Children of A Better God

by usmita, Bagchi

  She was clearly trying to imitate grown-up behaviour. Probably her mother or an aunt. ‘It’s true, Aunty, I can understand all of them,’ she repeated.

  All the children in the class laughed in unison. They were not laughing at Anuja’s words but at Anupurba’s attempt to suppress her amusement.

  After that encounter, it was easy to relate to the children. The morning passed off smoothly enough! These children lacked the artistic talent of her art class, but they had a natural eagerness to learn. And so Anupurba did not take them into the mysteries of hues and shades but did what she could to keep them happily engaged. The short break began at half-past ten. The children at Asha Jyoti did not leave their classrooms during the short recess. They sat at their desks and munched their biscuits, an apple or whatever snacks they had brought with them. As they struggled to eat, food and saliva came out of the corners of mouth in a messy way but no one paid any attention to these things. The ayah silently wiped their faces clean and brushed away the crumbs from their clothes. The children chatted away merrily as they ate like all children everywhere, quite unmindful of the mess.

  And they had so many questions to ask her as they ate. Had Anupurba Aunty really lived in America? Where? What was it like? Was it always snowing there? They had such wide streets and very big cars, didn’t they? Did everyone live in big houses? Was it true that every house had a swimming pool? And yes, how was Disneyland? Were American people nice?

  Anupurba tried to answer their questions patiently as she sipped the coffee which Neela had brought for her in the meantime. Sometimes she wondered about the difference between these children and the normal ones. Of late, these children no longer even ‘looked’ different to her!

  The next class began after another twenty minutes and continued until twelve-thirty, just as in most other schools. Then the lunch break, until one o’clock.

  The children scampered out of the class noisily. Anupurba was walking out behind them, but then changed her mind and went back into the classroom. She didn’t feel like going to the Teachers’ Common Room.

  The teachers at Asha Jyoti had their own space. Anupurba had often peeped into it. But it was mostly empty, especially at lunchtime, except for a few teachers. Many who did not carry their lunch from their homes trooped into the Udupi Restaurant opposite the school. The dosa there was said to be excellent. Other teachers used the lunch break for personal errands. There were some who never left their classrooms. They had a quick bite and busied themselves in marking the children’s exercise books or doing something else.

  ~

  Anupurba had no exercise books to mark as she had been teaching art all morning. But she kept thinking of the book that Ranjana had lent her. It wasn’t a storybook or a novel: it contained brief accounts of research done on spastic children.

  ‘Mrs Mathur gave me this book to read when I had just joined Asha Jyoti,’ Ranjana had told Anupurba. ‘You should read it too. It will help you to get rid of several misconceptions.’

  Anupurba became engrossed in it as she ate her lunch from her box. After some time, she became aware of the presence of someone at her side and raised her head. There was a woman standing close to her. She was probably in her early thirties, but had a rough face with dark circles around her eyes. The untidy knot of dry hair made her look shabby and years older. Anupurba had seen her before. She had a mythological name—was it Ahalya or Arundhati? Ranjana had told her that she was a ‘special aide’.

  ‘What’s a special aide?’ Anupurba had asked.

  ‘Well, they are neither teachers nor ayahs—something in between. She’s in charge of Room Number 7.’

  ‘Is that a classroom?’

  ‘No, it’s for children who are totally crippled by cerebral palsy. These are the severe cases. They will never be able to walk or talk. But we keep trying to help them, so that they can at least sit up straight in their chairs, or scream out to their parents for help instead of soiling their own clothes. At the very least, we can help to make life a little easier for whoever is taking care of these children at home. As long as they live, they will be dependent on someone, and so Mrs Mathur has organized a special class for them. Special aides have been appointed—one for every two or three children.’

  These special aides were partially educated, Ranjana had added—they had completed high school but never gone to college. The number of special aides appointed each year depended on the number of children who needed their help. All appointments were temporary. It was a tough job. The one job possibly more difficult was to be an attendant at a mental asylum.

  ‘Would you like to see what Room Number 7 is like?’ Ranjana had asked her.

  ‘Yes, let’s go.’

  Room Number 7 was located at the end of the narrow passage that ran behind the school office. Different kinds of animal-like screams came from that room. Anupurba had taken a peek inside.

  It was a fair-sized room. There was a big round table in one corner around which nine children sat in wheelchairs. These were not like the wheelchairs Anupurba had seen elsewhere. The wheels had been specially designed and there were restraining belts all around. The children were tied to their chairs at their waists. Their knees were tied. Their feet were tied. Still, they could not sit up straight. There was a cheap carpet on the floor on which some children lay sprawling, wearing diapers. They were perhaps seven, eight or nine years old. They rolled across the floor, trying to reach the plastic toys that lay in a corner. The children screamed, sometimes in joy and sometimes in despair. It was difficult to distinguish cries of happiness from those of pain.

  Anupurba had shuddered.

  ‘Those four women that you see—they are the special aides,’ Ranjana had told her.

  All four wore dark maroon salwar kameezes, which were like uniforms. Hair tightly knotted at the back of their heads, dupattas wrapped around waists so that they could rush in to help when required. There was something stoical about them as they went about delivering acts of kindness to these children who would never get any better.

