Dear Mrs. Naidu

by Mathangi Subramanian

  “She’s right,” Hema Aunty said, shaking her finger so that her arm jiggled. “These reporters cannot be trusted.”

  “They are always writing about how we can’t take care of ourselves or our children,” Nimisha Aunty agreed.

  “And we gave her so many ideas of things she could write. But did she listen? Of course not!” Amina Aunty said, throwing the paper down on Miss’s desk with one final snap-crackle-boom.

  “We are poor, not heartless!” Hema Aunty said. Then she turned and saw I had come in with Deepti, and she asked me, “What was that thing you wanted us to come to, Sarojini? The Q-R-S-T?”

  “SDMC, Aunty,” I said. Or, actually, I squeaked.

  “SDMC,” Hema Aunty repeated. “We shall have it tomorrow. At three o’clock.”

  “Oh – why, that’s – that’s wonderful,” Miss said. She was smiling, but I saw that her hands were gripping the side of desk. Hard.

  “I’ll go tell Amma,” Deepti said, and flew out of the room faster than a mynah bird.

  “Annie, call that reporter woman,” Hema Aunty said, folding her arms across her huge chest. “Tell her about this meeting. And tell her to stop writing all these wrong things about us.”

  “Of course, Madam,” Annie Miss said.

  I don’t know if anyone in the history of the world has ever called Hema Aunty ‘Madam’ before, but she liked it. She stuck her chin up and nodded like a queen. Then she turned around and left with a big twirl, like she was wearing a fancy kanjeevaram sari instead of an old, patched up nightie. All the aunties followed her.

  Miss fumbled through her purse, and mumbled, “Call the reporter woman.” She finally fished out her mobile and dialled.

  Which was just great, Mrs. Naidu, because if the aunties didn’t tell Amma how I was disobeying her, at least Rohini Reporter could put it in the paper for her to find out.

  Terrific.

  I wonder if Rohini Reporter writes obituaries.

  All the best,

  Sarojini

  August 20, 2013

  Dear Mrs. Naidu,

  I’m almost done with the book about you, Mrs. Naidu, and it seems like there were a few things that you did pretty often:

  You wrote speeches and poems.

  You went to jail.

  You presided.

  At first, I didn’t know what ‘presided’ meant. I just knew that you did it a lot. You did it at the East African Indian Congress in Kenya, the Indian National Congress in South Africa, and the Indian National Congress here in India.

  It seems like when you presided, you made sure that everyone followed the rules and got things done.

  If that’s what presiding is, Mrs. Naidu, I think I it did today. Except it wasn’t in another country or in Delhi or anything. It was here, in Bangalore, at the SDMC meeting.

  Hema Aunty, Nimisha Aunty, Amina Aunty, and Kamala Aunty arrived together at five minutes after three. Deepti came at ten minutes after three with her Appa and Abhi. (I was surprised, Mrs. Naidu, because I thought only her Amma would come. And also because it turns out that her Appa isn’t useless at all. He’s a really nice man, actually.) At fifteen minutes after three, Annie Miss passed out biscuits and said that we were ready to start.

  “Um, so,” Miss said. (Her voice was kind of shaky – I guess she was still nervous from her encounter with the aunties yesterday.) “So – what should we do first?”

  Miss looked at Deepti, and then Deepti looked at me, so I said, “I think first we need to check and make sure that we meet the requirements for the committee. We need nine people, and at least 75% have to parents and at least 50% have to be women.”

  “We’re all women except for him,” Hema Aunty said, motioning at Deepti’s dad. “And except for you and the girls, we’re all parents.”

  “But there are only eight of us,” I said. “Unless you count Abhi.”

  “1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9!” Abhi said.

  “Yes, well, um… I think… well technically he’s a student at the anganwadi, not the school,” Miss said. “So, right, because of that, I – I mean I – I – I don’t think he counts.”

  “Who cares about these rules?” Amina Aunty said.

  “Just in case someone checks, we should do it correctly,” I said. “Where’s Mary Aunty?”

