Dear Mrs. Naidu

by Mathangi Subramanian

  (That’s what they’re like, Mrs. Naidu.)

  “Actually, I’m doing a story on water shortages,” the reporter said in Kannada. When she spoke, her words were smooth and exact, like she cut each one perfectly out of glass and polished it a little before she handed it to us.

  I hope I speak like that someday.

  In Kannada and English.

  “That’s rubbish,” Hema Aunty said. “You should write about how that councillor woman promised us roofs and all we got was plastic.”

  “Or how our children have fevers from the rains and no doctors have come,” Amina Aunty joined in. Then she turned to Mary Aunty and said, “You know they set up health camps over behind the old airport? But here, nothing. What, our children are worth less because we earn less?”

  “No, no, no – you should write about the hospital waste,” Nimisha Aunty said, pointing in the direction of the smelly slush that runs from the back of the hospital straight through our area like a poisonous river. “The children play in it and get rashes and loose motions.”

  The reporter didn’t say anything. She just kept clicking.

  To be honest, Mrs. Naidu, I’m not sure what she was taking pictures of – I mean, doesn’t every area have a bunch of angry aunties yelling about something or the other? Doesn’t seem like news to me.

  Amma says talking to reporters is a waste of time. Even though I disagree with Amma on a lot of things (especially lately), she’s right about this.

  Maybe when you were alive during the freedom struggle, it was different. After all, it seems like people all over the world were shocked and angry when they found out about how the Britishers hurt so many Indians at Dharasana. But where I live, Indians get hurt and even killed all the time, but nobody seems shocked or angry when they read about it in the paper. It’s not exactly other people who are hurting us – it’s more the place where we live is doing it, I guess.

  Maybe it’s easier to feel angry about bad people than about bad places.

  Since Deepti thinks everything and everyone is rubbish, I figured she wouldn’t be interested in talking either. So I couldn’t believe it when she walked up to the journalist, full drums of water on each hip, and said, “You should write about child rights.”

  And I really thought I was imagining it when the reporter bent down on one knee and said, “What was that?” Her voice was kind of squeaky, like she was talking to a smart anganwadi kid, or maybe a not-so-smart puppy.

  As you probably know, Mrs. Naidu, this is not the way to speak to Deepti.

  I held my breath, waiting for the explosion. And it’s true that an angry shadow passed across Deepti’s face – a shadow that probably only I noticed. But instead of getting sharp, she took a deep breath, like she was calming herself down, and she said, “You should write about child rights. Like how kids are supposed to have rights but we don’t.”

  “Really?” The reporter kind of laughed and patted Deepti on the head.

  (Definitely a not-so-smart puppy.)

  “You know the Right to Free and Compulsory Education Act of 2009?” Deepti said in English.

  (She really did, Mrs. Naidu. I guess she’s becoming lawyerly too.)

  “It’s a law that says we’re supposed to have toilets at our school,” Deepti said, switching back to Kannada.

  (Okay, so maybe not completely lawyerly. But she hadn’t said a single bad word yet, which for Deepti was really something.)

  “Also our teachers aren’t supposed to hit us, but they do,” Deepti said. “That seems like something you should put in your paper. That grown ups are hitting kids even though it’s against the law.”

  “That’s not news,” the reporter said. Only this time, she straightened up and stopped the squeak in her voice. I guess she finally realized she was talking to a person, not a puppy. “Plenty of people wrote articles about a recent government report that says that hardly any schools are compliant with RTE.”

  (I don’t know what ‘compliant’ means, Mrs. Naidu, but when Deepti and I talked about it later, we decided it must be a fancy English word for saying that the schools aren’t doing what they are supposed to do.)

  (Which, as the reporter said, is not news at all.)

  “But our school is news,” Deepti said. “We have a Child Rights Club. So you should write about how bad the school is, and then when we fix it, you can write about how great it becomes. I bet no one’s written articles like that yet, have they?”

  The reporter crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows.