  That was when Anupurba had seen the woman who now stood beside her.

  ‘Hello,’ Anupurba smiled, putting the book aside.

  ‘I am Arundhati.’ There was no smile on her face. No trace of friendliness. What was the matter?

  ‘Sit down, Arundhati,’ Anupurba said, pushing a chair towards her.

  ‘I haven’t come here to sit,’ the woman said. Her eyes pierced Anupurba. She ignored the look of discomfiture that appeared on Anupurba’s face. Suddenly her face grew taut. In a rough voice dripping bitterness she said, ‘Why do you have to do this? You come from well-to-do families. Why do you snatch bread away from the poor?’

  Anupurba was shocked. She could not speak. What kind of language was this? Why was this woman so aggressive?

  She must remain calm, Anupurba told herself.

  ‘Who are you talking about, Arundhati?’ she asked. ‘My name is Anupurba. I’ve come here just for a few days to help . . . ’

  ‘I know very well who you are!’ Arundhati hissed, cutting her short. ‘It’s you I’m talking about. Not just you—all the others like you who have spread out their roots here. Come here to help, you say!’ Poison dripped from each syllable, no, from each pore in her body. ‘Do you know how many throats are slit because rich people like you want to help?’

  Was the woman mad?

  Anupurba could not swallow the insult quietly. ‘What are you saying?’ she said. ‘What has happened?’ she demanded.

  ‘Don’t you know?’ Her eyes were blazing now. ‘How could you know? Does the elephant know how many ants get crushed under its feet?’

  Anupurba was annoyed now, but she calmed herself. ‘You are crossing your limits, Arundhati,’ she said. She did not complete what she was about to say. Someone was standing near the door.

  ‘Hello, Anupurba! Shall we go to the sixth standard now?’ Bani was at the door like a sentry guarding it.

  Arundhati turned around abruptly at the soun
d of Bani’s voice and walked out of the room with long strides.

  ‘Why did Her Highness descend on you?’ Bani asked sarcastically, watching Arundhati go. ‘To shower her blessings?’

  ‘Do you know what she was saying to me? Have you seen the way she speaks?’ Anupurba was still in a state of shock.

  ‘Of course! Who doesn’t know Arundhati? She is our champion prize-fighter?’

  ‘And still Mrs Mathur keeps her on, year after year?’

  ‘What else can she do? She’s in a tight corner. Besides, Arundhati is really good at her work, whatever her attitude may be. You should see the way she looks after those children in Room Number 7.’

  ‘But why did she have to attack me? I hardly know her. I’ve never spoken to her before.’

  ‘That’s beside the point. You are a volunteer, aren’t you? You are helping us without getting paid.’

  Anupurba was thoroughly confused. Does one become someone’s enemy because one chooses to work pro-bono, work without a salary?

  ‘That’s what she thinks anyway. She’s convinced that Mrs Mathur doesn’t give her a permanent appointment because she can find volunteers like you, and so all volunteers are her sworn enemies. You just can’t make her understand that she isn’t qualified to become a teacher. Anyway, forget her. Let’s go—it’s nearly time.’

  Anupurba’s mind remained very unsettled even as she walked towards the sixth standard with Bani as her escort.

  Painting by Sandeep © Spastics Society of Karnataka

  Nine

  The unsettling saga with Arundhati did not quite end there. It was as if Arundhati had made up her mind to haunt Anupurba.

  When the lunch break ended, she came and stood outside the classroom, leaning against the door. Not in the open, as one does when one wishes to talk, but stealthily, with furtive looks, inquisitive ears spread out to catch every word. She was clearly stalking her.

  Anupurba felt very deeply disturbed. It was beginning to scare her. Nothing she had faced in her entire life was quite like this. At every other moment she was aware of the two blazing eyes following her, testing her, warning her. Why had Arundhati started this psychological warfare? Why was she preying on Anupurba?

  Should she complain to Mrs Mathur after school hours? Let her know what was going on? But would that solve anything? What was the meaning of this stalking? Did Arundhati think Anupurba was so green that she couldn’t see what was going on?

  She decided to remain calm and concentrate on the children, on the work at hand. There were only thirteen children in the sixth standard and one of them was absent today. It was no bigger than her art class. Slowly, she relaxed somewhat. She became engrossed in the paintings and in her conversation with the children.

  ~

  The next day, she decided that she would teach the children how to make a collage out of strips of paper. But there was a problem; they were not allowed to handle scissors. How were they to cut out paper strips with scissors with their uncoordinated movements? Anupurba could do the cutting for them but what was the point unless the children themselves did it, only then would they feel that they had accomplished something. Only then could they proudly say that it was their collage. She was in a dilemma—whom could she ask for a solution?

  One of the children guessed what was going on in her mind even before she had said a word. The badge on his shirt told her the name—Abhay. He looked the most normal of the twelve children but Anupurba learnt from the class-teacher’s chart that he was the most afflicted. He had to be sent for therapy almost every day. He had already undergone two operations and would need a third after six months. Above the waist he looked healthy and his legs were like those of a normal child, but they lacked the strength to support him. Abhay couldn’t move at all—he couldn’t even limp or crawl, dragging his feet behind him. That wasn’t all. This child, who always had a cherubic smile on his lips, couldn’t speak.