  “She’s gone to her village,” Nimisha Aunty said. “Her sister just had a baby.”

  “Where’s your husband, Kamala?” Amina Aunty asked.

  “He won’t come,” Kamala Aunty said, shaking her head. “He says this is women’s business.”

  “Deepti, can you ask at the construction site?” I asked.

  “We tried,” Deepti said, rolling her eyes, and glancing over at her Appa, who held Abhi on his lap. Deepti’s Appa looked a lot like her, except he smiled more, and had a big moustache. He wore a faded shirt and a lungi, and had an old towel wrapped around his head. “They were afraid they wouldn’t get a full day’s pay if they came.”

  “What about Sujatha then?” Hema Aunty said.

  “Who?” said Deepti.

  “Good idea,” Nimisha Aunty said. “Sarojini, ma, go get your Amma.”

  “Um.”

  I swallowed hard, trying to think of some excuse besides, “if I go and get her she’ll chain me up in the house and throw away the key” or “sure, I’ll go do that, if you don’t mind planning my funeral.”

  But it was written, Mrs. Naidu, that I didn’t have to.

  “Hey, Sujatha, there you are!” Nimisha Aunty said.

  I laughed nervously, because I thought Aunty must be joking. But then I turned around, and there was Amma, standing at the classroom door.

  And she wasn’t alone.

  “Of course I came,” Sujatha, also known as my Amma, said. “My daughter is organizing the meeting, isn’t she?”

  “Who’s this?” Kamala Aunty asked.

  Can you guess who it was, Mrs. Naidu?

  I’ll give you three clues:

  Her glasses and her eyebrows have a hard time staying in the right place.

  There is a strong chance that she’s evil.

  She is definitely a genius.

  Since you’re also a genius, Mrs. Naidu, you have probably concluded that I’m talking about Vimala Madam.

  “Sarojini darling!” Madam said. When she walked in, everybody stood up, like she was the Prime Minister or something. Annie Miss scrambled to unfold a metal chair. Madam acted like she didn’t even notice – which maybe she didn’t. She settled on the floor, crossing her legs, and tucking her long kurta around her knees. “It’s lovely to see you. Excellent article this morning. The media is such a powerful tool for justice.”

  “Th-th-thank you, Madam,” I said, sounding like Annie Miss with her Post-Traumatic-Aunty- Syndrome.

  Deepti’s eyebrows shot up, and she let go of her Appa’s hand and flashed across the room. “Madam?” she said, holding out her hand, “I’m Deepti.”

  “Ah, of course! From the newspaper,” Vimala Madam said, shaking Deepti’s hand hard, like she would with a lawyer. “An honour to meet you, young lady. Fine work you’re doing here.”

  “Are you joining our committee, Madam?” I asked.

  “Well, Sarojini, I reviewed the law this morning,” Madam said. She took off her glasses and wagged them at me the way Hema Aunty always wags her finger at people. “Apparently the committee can have ‘concerned members of the community.’ As a concerned member of this community, I would love to be involved – that is, with your permission.”

  Everyone looked very impressed that someone as important as Vimala Madam was asking me for permission to do anything, let alone stay at this meeting in a dusty classroom about the future of something as unimportant as a government school.

  “Of course, Madam,” I said, trying to sound respectful and in charge at the same time. “Deepti, is that okay with you?”

  �
�Sure,” Deepti said. Her Appa kind of poked her and she cleared her throat and said, “I mean, um, yes Madam.”

  “Thank you so much, ladies,” Vimala Madam said. She put her glasses back on and ran her hand through her hair. “Let’s proceed then, shall we, Sarojini?”

  Everyone looked at me, because thanks to Madam, they all thought I was in charge. So I sat down next to Amma and said, “Um, okay, Miss, according to the law, we have enough people to start now, right?”

  “Correct,” Annie Miss said. She looked hesitantly at the metal chair, like she wanted to put it away, but then she left it out and sat down on the floor. Everyone else did too, and Deepti went back to sit with her Appa. “Girls, do you want to get started with our new business, then?”

