Dear Mrs. Naidu
Page 3
“Good morning, Sarojini,” Miss said, putting a piece of paper in her book and closing it.
“Good morning, Miss,” I said. “This is… um…”
“Deepti,” the girl said, switching the boy to her other hip. “And this is my brother, Abhi. We want to go to school here.”
“Is that right?” Miss said.
“But we don’t have any papers,” Deepti said. “Or money.”
“This is a government school,” Miss said. “All you need to come here is a brain and a heart. Do you have those?”
“Yes, Miss,” Deepti said, straightening up. “Yes, I do. I mean, we both do.”
“Then you are welcome here,” Miss said. “How old are you?”
“Twelve,” Deepti said.
“How long since you’ve been in school?”
“About three months.”
“Where did you go to school before that?”
“First Gulbarga,” Deepti said. (That explained the accent.) “Then Bangalore.”
“Where in Bangalore?”
Deepti shuffled her feet a little bit and said, “Peenya, Hebbal, Marathahalli…” Her voice trailed off, but I don’t think she was finished.
“That’s a lot of schools,” Miss said.
“I’m smart, Miss,” Deepti said. “In Gulbarga I was first rank. I can be first rank here too, if I just stay in one place.”
“Sarojini,” Miss said, turning to me. “If Deepti joins us, would you help her learn what she’s missed?”
“Yes, Miss,” I said.
“Deepti, will you work with Sarojini?”
Deepti shrugged, and I think she was a little embarrassed, but she said, “Alright.”
“Good. Now, how old is your brother?”
“Four.”
“Come with me,” Miss said. “Sarojini, as students come in, please tell them to compare answers on last night’s assignment.”
“Yes, Miss,” I said.
As they were leaving, Deepti turned around and said, “Oy, Sarojini!”
I looked up, startled.
“Thanks,” she said. And then she smiled.
And I couldn’t help it. I smiled right back.
You know what, Mrs. Naidu? I think my heart grew a little bit right then.
All the best,
Sarojini
July 1, 2013
Dear Mrs. Naidu,
Today Miss wants us to write about a time when we tried something new. She says that trying new things is good for both our hearts and our brains because it makes us feel and think in ways we never felt or thought before.
So it’s very lucky that I tried something new yesterday.
It’s lucky for my heart and for my brain, and it’s especially lucky for this assignment.
It started because of a new rule Amma made. You might remember, Mrs. Naidu, that I used to live next door to my best friend.
If you were paying attention, you know that two things are one thing about that statement is definitely different and another thing is maybe different now.
The thing that is definitely different is that my best friend doesn’t live next door to me anymore. Now he lives next door to someone else, who probably also has running water and ceiling fans and a brother with a two-wheeler.
The thing that is maybe different is that maybe I don’t have a best friend any more.
Anyway, I was talking about the new rule. The new rule is that after school, I cannot go home, because the house is empty and somebody might take advantage of me.
(I still don’t know what ‘take advantage’ means, but it’s something bad. I mostly hear it from the aunties in our neighbourhood who yell at their daughters a lot.)
So now, instead of going home, I have to meet Amma at the last house she works in every day.
Mrs. Naidu, if Amma worked in your house, I wouldn’t mind. I bet you would invite me in and make me tea and read me poems. You might even tell me stories about what it’s like to be in a British jail or to sail around the world.
But unfortunately, Mrs. Naidu, Amma doesn’t work at your house at the end of the day. She works at Vimala Madam’s house.
Vimala Madam’s house is a problem.
It’s a problem because Vimala Madam lives there.
My mother loves Vimala Madam, but I think she’s creepy.
(‘Creepy’ is a word that describes something that makes you feel shivery inside. You might feel that way because you are scared, or you might feel that way because you are disgusted. Creepy is kind of a little bit of both. I learned the word ‘creepy’ from a comic book I borrowed from Amir. This one was especially good because it had a ghost in it, but then the ghost turned out to be a person who was also a murderer. I’m sorry to give away the ending, Mrs. Naidu, but seeing as you are dead you don’t go to bookstores any more, I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind.)
So now, every day after school, I find something to do besides going to Vimala Madam’s house. Which is why yesterday, I tried something new.
Yesterday, Annie Miss asked me if I wanted to come to a Child Rights Club meeting. I didn’t know anything about child rights, but I did know that the club met for an hour, which meant that by the time it was over, Amma would be done with work, and I could go straight to our non-creepy home.
Miss brought biscuits – the good kind with chocolate in the middle. Deepti stayed too, and even though I didn’t say anything, when she saw me, she took two biscuits, handed me one, and then sat down next to me, cross-legged on the floor. While we were nibbling, Miss told us that the purpose of the club would be to make sure that children like us could “recognize our rights.” Apparently there’s this really important thing called the Convention on the Rights of the Child. It’s a list of stuff you should have if you’re a child – which I am, because I am between the ages of six and fourteen. That part was kind of interesting since no one ever told me that I was allowed to have anything. Adults spend a lot more time on what kids are not allowed to do than what we are.
