by Shona Patel
Finally on reaching home, the lily blossoms settled in a brass bowl and his father settled in the courtyard with a cup of tea, it was time to bring out the note again. Biren peered over his father’s shoulder trying to decipher the schoolmaster’s tiny, pristine Bengali script. The letter was full of big words.
“What is it, Baba?” he asked. “What is it? Tell me, quickly.”
“I see. It appears the new boy is your school needs private tuition. Why, is there a new boy in your school who is struggling with his studies? His name is Samir Deb.”
Biren shrugged. Samir Deb’s academic challenges were of little interest to him.
“Who needs tuition?” said Shibani, coming out of the kitchen. She handed her husband a rice crepe with coconut filling. “Try this patishapta. I made them today.”
“Samir Deb. The new boy in Biren’s class. The child is falling behind in his studies. His family wants to send him to study in Calcutta. The schoolmaster has recommended me to give him private tuition. I wonder why your mastermoshai does not give the child private tuition himself?”
“Because he is afraid,” Biren blurted out. He remembered how the belligerent ladies had cowed down the poor schoolmaster.
“Afraid?” said Shamol, puzzled. “Afraid of what? I don’t understand.”
“His mother is very...” Biren tried to think of the right word. “Ferocious.”
“Well, I am not worried about his ferocious mother. The problem is I get home too late. I don’t have the time to go to the child’s house but I can tutor him if they send him to our basha.”
Biren looked at his father in horror. “But he cannot come to our basha, Baba!” he cried.
“And why not?” said his father, mildly surprised.
Biren wanted to say, Because he wears knee-length socks and cries like a girl. Because he is too rich and we are too poor, because my friends will laugh and everybody will think he is my friend. But all he could say was, “Because he rides in a palanquin.”
“Why, that’s rather fine,” said his father.
“Like a girl,” Biren added, to drive home the point. “Only girls ride in palanquins.”
“I wouldn’t mind riding a palanquin,” said Shibani.
“Someday, my darling,” said his father, “and I will decorate it with sweet-scented lilies for you.” He gave Shibani a long tender look that made her toss her hair back in a girlish way.
Biren tugged his father’s hand. “Baba, what are you going to do?”
“I can offer to teach him at the same time I teach you two. They don’t have to pay me any money for that.”
“But they are rich,” said Biren. “Very rich. He brings new pencils and erasers to school every day.”
Shamol Roy looked at his son sadly. He wished he could buy his wife a palanquin, but she had to be content with a few lilies instead. Here was his boy hankering for a new pencil and all he could afford were the pencil stubs discarded at the office. Biren, dexterous for an eight-year-old, used a razor blade to pare both ends to get maximum usage out of them.
Biren was quick to catch his father’s sadness. “But I like the small pencils much better,” he said brightly. “They are easier to carry around in my pocket and if I lose one I don’t feel so bad because I have many more. Also, you want to know one more thing? Carrying long sharpened pencils in your pocket is very dangerous. If you fall down and get poked in your eye you can become blind. Then you won’t be able to go to school, or read, or...or...even fly a kite. So what’s the use?”
Shamol Roy smiled at his son, the diplomat. Biren was wily with his words, but more important he was a thoughtful, compassionate child. “Bring me one of your pencils,” he said. “Let me write a reply to your mastermoshai.”
“They will pay you lots of good money for the tuition, Baba.” Biren jumped up, dizzy with the vision of new pencils and erasers. Why, they might even be able to afford one of those mechanical pencil sharpeners.
“They may offer to pay me,” said his father. “But I don’t need to accept it.”
“But why not?” Biren was crestfallen. “Samir’s family has lots of money.”
“That is not the point,” said his father. “Do you know the difference between opportunity and advantage, mia? An opportunity is something that is offered to you. An advantage is something you take. It would be foolish to miss an opportunity but it is sometimes wise to forgo an advantage.”
“So why are you not taking the money?”
