers rushed to his head, except they all destructively interfered, and he was left feeling choked. He hated that, he thought bitterly, clenching and unclenching his fists, trying to grasp at his thoughts somehow.
“How do you do it?” he managed to get out at last.
“Do what?”
He grimaced, not wanting to have those words on his tongue. He stared intently at his brother, imploring him to understand.
“George, please bear in mind that you’re in a completely different school now, so you could be talking about anything, for all I know.” The words came in Bengali, this time, and the familiarity and the warmth which came with their mothertongue came rushing at him, knocking his mind off its course for a moment.
He knew that his dada wasn’t telling him off, but it made his skin prickle anyways. He should have realised this. He shouldn’t be making tactical errors in conversations anymore, there was no room for that here. Taking a breath, he looked him in the eye and steeled himself.
“Going to their chapel.”
A look of dawning understanding spread across his face, accompanied by a furrowed brow.
“You weren’t there this morning, I thought they let you go.”
He gave a wry smile, and turned his hands over for him to see. Harold sucked in a sharp breath, before taking them in his own and tracing over the welts with feather-light touch.
“Ruler?”
“Cane.”
A swarm of emotions darkened his face, and for a moment, George was scared. Harold wasn’t supposed to be upset, that wasn’t what he’d meant to do. And that must mean that things were really wrong -he had a way of finding happiness in everything. Don’t be sad, he wanted to say. Please don’t be sad.
“George, I’m-” Harold started and then stopped, staring at his little brother’s lighter, trembling hands in his own. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Deva, he’d been supposed to protect him, and instead, he’d let him get hurt on the very first day. The rakhis on their wrists, brilliant stripes of red against the deep brown of their skin, were the same colour as the streaks across George’s hands, where the cane had drawn blood. Taunting him, almost. ‘Even with us on, you couldn’t remember to look out for your brother. You couldn’t protect him.’ “Can I hug you?”
George knew that Harold knew that he didn’t always like being touched, but he was astonished that he seemed to think that this was something which could extend to him too. He was his brother, for Brahmanda’s sake, he knew he’d never said it out loud as such, but that was because he hadn’t thought he needed to. He scanned his face for signs which could explain what half-madness might’ve overtaken him, but found only apprehension, which made his heart sink.
“Dada,” he said, trying very hard to keep his voice even, and being aware that he was failing. “Do you think I’m angry at you?”
The look which Harold gave him, wide eyed yet drifting, as if he was being haunted by a truth miles across the country, said it too plainly.
“You idiot,” he gasped, throwing himself at his brother and not caring when he fell backwards and they both ended up sprawled on the ground. “None of this is your fault. Everyone knows that, so stop blaming yourself, you- you frog!” Despite his frustration at the lack of colourful insults he could come up with, he allowed himself a private smile as he felt Harold relax beneath him, putting his arms around him and squeezing back just as hard.
“Deva, I- I hate them. I hate them so much,” Harold whispered, anger starting to flare up now that the shock had abated. “But this is still my fault. I should’ve told you earlier- I thought you knew.”
“Dada, unless you’re the one who convinced everyone here that it’s evil to be un-Christian, or the one that made it mandatory to go to chapel every morning, or the one who ruined our country and-” He squeezed his eyes shut and took a breath to keep the onslaught of awful memories at bay. “Unless you’re any of those things, it’s not your fault.”
“No, I should’ve explained it to you. You can go to chapel. The gods and goddesses will hear your prayers regardless of where you are and what the people around you are doing. They don’t stop listening to you because the people around you believe in them in a different way, you don’t become any less Hindu because of it.”
“I know that,” he said, unable to keep the eyeroll out of his voice. Sometimes, he felt as if Harold didn’t realise that he wasn’t a baby anymore.
“They’re always going to be there for you, because you’re always there for them. Every morning, I sit there and pray to Saraswati, to help me see the cleverest way to get through the day. I pray to Krishna, that I’ll be able to be there for my family, and for my friends - because not everyone here is bad, you know, you’ll like Theo and Nicholas. I pray to him that I’ll be able to keep being happy. I pray everyday, that things will get better, and I know that they’re listening, and I know that they’re sending us strength, and we’re not any less worthy because we have to pray from a church instead of a temple. You can do that too, and those around you are none the wiser. They’ll leave you alone”
“It’s a chapel, actually. And I told you, I know all that.”
“Well, then?”
George disentangled himself from his brother, so he was able to make eye contact. Harold’s eyes were crinkled in confusion.
“I know all that, and you know all that, but none of the rest do. They’ll think I’m yielding, and becoming Christian, because they scared me into it, and if I try to explain that to them - you know what they’d do. I can’t sit there and let them think that they’ve won, when they’re wrong, and they’re awful, and they’re murderers, and-”
“Not all of them, George.”