First on the list was education. Miss started talking about the Right to Education Act, which has a much longer name full of English words that I have never read in detective novels or comic books. I wrote them down so I can find out what they mean later. I guess a lot of other people don’t know them either, because everyone calls the law ‘RTE’ for short.
Miss told us that RTE says that every private school in the country has to reserve seats for children under the age of 14 who are from ‘economically weaker sections’. I don’t exactly know what ‘economically weaker sections’ means, but I know that I belong to them, because that’s what it says on all of the forms Amma fills out for my school.
“So let me get this straight,” I said. “An economically weaker section kid can walk into any private school and they’ll take her?”
(You may remember that I have a policy of not asking questions of adults. You can tell that I was excited because I broke this policy for the first time in a very, very, very long time.)
“Um,” Miss said. “Yes. I mean, I think so. After the child submits some forms so that her fees can be covered by the government.”
“Wait,” I said. “This economically weak kid gets to go to the private school for free?”
“Yes,” she said. “Or – actually, I’m not sure. It’s free or a greatly reduced rate.”
Do you know what this means, Mrs. Naidu?
Since you are a genius, you probably do. But just in case, let me present the clues again.
I am from an economically weaker section.
I am 12, which is between the ages of six and 14.
Kids between the ages of six and 14 who are economically weaker can go to private schools for free.
My best friend Amir goes to a private school.
Based on this evidence, Mrs. Naidu, I conclude that Amir and I can go to the same school.
I’m really glad I decided to try something new.
All the best,
Sarojini
July 4, 2013
Dear Mrs. Naidu,
This is our last assignment. It has been nice writing to you. I hope you won’t miss my letters too much.
In this assignment, we are supposed to talk about our dreams for the future. I think that means talking about what we want to do when we grow up.
Usually when adults ask me about my future, I say that I like maths or pure sciences and that I’ll study engineering or medicine.
But I only say that because that’s what all adults want all kids to say.
(They never tell kids that’s what they want, but it’s so obvious.)
So here is a secret that I haven’t told anyone, except for Amir. The secret is what I really want to be when I grow up. Are you ready?
A detective.
I know that it probably sounds odd, because it’s not like there are any girl detectives (at least not in the books I’ve read) or even any Indian detectives (at least not that I’ve met – in books, it seems like they’re mostly British, or sometimes American). But I want to be the first.
I don’t want to be like Sherlock Holmes or anything, with that funny hat and that weird assistant. I want to be a respectable woman in a sari – probably a red or a pink sari, since Amma says that’s best for dark skin like mine – who you can trust with all your most embarrassing problems. Everyone expects a detective to be a man, so if you’re a woman, you can go undercover more easily, which means you can use the element of surprise. (In detective novels, the element of surprise is always extremely important.) Plus, I can’t picture any man giving the laser-eyed look that my Amma gives, and I will definitely need that look when I stop murderers and thieves.
I am telling you this, Mrs. Naidu, because I think you know what it’s like to do things that people don’t think you should do. Like how you travelled all over the world by yourself and gave speeches about how women should vote and go to school, and some people didn’t like that. It seems like they didn’t like what you said and they didn’t like that you left your husband and your children in India and travelled by yourself.
(I have to ask you, Mrs. Naidu – when you were in the UK, did you meet any detectives or spies? Were any of them Indian?)
Amma has lots of ideas about what my goals should be. Well, just one idea actually: Amma thinks I should become a lawyer.
Can you guess why?
The same reason she wants me to do everything: because of Vimala Madam.
Vimala Madam is a lawyer, but that is not the main thing about her. If you were paying attention, you’ll remember that the main thing about her is that she is creepy. Not lawyerly. Creepy.
Her flat is dark and has all these teak doors and chairs and shelves that make you feel heavy inside. Then there are all these statues and pieces of art that look like they’re expensive and that they’d shatter into a million tiny pieces if you breathed on them. And when she speaks to you – which she doesn’t really ever do – she sounds more like she’s barking than she’s talking, probably because that’s how you have to talk when you spend your whole life trying to get judges to listen to you. Plus, she does this crazy thing where she puts her glasses down her pointy nose and raises just one eyebrow, like everything you’re saying is wrong, even if you’re just saying hello.
Which is apparently what Amma thinks I should will do. Become a barking, eyebrow-raising, pointy-nosed lawyer.
Amma says that being a lawyer is the perfect job for me because I love reading so much. She says Vimala Madam reads all day too, which is why the house is full of books. You would think that a house full of books would be a good thing, but the books in Vimala Madam’s house are not like the books I read, or the books you write – they’re enormous and thick and dusty and boring. Amma also says that lawyers must make plenty of money because Vimala Madam has her own three-bedroom flat with a study and lots of hard-to-lift furniture and easy-to-break art. And she says that lawyers must be respected because Vimala Madam’s photo comes in the newspaper all the time.