  “It’s a good idea, I’m telling you,” Deepti said. “Ask Sarojini. She’s in the Club too.”

  When I heard my name, I panicked. No one cares if Deepti to talks to a reporter– in fact, everyone expects Deepti to act crazy. Plus Deepti’s Amma doesn’t know anything about Deepti’s life, and she definitely doesn’t have time to read the newspaper. But my Amma? Not only does she have spies everywhere, she reads three different newspapers every day, including the Kannada language edition of the Southern Chronicle. And then, there’s the fact that Amma already told me I wasn’t allowed to keep trying to fix the school. It’s one thing for her to hear it from the aunties. But if she hears it from the aunties and reads it in the paper? Or, worse, if Vimala Madam reads it in the paper and Amma hears it from her?

  Even the most gruesome murder would be nothing compared to my fate.

  So I ducked behind Hema Aunty and Nimisha Aunty (who aren’t very tall, but luckily, are pretty wide) and tried to hide.

  Except, of course, Hema Aunty said, “Sarojini, what’s wrong? Go talk to the lady.”

  And before I knew it, a million rough brown aunty hands were reaching out and shuffling me in front of the reporter.

  “You?” The reporter asked. “You’re in what, fourth standard?”

  “They’re Class Six,” Mary Aunty said. “And Sarojini is first rank.”

  “Just because we’re poor you think our daughters don’t know anything,” Hema Aunty said, wagging her finger, which made the fat of her arm jiggle.

  “I’m sure these two are very smart,” the reporter said. “It’s just that I’ve been reporting on RTE for months, and there are plenty of adults with lots of experience and education and power who haven’t been able to get the government to enforce it. It’s highly unlikely that a couple of sixth standard girls could do it. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “You people, always putting those pictures of our children looking so sad and hungry on the front page,” Amina Aunty said, shaking her head. “But if our children do something right, you don’t care. You don’t believe it’s possible.”

  The reporter sighed and put her hands back on her camera again. “I’ll consider it,” she said. But the way she said it made it sound like she had already decided that she wouldn’t consider it at all.

  Just then, the driver of the water truck started screaming about how everyone better hurry because he was leaving. After a second you couldn’t hear him, though, because the aunties started screaming too – at the reporter, who was walking away.

  “Ambedkar Government School!” Nimisha Aunty shouted. “Go there and take your big fancy camera.”

  “Write something positive about our girls for once!” Hema Aunty screeched.

  Even Kamala Aunty, who is usually so quiet, kind of half raised her voice and said, “If Sarojini says she’ll do it, then she will. She’s just like her mother.”

  Then all the aunties forgot about us and started complaining about Ambedkar School, and how bad the headmaster is and how the hole in the gate has been there forever and how all these low class people are always dumping trash by the compound wall (even though, to be completely honest, Mrs. Naidu, I’ve dumped trash there, and so has Deepti, and so have all the aunties).

  Deepti and I had filled our drums before the commotion, so we were the first to start home. As soon as we got away from hearing distance, I asked, “Wha
t were you thinking talking to a reporter like that?”

  Deepti shrugged. “Everyone was giving their opinion. Why can’t I give mine?”

  “If my Amma finds out about this – no, when my Amma finds out about this, I’m going to be so, so dead.”

  (No offense, Mrs. Naidu.)

  “Not if we fix the school,” Deepti said.

  Then she was gone. She moves fast, Mrs. Naidu – with water and reporters.

  I don’t know what I’m dreading more: seeing Amma’s face when she reads in the paper that I’m still in the Child Rights Club, or seeing Amir’s face when we show up for Ramzan and the two of us have to pretend we’re still friends.

  If I die, Mrs. Naidu, I hope you and I can meet somewhere and have chai.

  All the best,

  Sarojini

  August 9, 2013

  Dear Mrs. Naidu,

  One of the reasons I like you so much is because you fought for so many issues that I care about, like girls’ education and women’s rights. And today I read about something else you fought for that I care about: Hindu-Muslim unity.

