Book Uncle and Me
•
Uma Krishnaswami
Illustrations by JULIANNA SWANEY
Groundwood Books
House of Anansi Press
Toronto Berkeley
Text copyright © 2016 by Uma Krishnaswami
Published in Canada and the USA in 2016 by Groundwood Books
Original edition published by Scholastic India Pvt. Ltd. in 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Groundwood Books / House of Anansi Press
groundwoodbooks.com
We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council and the Government of Canada.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Krishnaswami, Uma, author
Book Uncle and me / Uma Krishnaswami ; pictures by
Julianna Swaney.
Issued also in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-55498-808-2 (bound).—ISBN 978-1-55498-810-5
(html).—ISBN 978-1-55498-811-2 (mobi)
I. Swaney, Julianna, illustrator II. Title.
PZ7.K75Bo 2016 j813’.54 C2015-908444-X
C2015-908445-8
Jacket design by Michael Solomon
Jacket art by Julianna Swaney
To young readers everywhere
1
—
The Right Book
WATCH ME ZIGZAG after school, every single afternoon, between the bus stop and Horizon Apartment Flats. It’s where my best friend Reeni lives in 3B and I live in 3A.
Reeni and I wave to our friend Anil. He karate-blocks and punches at us through the bus window. It’s his way to say Goodbye, see you tomorrow.
The bus pulls off down the road.
“Bye, Yasmin,” says Reeni.
“Bye, Reeni,” I say.
She turns to go home. I go zig-zig-zag, off on my daily mission.
Mind the crooked tree. Mind the istri lady with her iron and heap of clothes. Mind the broken pavement and the pigeons cooling their feathers in mud puddles. Watch-watch-watch …
And here it is! Book Uncle’s Lending Library on the corner of St. Mary’s Road and 1st Cross Street, with books spread out on planks of wood and a small tin can for donations, just to help out, if anyone wants to.
Here is the sign in faded old letters:
Books. Free.
Give one.
Take one.
Read-Read-Read.
Perfect!
In all of India, could there be a better corner lending library than this?
2
—
Number One Patron
“HELLO, YASMIN-MA,” says Book Uncle. “How’s my Number One Patron?”
I don’t know about Number One, but I’m sure I am Book Uncle’s busiest patron, as I mean to read one book every day. Every single day, forever. I started last year right after I turned eight. That already feels like a billion years ago, because now I am past four hundred. Books, I mean.
I return yesterday’s floppy paperback. Book Uncle beams at me through glasses so fat they make his eyes extra big and extra smiley.
“Did you like it?” he asks. He really wants to know.
“Of course,” I say. I always do. I always like the books he gives me.
He waves at the piles. “Take another, take another. Something different this time?”
He points to a thin book with a dark green cover.
I take a look. It seems a little skinny.
I pick it up. I open it. And for the first time ever, in all the time I’ve been getting books from Book Uncle, I am not sure.
“It looks too easy,” I say.
“Short and sweet,” says Book Uncle. “Old Indian story. You can read it three times in a day if you like.”
I turn the book over and then over again.
“I can read bigger books,” I say.
Book Uncle looks at me sideways. He opens his mouth as if there is something he wants to say. Then he closes it again as if he has changed his mind.
Finally, when I think maybe he has forgotten I’m still there, he says, very softly, “Right book for the right person for the right day. As you know well, that is my motto.”
He’s right. It is. It’s a good motto. He has always given me the right book on the right day, hasn’t he?
“I’ll take it,” I tell him.
I waste no time. As soon as I have stepped over the broken bits of pavement (which I really wish the city would fix so I could walk and read without worrying about where to put my feet), I start to read the book.
And I am sorry to say that I was right. It is a story for little kids, about a king of doves who gets himself and all his followers stuck in a trap set by a hunter.
At first I’m disappointed, but then I think I’ll keep going. Might as well find out what happens to those doves.
There they are, caught in a net! I turn-turn-turn the pages. No escape, no escape. Try-try-try. Still no escape.
Will they save themselves?
Hmm. This may be a book for little kids, but still, it’s giving me something to think about. It drives me crazy when a book does that.
All the way up the stairs to 3A, I worry about those doves.
I read the dove book once straight through, after homework and dinner, and I find out that the dove king and all his followers do get free! I know, I know. I’m giving away the ending. But here’s the thing. The point of a story is not the ending. The point is, What does it mean?
While I’m still wondering about that, my father calls me to see something on TV.
3
—
Swirling T-shirts
“IT’S A T-SHIRT-FOLDING contest,” Wapa says. He makes room for me on the sofa.