  Normally this is where Deepti’s bossiness would come in handy. But she was too busy staring at Vimala Madam like she was a cinema villain.

  So it was up to me to start presiding.

  Maybe you can tell me if I did it right?

  I started by telling everyone that every school in India is supposed to have a management committee. The committee has a lot of duties, like making sure that the budget is spent properly and that out-of-school children get registered, and checking to see if teaching and learning is really happening. But today, we were going to focus on the committee’s responsibility to make a school development plan.

  I told them about how Deepti and Miss and I had come up with a list of changes that we wanted, and that basically the list was our school development plan right now, because it covered a lot of ways that the school had to improve according to RTE. In case you have forgotten, Mrs. Naidu, here’s our list:

  Repair gate

  Clean up and repair compound wall

  Build a playground

  Get purifiers so we have drinking water

  Hire someone to help kids like Deepti who haven’t been in school for a while

  Get our teachers training so they can stop using corporal punishment

  Then I asked if there were any objections.

  “What’s an objection?” Amina Aunty asked.

  “It’s anything you disagree with,” I said.

  “Well, why didn’t you just say that?” Nimisha Aunty asked.

  “What, so now my daughter has to use shorter words just because you’re only an Eighth Class pass?” Amma said.

  “That’s three classes more than you, Sujatha,” Amina Aunty jumped in.

  All the aunties started talking at once. Vimala Madam’s eyebrows shot up and she pushed her glasses down her nose.

  “Oy!” Deepti said – or, actually shouted.

  Then I heard a strange sound that I’m not used to when the aunties are around, especially when someone asks for their opinions. (Because if there’s one thing aunties have a lot of, it’s opinions.)

  You know what the sound was, Mrs. Naidu?

  Silence.

  “Does anyone disagree with anything?” Deepti asked.

  Kamala Aunty said, quietly, “It’s a good list, ma.”

  “Very complete,” Amina Aunty said, nodding.

  “Actually, it’s just a beginning,” I said. “The school needs many other improvements, but we thought we’d start with these. Later we can ask for more.”

  All the aunties nodded and muttered, “Good, good.”

  (I think Vimala Madam sort of wanted to smile too, because her eyes crinkled even though she had on her evil-genius face, which probably scares all kinds of murderers into confessing when she’s in the courtroom. But I bet she can’t smile without her face cracking or something, so it’s better that she didn’t.)

  “Then we’re all agreed on this list?” Miss asked.

  Everyone said yes, so Miss carried on. “What’s next, Sarojini?”

  (The reason she asked me that, Mrs. Naidu, was because I was presiding.)

  “Well, HM Sir said we could do whatever we wanted, so we already have his permission,” I said. “But he says he doesn’t have any budget, so we have to find the money.”

  So much for silence, Mrs. Naidu. All the aunties started talking at once. I couldn’t tell who was saying shouting what, but they were all basically saying shouting the same thing.

  “How can there be no budget?”

  “Rubbish – that man hasn’t spent a single paisa on this school since he got here!”

  “So then where has all that money gone?”

  “If he wants to get the funds from us he can forget it.”

  “Janaki Madam would never have stood for this.”

  “QUIET!” Deepti yelled.

  Everyone stopped talking, mostly because they were still shocked that so much noise could come out of such a tiny body. Luckily, I’m used to Deepti, so I started talking right away.

  “Some of us need to ask the HM if we can see the school budget,” I said. “It’s our right as the SDMC. And some of us need to ask someone else from the government for the money just in case.”

  “The Councillor should give us money,” Hema Aunty said. “If she won’t fix our roofs, at least she can fix our school.”

  “Aiyoo, that useless woman?” Nimisha Aunty said.

  “Who else are we going to ask, Nimi?” said Hema Aunty.

  “If we don’t ask, we won’t get the money,” Amma said.

  “Even if we do ask this Councillor we won’t get the money,” Nimisha Aunty said.

  “Why did you vote for her, then?” Amina Aunty asked.

  And then they were all talking at once again. This time, it would take more than Deepti to stop them. Plus, she had lost the element of surprise (which every good detective knows is the key to solving any case).