  This book I’m reading says that whenever Hindus and Muslims fought, or there was a chance that they would start fighting, Gandhi Thatha sent you to help everyone stay friendly. It also says that you gave speeches about how one of the best things about Indians is that we have lots of friends who are from different religions and castes and speak different languages. Plus, you knew many Muslims, what with living in Hyderabad and all. It seems like you were close to them because you used to write them letters and go stay with them during holidays and defend them during political meetings, and they used to send you boxes of mangoes and dedicate books to you and have your children over to dinner even if you weren’t there.

  Based on this evidence, I conclude you went to lots of Ramzans Eid-ul-Fitrs. You probably wore a new sari every time, because you loved saris and shoes and jewellery, and because for most people in India, holidays mean buying something new.

  In my house, though, nothing is ever new. Not even on holidays. Everything we own used to be someone else’s. Like the bureau, which we got when one of the families Amma works for shifted flats and didn’t have space for it any more. Or the cracked mirror, which Vimala Madam was going to throw out until Amma brought it home and stuck it back together with Fevicol. Or my pavade, which used to belong to Tasmiah Aunty’s sister’s friend’s daughter, and which started out too big for me, and now is so tight that I can barely get my arms through the sleeves.

  But today, when we went to have Ramzan Eid with Amir’s family, for maybe the first time in my life, I got something new: a half sari Tasmiah Aunty stitched on the sewing machine she got from an NGO after completing a tailoring class.

  (Tasmiah Aunty didn’t actually need the class – she’s better than most tailors I know. She only took it because she heard they were giving away all these Singer machines that used to belong to a garment factory.)

  (I guess even when you have money, not everything in your house is new.)

  Amma and Tasmiah Aunty chased the boys into the hall so I could go into the bedroom and close the door and fasten the clasps on the kumkum-red blouse and tie the skirt around my waist and pin the embroidered dupatta on my shoulder. Even though Tasmiah Aunty hadn’t seen me for months, she knew my measurements somehow, and everything fit perfectly, like one of her hugs.

  Then I opened the door and twirled around, and the mirrors on the skirt clinked together like the cymbals Kamala Aunty’s son plays when she sings bhajans, and everyone commented on how tall I had grown (which is not true because I haven’t grown much since fifth standard) and how the deep red Tasmiah Aunty had chosen was perfect for my skin (which is true because everyone knows red goes best with dark skin) and how thin I look (which is not true but everyone says it to kids on holidays so we’ll eat more).

  Then Tasmiah Aunty and Amma went to the kitchen and Farooq and Tariq went to watch the cricket game on the TV in the hall.

  And Amir and I were alone.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi,” I said.

  Silence.

  And not the good kind of silence, which is filled with things you want to say.

  The kind of silence that’s scratchy with things you don’t want to say.

  After a while, Amir asked, “How’s Child Rights Club?” I was pretty sure he was less interested in Child Rights Club and more interested in chasing away the quiet.

  “It’s good. Right now it’s just me and Deepti.”

  “Who’s Deepti?”

  “She’s my friend.”

  “The skinny girl from the construction site?” he asked. “She goes around with that little boy?”

  “That’s her brother,” I said. “Abhi.”

  “Abhi,” Amir repeated. He nodded, and then looked at me like it was my turn to say something.

  But what could I say?

  I didn’t want to ask Amir about school, because talking about Greenhill would remind me how I’ll never get a seat there, and how I’m never going to be able to fix Ambedkar School, no matter how hard I try. I didn’t want to ask Amir about his brothers, because it would remind me of what Farooq said the last time I saw him. And I didn’t want to ask Amir about his friends, because it would remind me of how we used to be best friends, but probably aren’t any more.

  So instead I asked, “Have you gone to Gangarams lately?”

  “Not really. I’ve been studying a lot. But as soon as exams are done, Farooq said he’d take me.”

  “But exams are in September. That’s ages away.”

  Amir shrugged. “School’s really hard,” he said.