“I know that! I know that, but what good is that doing me? I can’t do suryanamaskars with the rising sun anymore, I have to hide my murtis in awful places just to keep my dorm mates from taking them and breaking them, they look at me like I’m the filth on their shoes, and I don’t understand how they think they have that right! I don’t know what I have to do to show them that we’re not worth less than they are, just because we’re not from this godforsaken island, and I don’t know why that’s something we have to prove in the first place! It doesn’t make sense, and I hate that, and I can’t make them see sense, and I hate that even more, and I want to learn languages and sciences and numbers and all the rest, but being here and being Indian so far has just meant being stared at and shuffled away from, and I know it doesn’t matter, but it does! And I can’t change anything, and that’s the worst thing about it all, we’re trapped in this place, and the walls just keep closing in, and I need to do this one thing, to make them see that they haven’t won. They can’t make me go to chapel with the rest of them. Not if they’re going to point at us and sneer in lessons too. They can’t ostracise us for being different, then force us to be the same. I don’t know how else to show them that they haven’t won. They’ve taken our wealth, our societal integrity, they took maa. But if they see that they can’t take our traditions, that I’m always going to be Indian and proud about it, that they can’t stop us from being Hindu any more than they can stop our blood from being red, then maybe we’ll have a chance. To rebuild everything. To make baba happy again.”
George’s eyes stung with tears, and despite however much he willed them back, they’d begun to fall by the time he’d finished. He just had to do everything wrong, didn’t he? Harold was silent for a moment, twisting his mouth as he thought, as George hastily swiped across his face. When his brother did speak, it was in a slow and deliberate tone.
“You don’t have to go to chapel, then. I’ll write to baba, and ask him to make the teachers understand. They’ll listen. But also,” Harold said, putting a hand on his shoulder, firmly grounding. “You can always change things. You’re right, they won’t win until they’ve crushed our spirits and forced us to be like them. And because of that, they’re never going to win, but you can show them that without giving them the cruel satisfaction of beating you. You can make them see by being yourself, George Mukherjee, taking whatever they might throw at you on the chin, and carrying on walking everyday anyways. Going along with as many of the rules as you can, and being the amazing student I know you are. You’re a whizz at numbers, the professors ought to swoon when they hear your music. You can make them see through the little things.”
“But the little things are never enough,” he sniffed. Maa, he knew both he and Harold were thinking.
“Listen. My first week, I’d resolved to hate everyone. Everyone seemed to hate me, after all. But nobody can survive in this school alone, and the teachers were of course never on my side. Eventually, I realised that I was playing the game all wrong. I stopped focussing on why everyone disliked me, and instead, on why they ought to like me instead.
“Nicholas always had trouble with his essays, so I started helping him, and he listened. I taught the rest of the first years the best tricks I knew with the hockey stick - they don’t know all the gambits from home over here, you know. They tried to use me as a scapegoat an awful lot - honestly, they still do - but some of the teachers appreciate my fine jokes, you know. Not always, mind you. Never try to be funny with Worthing.
“But anyways, come second year, I was the only one that went down to see how the first years were settling, and I’d take them mithai as a treat. They all loved it. My dorm mates did too, they eventually stopped watching father’s parcels with suspicion, and started asking me when he was next sending the pedhe.” He grinned at this, and George found himself smiling too, despite himself.
“And they find me great to have around now. The English seem to get frightened to go outside at night an awful lot, so I’ve been the one to lead the pranks on the other houses a fair few times these past three years. And you know, Theo asked me where I get my weekend shirts from. The kurtas. Apparently lots of the boys in my year have been saying that they look great. Which, on me, I’m sure they do.”
George snorted, “I see that not even this place could flatten your ego.”
Harold raised an eyebrow. “One day, dear brother, you’ll come to realise that ego isn’t the right word. It’s something else. Something that’s necessary for us both to have, to get along with the rest of this island, without getting hurt.”
George nodded. His words seemed fair, after all. He really wanted to tell his brother how proud of him he was, but sentimental words were never his forte. Instead, he hugged him again, and grinned up at him.
“So what I’m saying is, just be yourself. You’re the sort of person that people would love to band with, or follow. Keep your head up, and just be the way you are. You are charismatic, you got the double dose from maa and baba. If you manage to have fun learning in your lessons, that’s already a win for us. Be the best student you can be, and everyone will start trusting you even if they don’t mean to. And when we have our rangapanchami to throw out the cold, and get mithai from baba, and show them dashavatari sword skills, they’ll want to join in too. You’ll inspire others to see things - even if not the way we see them, at least not as narrowly as they do right now. Because I know that that’s the sort of person you are, George. You inspire people.”
He gave his brother an incredulous look. He didn’t feel particularly inspiring right now, but Harold did have an eerie way of being right about things, especially people.
“I’m going to be just like you, just you wait,” he resolved, glancing at the sky. It was still grey, but it didn’t anger him as much as it had before.
“Well, maybe not exactly like me,” Harold huffed a laugh. “If Ganpati and Kartikela were the same, things wouldn’t be half as exciting, after all.”
George nodded his assent, resting his head against his brother’s shoulder, and feeling at home in Weston for the first time since they’d gotten here. Maybe, just maybe, Harold was right. It might be hard, but he was going to play the game as best as he could. And he was going to try his hardest to win - by making H proud.