  “Sarojini, if I may,” Madam said, raising her hand.

  Vimala Madam was asking me for permission to speak?

  Well, that got them to be quiet.

  (Like I said, Mrs. Naidu: the element of surprise.)

  “Yes, Madam,” I said, calling on her like I was a teacher presider.

  “In my humble experience, it is helpful to enter these meetings knowing exactly how much funding you need,” Madam said, “otherwise, you will surely be turned away before you even begin.”

  It took me a minute to translate what Madam was saying from lawyer language to regular people’s language.

  “What I think you’re saying, Madam, is that we need a budget,” I said, slowly.

  “Exactly,” Vimala Madam said. She leaned back and nodded approvingly, as though I had just topped the Madras University Matriculation Exam, instead of just repeated what she said so it made sense.

  All the aunties nodded and murmured. Of course, I think Madam could have proposed running around naked or burning down the school or something and they all would have agreed.

  “Sujatha, you should do the budget,” Kamala Aunty said. “You’re the best with numbers.”

  Amma didn’t say anything, but she straightened up her back a bit. I saw her look sideways at Madam, like she wanted her to notice.

  “Amma is the best with numbers,” I said. “But she has a lot of work, and this will take some time. Maybe somebody else could draft it and then she could check it?”

  “I can start it,” Miss said.

  “I’ll help,” Nimisha Aunty said. “I wasn’t so bad at maths myself before I got married.”

  (I don’t think getting married changes how good you are at maths, Mrs. Naidu. But that’s just how aunties talk.)

  After that, the rest of the meeting went pretty quickly. We figured out who would go to the HM and who would go to the Councillor and when our next meeting would be.

  “What happened to that reporter woman?” Hema Aunty asked. She looked at Annie Miss. “Did you call her?”

  “Yes, I did, of course,” Miss said, blushing and fidgeting. “She said she could not come today, but that we should notify her of our progress.”

  “The
se people never come when we do something right,” Kamala Aunty sighed, “only when something goes wrong.”

  “Then we better make sure that we do this right,” Deepti said.

  “Hear, hear!” said Vimala Madam.

  Adults are so weird.

  (No offense, Mrs. Naidu.)

  When we walked out of the school, all the aunties left in a clump, and Deepti and her Appa (who hadn’t said anything the whole meeting) took Abhi and went home.

  “Excellent work, Sarojini,” Madam said, shaking my hand. “This was a very promising beginning.”

  “Thank you, Madam,” I said. “And thank you for coming.”

  “Sujatha,” Vimala Madam said, “thank you for bringing me. Now I want you to know, you can take as much time off to work on this as you would like. Your salary will not suffer. My only request is that you keep me fully up to date. And do let me know how I can be of service.”

  “Thank you, Madam,” Amma said. “But please don’t worry. I’ll be at your home as usual.”

  “Your mother is a remarkable woman, Sarojini,” Madam said, pushing her glasses up her nose and putting her eyebrow down. “And you, my dear, are a remarkable girl.”

  “Madam, can I help you find a rickshaw?” Amma asked.

  “Nonsense,” Madam said. “It’s a lovely evening, and I could use the walk. Good night, both of you. Get home safely.”

  We thanked her, and then she walked in one direction and we walked in another.

  There was so much I wanted to ask Amma, Mrs. Naidu. I wanted to know why she came and how Vimala Madam ended up coming with her. I wanted to ask her what she thought of the meeting and whether she thought I was good at presiding. Most of all, I wanted to ask her if she was done being angry with me and had maybe decided to be proud of me instead.

  But I didn’t get to ask any questions, because all Amma said was, “Go straight home and do your homework. Leave it out for me to check. Then press your uniform and start making dinner.”

  “Yes, Amma,” I said.

  We walked quietly for a little while, and then she took my hand and squeezed it. She held it until we got to the corner and she had to go to one of her houses where they were having guests and she was getting some extra money. She pulled me roughly to her, kissed me hard on the top of my head and said, “Be good.”