Aunt Betty was pleased as they walked down the school corridor, empty now that classes were in session. “I wish you could have seen your father in school,” she said. “Razor sharp. But inclined to take things too lightly. Not that you could actually call him lazy —”
Jeffrey glanced shyly at three boys coming along the hall. They were a head taller than he, with broad shoulders and long hair.
“He just never cared much about excelling. That way in college too. Even though his professors told him and told him of his potential. Nearly broke his father’s — your grandfather’s — heart. But then Warren had a strong will, no matter how easygoing he seemed on the surface.”
More boys. Also tall. And the girls were tall too. Jeffrey had been accustomed to the short, thin, slightly built people of south India, where, if anything, he had seemed big for his age.
Was he actually small? He found out the next day, when he joined the class, that among his own people he was. He went to school alone, taking the bus by himself, although Aunt Betty wanted to take him his first day. But she did not insist when he was firm about going alone. Aunt Betty had a way of smiling and saying “Do what you think you should” that made him feel easy with her.
There were more than twenty-five in his class, and the teacher introduced him as “Jeffrey Moore from India.” Some of the students regarded him curiously; a few even crowded around after class to ask him where he had lived. But the long, unpronounceable name of his village was too much for them, so they shrugged and left him in the hall. Thereafter he walked alone, and between classes in the hallways he was buffeted like everyone else. What distinguished him from them was his hesitancy, his loneliness. But this was all right with him. It was better to start slowly with these strange new people whose loud voices, rough movements, and sheer ebullience were like nothing he had known in the village, where the heat held even the young, at least at midday, to a slow, energy-conserving pace, and where custom forbade loud laughter and shouting. It would not be easy either to get accustomed to the classrooms with steam knocking in the pipes and a condensation of moisture on the cold windows, so that everyone inside the classroom was peculiarly separated from the outside world. He had never been in a classroom that had a glass window. During a monsoon storm, perhaps the shutters would be closed; otherwise, he had always listened to teachers explaining and students reciting while, nearby, perhaps a crow tilted on a branch and regarded him with a critical black eye, or a green snake twined itself around a purple-blossomed bush. Moreover, he didn’t mind being alone until he could understand what was happening: the assignments, the unfamiliar procedures, the relaxed classroom manners, the informality of teachers. And what shocked him was boys and girls holding hands between classes. In the village it was common practice for boys to hold hands with boys, girls with girls, but never otherwise! What did the teachers here think of a girl and a boy strolling down the corridor, their fingers entwined?
With each passing day, however, he learned more about the school and what was expected of him. Gently a teacher explained that it was quite unnecessary for him to jump to attention when called on. He also learned that “a flowery” style of writing reports was not acceptable. His teacher wrote in large script across the top of his paper: “Say it plainly and clearly!” She did not know, of course, that if he had failed to call Shakespeare “the great bard and master of the ages” and the plays “masterpieces beyond compare,” his teacher in the village school would not have believed he possessed sufficient appreciation of the English playwright. On an American history test Jeffrey failed abysmally, but to his relief — and gratitude — a teacher told him after class, “Take it easy; this is all new to you.”
At lunch each day he got into the cafeteria line with the rest of the students. The hall was crowded, boisterous, in vertiginous motion. He felt small among the boys, even among those his own age, who were not only taller but heavier. Lunch was a difficult time for Jeffrey. Almost every day a new server stood behind the food counter. These student helpers didn’t seem to understand what he meant by “not taking,” when he pulled his tray back from the hefty hamburger ready to be plopped on his plate. He always got a puzzled look. Sometimes he would get a remark too: “Nothing wrong with this burger!” Or: “Hey, it’s not going to bite you!”
And at the dessert section, whenever he tried to verify the composition of something, he usually got a quizzical look for an answer.
“Making with eggs?” he would ask, pointing to a dish.
“Yeah, sure. With eggs.” And the dish would be thrust at him.
“No, no!” And he’d pull back his tray, often to a puzzled giggle or a contemptuous frown.
One day, when he sat down at a table in the cafeteria, two boys from his class came along. “How about sitting with you?”
Jeffrey nodded shyly.
He knew who the boys were. The very tall one was a basketball player whom Jeffrey had seen play on his first visit to the gym. Tom Carrington was by far the tallest of the fourteen-year-olds; indeed, he was among the tallest boys in the school. Although Jeffrey didn’t understand the fine points of basketball, he could see in Tom Carrington’s handling of the ball a great flair, a natural grace. Jeffrey was sorry that the season had already finished, that he would not have a chance to watch any games.
The other boy, shorter, but also a basketball player, was staring at something. Jeffrey looked down at his own plate, because it seemed to be what had caught Phil Booker’s attention. What was wrong with his plate?
“Why don’t you have some food?” Phil asked, frowning, digging into one of three hamburgers piled on his own plate.
“I’m having,” said Jeffrey.
“What he means is,” said Tom Carrington, “some meat. It will warm you up. You sure look cold all the time.”
And it was true that Jeffrey felt cold much of the time. Last week the gym had been closed for repair, so physical education period was held outside. Most of the boys threw footballs around or jogged. Jeffrey had stood each period at the edge of the track, hopping from one foot to the other, hands thrust in his pockets, trying to keep warm.