“They fold T-shirts?”
“They do. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
“Wapa,” I say, “why would anyone want to take part in a T-shirt-folding contest?”
“See for yourself,” he says. “There are all kinds of crazy people in this crazy world, my Minu.”
My mother laughs. “Including those who sit around watching those crazy people fold T-shirts.”
A whistle tweets. A dozen people on TV make a dozen rainbow-colored piles of T-shirts, their hands flying as fast as Anil’s karate punches. It makes me dizzy to watch those swirling T-shirts. The room spins around me and the air is full of T-shirts and there is no ground under my feet anymore.
I gasp and clutch at the sofa. Wapa pats me on the shoulder and the room steadies.
The whistle blows again. Everyone stops.
The winner has folded thirty T-shirts in sixty seconds. That is only two seconds per T-shirt.
“That is fast,” I say, able to breathe again.
“Blink of an eye,” says Wapa.
How long would it take me to do a thing like that? Many, many blinks, I think. Which reminds me of those doves and their king and the hunter. Where were these T-shirt-folding people with their flying hands
when the doves needed help?
Wait. That is in a story and this ... is real? Give me a story any day.
Umma says, “You people want to practice folding clothes? There’s a whole clothesline full on the terrace.”
Wapa turns off the TV. The phone rings.
“I’ll get it,” he says. He picks up the receiver with a cheery “Hello!” But in a minute his face changes, so I know who that is.
When he hangs up, he says, “You know who that was.”
Wapa’s big brother, Rafiq Uncle, always has that effect on us.
“He’s coming to visit us?” asks Umma.
Wapa nods. “But he’s coming on business. Maybe he’ll be so busy he won’t have time to criticize.”
My mother shakes her head, as if she knows that Rafiq Uncle will always have time for a few well-chosen words to put her in her place. She goes into a flurry of worrying about all the things in the flat that will need to be dusted and mopped and polished. Suddenly the only tube of toothpaste we have left, squeezed half empty, that wasn’t even a problem until now, becomes just another sign of her bad housekeeping.
“I’ll get some more,” Wapa says. He escapes, leaving me to the mercy of Umma’s duster.
4
—
Just a Slogan
THAT DUSTER IS a weapon. Umma uses it against dust, clutter and all signs of untidiness. I retreat to my room, which is what you might call a strategic move. Just in case she takes it into her head that I need to be dusted off, too.
In the safety of my room, I try to make sense of things. Something is bothering me about that book, and it’s not just the story.
It’s Book Uncle, I decide. Why did he give me that funny look before he handed me that book? As if he would like to say something but couldn’t find the words. He seemed distracted. That’s it. As if something was on his mind.
Is something wrong? Maybe I am just worrying for no reason.
I turn to the story in the hope that I can unravel its puzzle. How strange that such a skinny book can leave so many questions in my mind. I flip the pages to see if maybe there was something I missed.
Doves. King. Trapped in a net. Hunter. Get help. Get free. The end.
“So what?” I say out loud.
“So what about what?” says Umma, brandishing the duster over my head.
“Help!” I say. “I surrender.”
“No need, silly girl,” says Umma. “How about you help me instead?” She points to a pile of books on the floor by my bed. Then she points to the shelf.
“Get my drift?” she says.
“Umma,” I tell her. “I get your drift. I get it fine.”
We get to work. She whisks the duster over my shelf. I put the books away. While I do that, I tell her the story of the doves and the hunter.
“That’s an old Indian story,” Umma says.
“I know. Book Uncle told me. But Umma, what’s the big lesson in it? For me, I mean?”
“I can’t tell you that,” she says. “I can tell you what something means for me. How can I tell you what it means for you? Only you can know that.”
I tell her about Book Uncle’s motto. Right book, right person, right day.
“So why was this such a great book for me?”
“That’s just a slogan,” she says. “Right book and all that. He just likes to say that. Don’t take it too literally.”
“What does that mean?”
“Taking something literally?”
“Yes.”
“As if every word of it is true,” she says. “You know, it’s just a catchy slogan. It gets more people to pick up a book. Nothing wrong with that. Don’t take it too seriously.”
Then Umma looks around my room, nods her head and moves on with her duster to the next target.
Too literally? Too seriously? Is that how I’m taking it? Is it just a slogan?
I don’t think so. I think Book Uncle really does find the right book for the right person. On the right day. That I am pretty sure about.
Before I can arrive at any conclusions, Wapa comes back with enough toothpaste to polish up the teeth of the entire Indian army.
5
—
Hiya!