  It was this wordless, motionless child who found a solution to her problem. First, he tried to get her attention by tugging at the end of her sari; then, with trembling hands, he shredded a piece of paper and placed the fragments on top of each other, showing her how the task could be accomplished even without having to use a pair of scissors. Mutely he explained, this is how we do it all the time.

  Anupurba understood. It was such a simple solution, yet she hadn’t been able to think of it! Children with developmental disorders could make collages by using their fingers instead of sharp cutters—they converted paper into fragments and then they glued them together. She suddenly remembered Mrs Mathur telling her that shredding paper was actually a form of therapy for them.

  Abhay had reminded her of what she had forgotten. But before that, he had sensed her feelings! They could anticipate so much, so well, despite being prisoners of their bodies. She felt a surge of affection rising within her. Leaning over, she ruffled the child’s curly hair with her fingers.

  As she was turning around from Abhay’s wheelchair towards Sivaraman, she saw someone standing near the door, as motionless as a stone statue. Arundhati! She was back again, and was staring at her.

  The sense of contentment she had experienced a moment ago vanished. She was being followed and watched. She could feel her body become tense. She was angry and wanted to give Arundhati a piece of her mind, but before she could speak a word the figure had turned around and left.

  ‘Hey, you,’ she wanted to shout after her. But the words remained stuck in her throat. Had she really seen something or only imagined it? Was it a trick played by the afternoon sun streaming in through the window? Was this place making her paranoid?

  However, she was sure it was Arundhati and for a moment she had a very strange feeling that she had seen tears in her eyes.

  ~

  ‘Purba,’ Amrit called softly as he switched off the reading light. He always read a book before going to sleep.

  ‘Ummm,’ Anupurba was only half asleep.

  ‘Are you asleep yet?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Tell me about your school. What is going on?’

  ‘Why do you want to know? You have no time for me these days.’ She actually did not have a good reason to say that.

  ‘But you are so busy and the days you go there, you come back tired. This school thing is overwhelming you way too much.’

  Amrit was right. It was beginning to engulf her a lot more than she had thought.

  She turned towards his side of the bed and took his hand in hers. They had always been a great support to each other. She needed him a lot more now because of what she was going through.

  She told Amrit about Arundhati and what was happening in school.

  ‘Why have you not alerted the school Principal yet? What if this loony woman ends up doing some crazy thing?’ He was extremely concerned about her safety now.

  ‘Maybe I should.’

  ‘Do you want me to come along?’

  ‘No,’ she replied laughingly—the way she spoke when amused or embarrassed.

  ‘I am serious.’

  ‘Come on, I can handle it. I can handle tougher things’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Like you,’ she pressed her thumb on his chest.

  They both laughed, knowing everything would be all right.

  ~

  She had forgotten all about the events of the previous day when she came to school on Wednesday. She spent the first half of the morning with the students of the seventh standard like the two previous days. After the lunch break she went to the sixth. That class had only just begun when she heard a loud groan from Abhay. He had stopped shredding his sheet of red handmade paper and seemed to be in pain. Before Anupurba could understand what was happening, he had slipped out of his wheelchair, his face convulsed and his eyes glazed. Blood from his split lower lip splattered his white shirt.

  Anupurba experienced a sudden jolt but did not lose her nerve. It was an epileptic seizure. Just like what she had seen Sumana go through the day sh
e was going to visit the Health Centre. She took Abhay’s head in her lap, grabbed her own clean handkerchief and put it in a bundle between his teeth. The boy was not responding; he was unconscious. He had the jerky convulsion again and some saliva spattered over Anupurba. She could smell his body odour now and surprisingly, it did not matter to her. She shouted out to Venkatesh, who was taking a class in the adjoining room, for help. He came running. In a flash, many more arrived. It was amazing how the emergency response system worked in this place. It was like an interconnected intelligence that sent out an invisible alert and help came rushing from all directions. Even Mrs Mathur appeared in a matter of minutes. Abhay was carried to the Health Centre in a stretcher. The crowd dispersed. As she was leaving, Mrs Mathur patted her on the back.

  ‘Very well done, Anupurba! I could not have done better.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Anupurba said feebly.

  The other children were completely silent.

  She went out to the water tap and cleaned her sari. She washed Abhay’s saliva and blood from her hands. Strange, but she was not repulsed at all. After breathing in the fresh air outside, she realized she was not in a state of high alert any more. Her breathing had returned to normal. Walking slowly she returned to the class.

  ‘Okay, back to work!’ Anupurba told the children. ‘Put the collage aside. We’ll do something else today. Have you children heard of origami?’ She tried her best to sound natural.

  No, no one had told them about origami. The children stared at her in silence.

  Anupurba wrote the word on the blackboard so they could slowly re-engage their minds. As she turned back, she saw someone near the door. It was Arundhati.

  She had probably been standing there for quite some time. Had she come when Abhay had his seizure? Perhaps she was watching to see how Anupurba handled the situation.