  “Oh.”

  Silence again.

  Then Amir asked, “How’s Vimala Madam? Still an evil genius?”

  “She’s definitely still a genius,” I said, “but she might not actually be evil.”

  “Really?”

  “Kind of. She’s been helping me with Child Rights Club.”

  “Wow!” Amir said, laughing.

  “I know! She’s teaching me about laws.”

  “I bet your Amma is breaking millions of coconuts.”

  “Not exactly,” I said, looking down at my skirt and playing with the mirrors, which picked up bits and pieces of light and tossed them up on the pukka ceiling.

  “Doesn’t she want you to be a lawyer anymore?” Amir asked.

  “I think she just wants me to live in a nice house.”

  “Detectives live in nice houses.”

  “I guess,” I said, following where the mirrors were throwing their light. Then, suddenly, I noticed the new sofa that was still in its plastic and the flat screen TV with the cricket game on it and the kitchen that had a sink that filled with water every time you turned a metal switch.

  Amir looked at me hard for a second, like he knew what I was thinking, which I thought he probably did.

  Except he didn’t.

  “I’m sorry Amma got you those clothes,” he said. “I told her you wouldn’t like getting gifts from us, but she said I was being silly.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Just,” he said, staring at his feet, “what happened at the water truck.”

  “You mean the charity backpack?”

  Suddenly, I felt sad and angry and hurt and all kinds of other things I had never felt around Amir before.

  But what was I supposed to do, Mrs. Naidu?

  If I told Amir how I felt, it might ruin our friendship forever.

  If I pretended nothing was wrong, we would still be friends on the surface, but deep down, we would be strangers.

  Then I started thinking about how even though everybody talks about your fate like it’s written just for you, you always end up spreading it around, especially to the people you love. Like, for example, how Amma took on extra work because it was written that I neede
d to pay a bribe if I wanted to go to Ambedkar School. Or how Deepti keeps changing schools because it was written that her parents needed to come to Bangalore if they wanted to keep the family farm. Or how Amir might not have any friends because it was written that his brothers would get good jobs and would want to spend their extra money on switching Amir to a private school.

  Then I started thinking about the other kind of fate – the kind we write ourselves, like Deepti thinks we do. And I started thinking about how what we think are good decisions sometimes turn out badly. Like how Amma married Appa and had me, and how Appa left us, and how now Amma can’t go home. Or how at Eid, we’re the only people Tasmiah Aunty invites over, and how it makes me wonder if she has a story like Amma’s that I’ve never heard.

  I thought about how no matter who is writing it, life never stops being hard.

  And how when life is especially hard, a best friend can make it the smallest bit easier.

  Which is why I took a deep breath, and said, “Amir, I need to tell you something.”

  But I didn’t just tell him something, Mrs. Naidu. I told him everything.

  I told him about how Amma and I went to Greenhill because I wanted to go to school with my best friend again, and how I’ll never get a seat there because they asked Amma to pay a bribe. I told him about Child Rights Club and going to see Vimala Madam and why Amma wasn’t breaking any coconuts. I told him about Deepti, and how she spits and rolls her eyes and swears and steals flowers from posh neighbourhoods, but she also listens and understands and stands up for the people she loves more than anyone I’ve ever known.

  I told him how much it hurt when he drew a line in our friendship, even though he didn’t mean to. I told him how I didn’t know how to act around him now that he has a whole other life I can’t afford.

  I told him how a homemade blouse from Tasmiah Aunty is different than a charity packet from Tariq’s work. I told him how even though it’s nice to have new things sometimes, friends are best when they are old and familiar.

  Then Amir told me everything.

  He told me how even though I might think he’s rich the kids at his school still think he’s poor. He told me how they make fun of where he lives and how he talks and how he’s so far behind, especially in English. He told me how at Greenhill, even after his partial scholarship, there’s so much else to pay for, like books and field trips and sports equipment, and how sometimes his family has to skip meals or pay rent late just so they can afford Amir’s education.