“Have one of mine,” Tom said abruptly and shoved his own plate of burgers forward.
“No, no, thank you. I’m not taking.”
“What are you, one of those health freaks?” asked Phil with his mouth full of food.
“Healthy freaks?” Jeffrey repeated.
“You know, eating wheat germ, seeds, and organic stuff. Don’t people do that over in India?”
“No, no, no,” Jeffrey replied quickly, lifting a forkful of gravyless vegetables. “I am not a healthy freak. I am just not taking meat.”
“So you’re a vegetarian,” concluded Tom.
Jeffrey nodded with a smile.
“Sure. Like I just said — a health freak,” said Phil, dumping catsup on his hamburgers.
“Is everyone in India a vegetarian?” asked Tom, showing interest.
“Some are, some not.”
“From what I heard of India,” said Phil, “the people are so poor, they’ll eat anything they can get.” He turned to Tom. “That senior — what’s-his-name — he’s one of those vegetarians.”
“Who?” Tom asked.
“What’s-his-name. You know. The thin, little guy about his size,” Phil jabbed his fork at Jeffrey. “Wears glasses?”
“Debates?”
“That’s him. A health freak,” said Phil happily and jabbed his fork again at Jeffrey. “Like you.”
“Nothing wrong with being a health freak,” argued Tom.
“No? My father says it’s a fad.”
“Listen,” said Tom, “if I could raise my free-throw percentage five points, I’d eat dry leaves.”
At this point Jeffrey Moore belched loudly. He was wondering if these boys would like him better if he ate meat. Was it necessary in America to eat meat if you wanted friends? He didn’t feel Tom Carrington took that attitude, but he wasn’t sure about Phil Booker. He
belched again, astonished to see a look of disgust on the faces opposite him.
“Not taking meat is my habit,” he said in explanation. But apparently the boys wouldn’t tolerate such a habit, because both of them were glaring at him. Exchanging glances, they got up and without a word moved to another table. What had he done? Refused meat. How could he eat something that almost everyone in his village avoided, even abhorred? Vegetarianism a fad? Then it was a fad that had lasted a thousand years in India. He watched the two boys working away at their hamburgers, now and then giving him a glance. They were leaning toward each other, saying something. It was about him, because then they gave him a scornful look. Living in America is not going to be easy, he thought. Few people would be as tolerant as his aunt.
At dinner that night he told his aunt of the incident.
Frankly puzzled, Aunt Betty screwed up her face and said, “I don’t understand it, Jeffrey. I can’t believe boys your age would get up a head of steam simply because you don’t eat meat. Oh, maybe they might kid you a little — but get up and move to another table?” She shook her head in bewilderment.
Then the next night, Aunt Betty frowned hard at him, during dinner. “Jeffrey! What do you say!”
“Ma’am?”
“Do you know what you just did?”
“Ma’am?”
“What you did just now!”
Jeffrey considered his actions of the last few minutes, then grinned uncertainly. “I have just been taking food, aunt.”
“As well as belching! You sat there and about belched in my face, without saying a word, ‘pardon,’ or anything!”
Had he belched? Jeffrey couldn’t remember. What was his aunt so upset about? She looked just like the boys in the cafeteria yesterday: disgusted.
He smiled timidly.
“Jeffrey, have you any idea what I am talking about?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Have you done this at school — in the cafeteria?”
“Done what, aunt?”
“Belched, as you just did here.”
He shrugged. “Maybe I did. I am sorry for not remembering.”
“Maybe you did while eating lunch with those two boys.”
Jeffrey nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe I did.”
Aunt Betty, having glared at him, slowly relaxed and leaned forward. “See here, boy, belching isn’t done here in public like that. Kids may not be brought up with yesterday’s strictness, but they are still taught not to belch, or if they do, at least to keep their mouths closed and certainly to pardon themselves. My goodness. Don’t you pardon yourself where you come from?”
“No, ma’am.”
“But didn’t your father teach you anyway?”
“Dad and I took food like Indians.” Jeffrey lifted his right hand and plunged it into the middle of the plate, screwing his fingertips around a gob of potatoes and lifting it to his mouth. Having eaten the morsel, he wiped his fingers and sat back solemnly. “Like that. Only with green chilies in it. Spicy food is making you belch, so you belch. No one says anything. It’s okay.”
His aunt shook her head sadly. “Just the same, Warren should have taught you better.”
“Dad was busy with other things.”
Sensing the defensiveness in his voice, Aunt Betty cleared her throat and said, “Well, now you know how it is done in our town — in your town — Jeffrey.”
“Yes, ma’am. I think I do.”
“Too bad there isn’t a way to have your classmates understand the world you come from.”
“Maybe someday they will.”
Aunt Betty smiled. “That’s the spirit. Patience and hope. It’s what your grandfather used to say: always count on patience and hope.”