No offense, Mrs. Naidu, since I’m sure your photo was in the paper lots of times, but it isn’t like you have to be respected to be on the front page. I mean, criminals are on the front pages all the time, aren’t they? But when I said that to Amma, she said it was exactly that kind of logical thinking that would make me a good lawyer.
Then again, maybe not all lawyers are bad. Gandhi Thatha was a lawyer, wasn’t he, Mrs. Naidu? And so was Panditji, I think. And so was Dr. Ambedkar. And you were friends with all of them, weren’t you?
But then, it’s one thing to be friends with a lawyer. It’s an entirely different thing to be one.
All the best,
Sarojini
July 5, 2013
Dear Mrs. Naidu,
I know that the assignment is over, and that you probably have more important people to write letters to (even if they are dead passed on historical like you). But something happened today, Mrs. Naidu, and I want to talk about, but I can’t, really – at least I can’t with anyone I know. Except maybe you.
Remember how I told you about the Child Rights Clubmeeting? And how there is a law now that says that kids can go to private schools for free?
Well, Mrs. Naidu, when I heard that, I thought it was true.
Or actually, I wanted it to be true.
After the Child Rights Club meeting, I told Amma exactly what I heard what I thought I heard.
That I could go to any private school and they would let me enroll for free.
That they wouldn’t charge us any fees but I could learn a lot and do well on my exams and then get a good job and then we could shift into a flat with running water and a real roof and maybe even a garden.
That maybe, if Amir and I were in the same school, we could be friends again.
Maybe even best friends again.
(As you’ve probably guessed concluded, Mrs. Naidu, I didn’t tell Amma that last part. I just told her the part about learning and exams and a job and a new home.)
Amma didn’t believe me at first, because it hadn’t come in the Kannada language newspapers, which she reads every day at Vimala Madam’s house.
But then she thought about it for a minute and said we should try anyway, because if we didn’t try, then I definitely wouldn’t get a seat. So she said we would go.
Mrs. Naidu, whenever you go to some place important like a private school, you need to take lots of forms. So before we left, Amma took out my birth certificate, our Below Poverty Line card, her voter ID, her income certificate, my injection card, my report card – pretty much every piece of paper we have with either of our names on it.
Amma wore her best sari, the cotton-silk one with the gold detail that one of her houses gave her because it’s sort of frayed at the end. I pressed my uniform perfectly, forced every single one of my flyaway curls into neatly oiled braids, and shined my shoes for an extra-long time.
Then it was time to go.
I guess you’re probably wondering where we went.
To be completely accurate, there are lots of private schools in Bangalore. But for me and Amma, there has always been just one: Greenhill Public School.
Greenhill Public is not as famous as some of Bangalore’s other schools, like Baldwin’s or Bishop Cotton’s or St. Joseph’s. But Vimala Madam sent her children there, and Vimala Madam has the best of everything, so Amma concluded that Greenhill must be the best.
Amma didn’t ask me if I liked the school or anything, but I didn’t mind. When I was in UKG, Vimala Madam’s children still lived at home, and their Greenhill materials would just be lying around the house. I used to love flipping through the colourful pictures of birds and animals and plants in their science books, and the photos from all
over the world in their social studies books. They always seemed to be studying the most interesting things – astronomy, kalamkari painting, Annie Besant, ghazals.
Plus Vimala Madam’s kids won all these awards for things that I never knew anyone gave awards for, like writing the best poem, or running the fastest in the 500 metres, or participating in a talent show. I always thought awards were for things like exams and marks. I didn’t think people could get awards for being fast or creative or just showing up.
In UKG, I couldn’t wait to go to school, because I thought my school would be like Greenhill.
(If you’ve been paying attention, Mrs. Naidu, you know that Ambedkar School is nothing like Greenhill. In fact, it is the opposite of Greenhill.)
Which I guess is maybe the point Miss has been trying to make – school should make your brain and your heart happy.
But even if Greenhill was like Ambedkar School, it wouldn’t matter. Greenhill is where Amir goes. So naturally, it’s where I want to go too.
When we went through the front gate of Greenhill, all the colour and light and echoes made it hard to breathe. There were posters in English telling about clubs and activities. There were display cases full of art projects and photographs of students playing sports. It smelled like clean tiles and pencil shavings and fresh paper.
We didn’t know who to speak to, so we went to the main office, where the walls were made of glass and there were lots of mirrors everywhere, like the inside of a jewellery store.
When we walked in, the secretary stared at us like we didn’t belong.
When I saw her, I should’ve known that this was a bad idea. Everything about her was glittery and hard: the diamond in her nose, the zari border of her sari, the white of her hair. I should’ve asked Amma to take me back home.