“Because I am not going out of my way to tutor the child. I am not doing anything extra. So why should I charge money for work I have not done? Never mind, don’t worry about it. Go get me a pencil.”
Shamol Roy scribbled a quick reply on the reverse of the schoolmaster’s note and sent it back with Biren.
CHAPTER
11
It was all settled, and Biren was asked to bring Samir home with him. It soon dawned on Biren he would not be taking the boat back to the village with his friends. Instead—to his horror—he was expected to sit in the tasseled palanquin next to Sammy and be carried to his own house. The very thought of it made him wish he had never been born.
He loitered under the tamarind trees in the schoolyard and kicked dirt while furious thoughts raced through his mind.
Finally he approached the palanquin bearers. “My father has strictly forbidden me to ride the palanquin,” he told them in an authoritative voice. “I can show you the way to my house but you will have to follow behind me.”
“But how will you walk? It is too far,” said one of the men. “It is much shorter by boat, we know, but Samir-baba gets nauseous in a boat, which is why we have to carry him everywhere.”
Biren was tempted to say he got nauseous in a palanquin, but that would not work. “What do you think I am? A cripple?” he said loudly, hoping to shame Samir into sending the palanquin home. But Samir was already seated inside sipping sweet bael sherbet and eating stuffed dates.
“Just follow behind me,” said Biren abruptly. He marched stoutly ahead and the palanquin bearers, habituated as they were to their own brisk pace, hobbled awkwardly behind him like a broken bullock cart.
After a while Samir got bored and got down from the palanquin and skipped up to Biren.
“Don’t walk with me,” Biren snapped, looking nervously around him. His plan was to pretend the palanquin had nothing to do with him, but to have Samir Deb in his pleated shorts and knee-length socks walk alongside was a dead giveaway.
“Why?” said Samir in a high-pitched whine. “Why don’t you want to walk with me? Why don’t you want to be my friend?”
Biren stopped in his tracks, almost causing the palanquin bearers to bump into him. “Because I don’t,” he said fiercely. “I don’t want to walk with you. I want you to stay two boat lengths behind me, do you understand?”
One of the palanquin bearers gave a snort, which made Samir fly into a rage. He looked like a miniversion of his mother. “Shut up, stupid donkey!” he yelled, kicking a small puff of dust with his shiny black shoe. “And you donkeys stay two boat lengths behind me, do you understand?”
And so the strange procession continued, Biren marching briskly ahead, followed by Sammy, two boat lengths behind, rounded up by the miserable palanquin bearers, for whom the lethargic pace was sheer torture.
* * *
When they reached the house, Sammy was hobbling and in tears. He removed his shoes to reveal two small, round blisters sprouted like batashas on his heels.
Shibani shush-shushed sympathetically, sat him on her lap, wiped his tears with the end of her sari and made him soak his feet in cool rose water. Just to see Samir with his fat tears wobbling on his chin and being fussed over by Shibani filled Biren with intense disgust. Even three-year-old Nitin had grown past such infantile behavior.
Shibani went into the kitchen to prepare fresh limewater.
“Your mother is so beautiful,” Samir said in a mellifluous voice. He twirled his pink toes in the basin. “I want to marry someone just like her.”
Biren went insane. “Well, you can’t!” he said fiercely. “She is already married to my father and she will be married to my father for the rest of her life!”
Nitin, who was splashing his hands in the foot basin, looked up with big, scared eyes. He had never seen his brother so angry.
Sammy tilted back his head to admire his toes. “I had an aunt once,” he said conversationally. He splashed a little water at Nitin, who darted away with a shriek, then tiptoed back to be splashed some more. “She used to be so beautiful. She had long black hair like your mother. Then my uncle died and she became very ugly. Nobody goes near her or talks to her anymore. Now she lives with the goats in the back of the house.”
“Who is it, Biren mia? Do we have a visitor?” Grandpa, woken up from his nap, called in a cracked sleepy voice from his room. “Bring him to me. Let me see who this is. Oh, my, my, what a fair and handsome fellow! What is your name, young man?”