AND SO THE weekend gets dusted off. On Monday we’re off to school again, which is just the way things are, one day after the next after the next. It’s a bit like folding T-shirts, when you think about it. Folding-folding-folding is not so different from wheels turning-turning-turning.
The bus driver honks his horn. He sticks his head out of the window and yells at a man on a bike.
“You think you own the road or what?”
The man on the bike yells back, “You think you run the city?”
“Hey, Yasmin,” says Reeni. “Look at that!” She points at something outside the bus window.
I look where she’s pointing, but I don’t see anything so great, and anyway, I am still all tangled up in slogans and taking things literally. Maybe I am taking the dove story too literally, as if every word is true. Maybe instead I should be looking for some other meaning in it. What have I missed in that story?
“You missed it,” Reeni says.
“Are you reading my mind?” I ask her in surprise. “I was thinking maybe I didn’t get it but how did you know that?”
Now Reeni looks puzzled.
“Get what? What are you talking about? I was trying to show you the poster for the new Karate Samuel movie.”
“Is that all?” I say. “I thought you were going to help me work out the story in this book.”
“How can I help you work out the story in your book when I haven’t even read it?” Reeni says.
“Reeni, you can’t read it,” I say. “I have to give it back. Today. Remember? I’m reading one book every day — ”
“Fine,” she says. “Don’t share. You never share.”
“I do,” I protest. “I share a desk with you in school. I share this seat with you in the bus and when you come over I share ...”
I stop to think what it is I share.
“Everything,” I end up.
Reeni gives me the kind of look that tells me she is not impressed.
“You should see Karate Samuel’s round kicks,” says Anil. He is trying to change the subject to stop Reeni and me from arguing. I don’t like it, either, but who started it? Not me.
“Karate Samuel is just a movie star,” I say, turning pages. But now the words are bumping up and down. The bus has turned under the flyover by Gemini Studio and is going gada-gadaa over the potholes, past the circle where the lights have stopped working and a policeman is dancing around, trying to control traffic.
“Hiya!” Anil’s karate hands fly past my face, quick-block punching. I manage to catch the dove book before it falls down.
“Stop it,” I tell him. “Have you lost your marbles?” The minute the words are out I wish I could take them back but it’s too bad, because you can’t hit Delete that way.
Anil looks puzzled, so I rush to explain. “Not real marbles. It means, Don’t be crazy.”
Now I want to hit Delete-delete-delete, and I can’t. What have I done? Will Anil be upset because I called him crazy? I don’t want both my friends to be angry with me.
But Anil only says, “What’s wrong with being a little crazy? It’s fun!” And he trades air-punches with the boy sitting across the aisle.
“Birdie, little birdie, do you know my sad story?” the bus driver sings as we turn into the schoolgrounds.
Is he singing about those doves?
No, he seems to be singing a sad song because he is happy, which makes no sense at all.
6
—
Word List
MRS. RAO IS walking up and down between the desks. She is keeping an eye on things.
“Yasmin,” says Mrs. Rao. “Will you please put that book away and work on your word list.”
Are word lists more important than me searching for important clues? More important than reading?
“Mrs. Rao, ma’am,” I say. “I’m just reading.”
“Not now, Yasmin,” she says. “I know you like to read — ”
“I do!” I say. “I’ve read more than four hundred books in the last — ”
But Mrs. Rao does not want to hear about my reading marathon.
“Don’t interrupt me, Yasmin.” She is now interrupting me and how is that all right? “I want you to work on your word list now,” she says. “I want you to use those words in sentences.”
I give up.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, and now I am staring at the word list trying to make sense out of it.
Sometimes the words on Mrs. Rao’s lists share vowels. Ground. Proud. Aloud. Resound. Sometimes they share consonants. Flower. Fleeting. Flamingo.
This is one weird list. These words don’t seem to share anything.
Plan. Election. City. Office.
I stare at the words until they begin to fly around before my eyes as if they are birds flapping their wings.
Reeni nudges me and nearly makes me drop my notebook.
“Write your sentences,” she whispers.
“Okay,” I whisper back. Is school not supposed to be a place where you learn to think? Nobody is letting me think today.
Reeni lets out a hissy sound as if she is — what’s the word?
Exasperated, that’s what. With me.
“Yasmin, Reeni,” says Mrs. Rao, who now looks exasperated with both of us.
“Yes, Mrs. Rao,” we say together.
Reeni starts to write. She writes fast. From the corner of my eye I can see Anil getting to work. He is writing slowly, but he is writing.
I’d better start writing, too. So I do, letting those words fly around my head in circles.
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