The way Aunt Betty talked to him made Jeffrey feel at ease again. From where he sat, he could see above the mantelpiece the fine round head, white hair, and steady eyes of his great-grandfather who had built this house with two powerful hands. That night, snug in bed while a cold wind beat against the windowpane, Jeffrey thought of the stern old man and the other one staring from another portrait in the upstairs hallway — his grandfather — and once again he watched the ashes of his father disappear into the gentle current of the Cauvery River. It seemed as if three men crowded around his bed and bid him good night, good night, good night, to the ticking rhythm of the bedside clock.
*
The school had reopened the gym, so his physical education class met for a period at the swimming pool.
After showering, the class of fifteen boys ran to poolside, jumped or dove in, while the instructor, a beefy man with a whistle around his neck, stood glaring at each one. Jeffrey watched the boys swimming. Few swam as poorly as he did, because like other boys in the village he had learned on his own. He, Rama, and three others had merely gone to a lake, stood in water up to their necks, then struck out for the shore, trying to get there any way they could. In this manner they had all learned to swim, but not like these Americans with their smoothly coordinated motion of arms and legs. He felt awkward when he jumped in and flailed out for the opposite side.
At the sound of the whistle, everyone climbed from the pool and awaited instructions. The teacher divided them into two teams for a race. A boy from each group would swim a length; when he touched the far end, another boy from his team would dive in; and so on, until one team finished first. Jeffrey’s team was holding its own until he jumped in — the only diving he had ever done was from a buffalo’s back — and struck out blindly. Twice he bumped into the side and by the time he reached the end of the pool, the opposing side had built up a lead of nearly one length. Looking up at the faces on his own team, Jeffrey saw the first strong emotion he had elicited from a group of people since coming to this school: contempt. Climbing out, he watched his team lose by the length he himself had lost.
Then the teacher ordered everyone back into the pool. He explained that holding the breath increased lung power and enhanced general health. Therefore, he was going to see who in this class could hold his breath the longest. The teacher held up a stopwatch in his brawny go hand. “When I count to three, take a breath, go under, and stay under as long as you can.”
The boys stood waist deep in the shallow end, while the teacher strolled to the diving board and stood on its tip. During this time Jeffrey took rapid, shallow breaths, sucking in air while thrusting his abdomen out like a quickly worked bellows. Within seconds he felt his lungs filling — as they should by this procedure. When he heard the instructor bark out “one…two…three!” Jeffrey inhaled with a tremendous rush and went under the water. He closed his eyes and concentrated upon the black screen between his eyebrows, a spot there that he imagined, and slowly but surely — just as the guru had trained him to experience — a small, cloudy space of white light appeared, wavered, pulsed. It was upon this rhythmic light that he focused, letting it absorb his consciousness until, abruptly, he knew his air was gone, and the body summoned him to breathe again. So he rose to the surface and with utmost self-control — for he had been trained for this too — slowly inhaled in one long fluid stroke of his diaphragm.
Gathered around the pool he saw the other boys, all of them staring at him, some with mouths slackly open in wonder. He was alone in the pool.
On the diving board the physical education teacher held the stopwatch, glancing now at it, now at Jeffrey. “Two minutes,” he announced in a tone of disbelief, “and twenty-three seconds!”
Jeffrey started to wade to the side.
“Two twenty-three,” the teacher repeated incredulously. “Say, what’s your name again?”
“Jeffrey Moore, sir.”
“Jeffrey Moore, I can’t remember anyone beating two minutes in the fifteen years I have been at this school.” He stared appraisingly at the slightly built boy. “Okay, free time!” he declared to the class.
For the rest of the period the boys swam, played tag, ducked one another. Jeffrey swam a little, but soon got out and sat against a wall, watching the
others — many of whom were now watching him. In the locker room, while dressing, Jeffrey felt a tap on his shoulder. A boy stared curiously at him.
“How did you do that? How did you stay under so long?”
Aside from a few cursory questions, this was the first earnest one put to Jeffrey since he had arrived at the school. So he replied with eagerness: “It’s not hard to do once you learn Bhastrika Pranayama.”
“Huh?”
“A way of breathing.” Jeffrey waved his hand impatiently. “I can show you. My Master taught me. It isn’t being so difficult. I can —”
A bell rang; the gym period was finished. The boy turned, hurried back to his locker, and closed it. Boys filed down the line of benches, so Jeffrey finished dressing and left too.
In the hall, walking toward his history class, Jeffrey felt another tap on his shoulder. This time he had to look up and up — it was Tom Carrington, the basketball player.
“Kids are coming over to my house Friday after school. You can come if you want.”
Jeffrey nodded. “I thank you,” he said, wanting to add, “about that belching I was doing in the cafeteria — I am sorry for it. I did not know better.” Instead he said nothing, but watched Tom Carrington stride away. During those final days in the village, when his father had talked so much — wanting to get everything in — they had discussed the feeling of regret. Father had said, “Never regret the past. Save your energy for what is happening right now, at this very moment.”
So Jeffrey tried to think of the American Civil War, the subject under discussion in his next class, although in the back of his mind he was savoring his little victory in the swimming pool, as well as hoping his behavior in the cafeteria would soon be forgotten. Robert E. Lee. Ulysses S. Grant. The thing was, he had been noticed today. Vanity, Father would warn. Well, so it was vanity — but it felt good to have held his breath longer than anyone else.
*
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