Samir puffed out his chest. “My name is Samir Kumar Deb. I was born in Calcutta and I have been to London twice,” he said loudly. His eyes drifted lazily across the room, taking in Granny’s faded saris lumped over the clotheshorse and Grandpa’s lopsided clogs, the toes facing in opposite directions.
“London!” cried Grandpa, clapping his hands. “Imagine that! Tell me, mia, was it terribly cold? Lots of ice and snow?”
Biren left Samir sitting on Grandpa’s bed telling him all about Big Ben. Even Nitin fingered the fringe of the bedspread and listened with his mouth open. Biren was sick to his stomach. Samir enchanted the whole family. He made Shibani giggle by telling her she was beautiful like a goddess. Granny told them the story of Surparnarekha, the ugly she-demon with her sliced-off nose and used a candle flame to create shadow puppets. Grandpa, not to be outdone, pulled a cowrie out of Samir’s ear and offered it to him.
“No, thank you,” Samir declined politely.
“I’ll take it!” chirped Nitin, holding out his small hand. But Grandpa’s eyes wandered slyly and he put the cowrie away.
When Father came home, he cut a papaya and Biren was secretly pleased to see the wonder on Samir’s face. When Shamol handed him a slice, he wolfed it down wordlessly even before the others had taken a bite of theirs.
“I want some more,” he said, eyeing the remaining slices on the brass platter.
Biren opened his mouth to say everyone only got one piece each, when Shamol quickly cut up his own slice into equal portions and offered it to the boys.
“Here’s another small piece,” he said. “Today everybody gets a little extra.”
* * *
When it came time for homework, Shamol followed exactly the same routine as other days, not doing any more or any less than usual. Nitin stuck his tongue out and laboriously fashioned a capital A, only to be distracted by Samir making funny faces at him. Nitin broke into a squealy giggle and covered his mouth with his hands.
Shamol looked up from his book. “Boys,” he admonished them gently.
“I don’t need to do this sum,” Sammy announced, throwing down his pencil. “This is too easy. I already know the answer.”
“Is that so?” said Shamol mildly. “Perhaps you can show me how to do it, then.” He turned to Biren, who was standing beside him with a smug look on his face. “What is it, Biren, are you finished? Let me see. All right, you may put your things away and leave the room. And you, too, Nitin. Very good. Now, Samir is going to help me solve this tricky sum.”
Biren knew why Nitin and he were being sent out of the room. His father wanted to spare Samir the embarrassment of looking ignorant in front of others. Shamol Roy in his own quiet way instilled in his students a deep love of learning. He guarded their private struggles and brandished their victories to all. He was, after all, a born and gifted teacher.
* * *
The palanquin bearers slept peacefully under the mango tree. The shadows had lengthened in the bamboo grove and it was already time for evening puja by the time Samir was done. Shibani lovingly bandaged his feet in soft mulmul strips cut from her old saris and kissed the top of his head before sending him on his way. Biren sighed with relief to see the palanquin swing off at a brisk pace and disappear down the bend in the road. He had secretly begun to worry Samir would end up staying the night or, worse still, be adopted by the family and they would be stuck with him for the rest of their lives.
* * *
Six months later, Samir left for boarding school. Biren received a postcard with a beautiful photo of the marble domed Victoria Memorial of Calcutta.
Dear Biren Roy,
This is the Victoria Mangorial.
It is very fine.
I am very fine.
I hope you are fine, also.
Very truly yours,
Samir Kumar Deb
CHAPTER
12
It was Shibani’s hair-washing day. Her jet-black hair, a whole yard and a half long, tumbled in tresses down to an old sari spread on the ground for the purpose. She sat on a footstool in the courtyard while Apu rubbed coconut oil into her scalp, parting her hair in sections with a wide bamboo toothcomb. Shibani’s eyes were closed and her head bobbed willingly under her friend’s massaging fingertips. She looked blissfully relaxed. Beside her stool was a brass bowl containing a solution of soap nuts and shikakai for her hair wash.
Shibani squinted up at the gathering clouds. “Looks like rain, don’t you think? Maybe I should put off washing my hair today. It will never dry in this humidity. I always catch a head cold when I sleep with wet hair.”
“Then, you will have to sleep with your oily hair tonight,” said Apu. “This is your last oil massage for a while, sister. Remember I am leaving for my cousin’s wedding on Friday. I will be gone for a whole month. Tomorrow I have to prepare all the sweets to take to the groom’s house. Coconut balls, rice cakes and palm fritters. I will send the maid over with some for you.”
“Do you have enough saris for all the days? You are welcome to borrow some of mine, you know.”
“Oh, no, no. Your saris are too expensive and fancy. You know what these family weddings are like. With hundreds of people coming and going, things get lost or stolen all the time. I would feel terrible if that happened.”
“Don’t be silly!” Shibani laughed. “Take my saris. I don’t care if they get lost. I have too many. There will never be enough occasions to wear them all. I’ll tell you what, when you have finished oiling my hair, we’ll go and pick out some for you. I have a beautiful banana-leaf-green one that will suit you very well. Today I am free in the evening and I can do the hems for you.”
* * *
That same morning on his way to work, Shamol Roy had noticed the clouds in the east had swallowed the sun. The river turned a dark and oily black against which the jute plants, eight feet tall, glowed an eerie and electric green.
Shamol fretted because he had not picked up his umbrella from the umbrella man. Now from the look of the sky they were heading for quite a downpour.
He arrived at the jute mill godown to find it still locked. Usually his assistant, who lived in the jute quarters nearby, came early to open it. The bullock carts laden with bales were already lined up outside. Shamol went to the main office to pick up the godown key and learned his assistant was sick and would not be coming in that day. Mr. Mallick, the mill manager, assured Shamol he would send help immediately.
By midday, no help had arrived and Shamol was finding it increasingly difficult to manage on his own. It was a brutally hot and humid day with no respite, not even a cup of tea. He had to run back and forth from the weighing scales outside to the ledger in the g
odown. The bullock cart lines grew longer and backed up all the way down the road to the bazaar. By early afternoon Shamol realized he would have to lock up the godown and drop off the keys at the main office at the end of the day. This meant he would most definitely miss the last ferry home. His only option was to stay overnight at a relative’s house in the village, but before that he would have to send a message home through Kanai. Maybe Kanai could bring back a change of fresh clothes for him. If not, he would have to borrow something from his cousin to wear to office the following morning.
But despite the harried day, he did not forget his son’s pencils. He had collected six stubs from the office, each two or three inches long. He wrapped the pencils in a piece of blotting paper and put them in the front pocket of his tunic.
Finally the last bale was weighed and the bullock cart ambled away, tinkling its bell. Shamol Roy made the last notations and closed his ledger. He sat down at his desk and felt the weight of the day slump on his shoulders. It was getting dark inside the godown. He knew there were candles and matches tucked around somewhere, but only the assistant knew where.
He was about to leave when the rain crashed down like a wall of glass. Shamol was trapped. There was nothing he could to do but wait it out, but he would have to find the candles before that.
He groped his way to the back of the godown. Squeaks and scrabbles emanated from the bales, and a small creature with scratchy claws ran over his feet, making him jump. To his relief he located the candles and a box of matches on a small bamboo shelf on the back wall. Shamol lit two candles and made his way back to the elevated platform of his desk. He considered shutting the door of the godown to keep out the rain but then it would get terribly stuffy. As it was, a thick vapor was rising off the floor and the smell of rot and decay from the bales was almost too much to bear.
He realized he had not eaten anything all day. The potato and fried flatbread Shibani packed for him that morning lay untouched in a cloth bag on his desk. He opened the bag and ate his cold food in the flickering candlelight while rain crashed and splattered outside. This kind of torrential rain usually did not last too long, he thought thankfully.