We finished tea. She called her driver. Kids continued to stare from the classroom windows at the white princess in her white Innova.
‘My English is terrible,’ I said to her. She got into the car.
‘It’s completely your choice.’
The driver started the car. I continued to stare into Samantha’s grey eyes.
‘So?’ she said.
‘I’ll do it,’ I said and inhaled deeply. ‘I will make a speech in English.’
My heartbeat was louder than the car’s engine.
‘Nice. Look forward to it. See you in April,’ she said coolly.
The car zoomed off. I stood still, wondering why on earth I had agreed to give a speech to the richest man on the planet.
20
‘Speech?’ my mother said. ‘In English? To goras? Have you gone mad?’
‘The state of the school has driven me mad.’
She sat up on her rickety chair, her eyebrows high. She rested her elbows on the table, her fingers entwined.
‘Whatever it is, it is my school. If you don’t like it, leave.’
‘Don’t be dramatic, Ma. I like it, so I’m doing all this.’
‘First, I have no idea who this Gates is or what he does to make so much money. Next, he is coming to my school with a paltan. Now you have to give a speech.’
‘He makes software.’
‘Soft wear? Like soft clothes? So much money from that?’
‘No, computer software. Like Windows.’
‘Windows. Gates. What is he? A furniture dealer?’
‘Forget it, Ma. I have to practise my English speech.’
‘Good luck.’
She slid a stack of students’ notebooks towards herself. She opened one and started to correct it.
‘I want you to help me.’
She looked up.
‘How? I don’t speak English. Barely understand it.’
‘Please let me know if I sound okay.’
I stood up straight. I pretended I had a mic in my hand.
‘How will I know if you said it right?’ Ma said.
‘Imagine yourself in the audience. See if I come across as confident and intelligent.’
She giggled. I shushed her and began my speech. As I didn’t know English well then, this is what I came up with.
‘Good morning, Mr Bill Gates, Miss Samantha and guests. I, Madhav, welcoming you all to the Bihar. My school doing excellent coaching of children, farmer’s children, poor children, small children. . .’ I couldn’t think of what to say next so I referred to various kinds of children. I continued, ‘. . .boy children, girl children, and many, many children.’
I heard my mother snigger.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Who are all these children?’
I scratched my head.
‘Anyway,’ I continued. ‘My school needing toilet as nobody able to toileting when toilet time coming.’
My mother burst out laughing.
‘Now it’s toilet,’ she said.
I gave her a dirty look.
‘Please go on,’ she said, enjoying herself. I threw up my hands in the air.
‘I’m useless. What have I taken on?’ I went into panic mode. I was going to turn myself into a joke.
‘Can you say no?’ my mother said.
‘I can. Maybe I should. Should I?’
My mother shrugged. I sat down next to her.
‘I will tell them I can’t do it. They can take me off the grants programme.’
‘Quitting, eh?’ she said.
‘You laughed at me. Now you are calling me a quitter.’
‘I only laughed at your current speech. You can learn to give a better one.’
‘How?’
‘How much time do you have?’
‘Two months.’
‘So learn English.’
‘I didn’t learn it properly in three years at St. Stephen’s. How can I do it in two months?’
‘We don’t quit, Madhav. It’s not in the Jha family’s genes.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning we may lose everything, but we don’t quit. That’s what your uncles did, at the gambling table or in business. Being bankrupt is okay, but quitting is not.’
‘So what do I do?’
‘You work that out. I have to take a class.’
My mother collected her notebooks and left.
Half an hour later, I stomped into her classroom. The students looked up at me.
‘Don’t barge in when class is on. Wait outside,’ she said and shooed me out.
She came out when the period ended.
‘I’m going for it,’ I said.
‘Good,’ my mother said. ‘But next time, knock.’
‘I want to join English classes. In Patna.’
‘Patna?’
‘There’s nothing good in Dumraon.’
‘That’s true. But how?’
‘I’ll commute. Weekdays here and Patna on the weekends. Is that okay?’
‘Where will you stay in Patna?’
‘I’ll find some place.’
‘We have relatives. Your chachi stays there. She is one weird woman, though.’
‘I’ll find a guest house. Let me look for good classes there.’
‘Come here.’ My mother gave me a tight hug.
‘Just stay happy, all right?’ she said. ‘Do what you have to, but don’t be a grumpy man like your father.’
‘Thank you, Ma,’ I said.
‘Welcome, English boy.’
21
‘Six thousand for three months.’ He pushed a brochure towards me.
I had come to Patna’s Pride English Learning Centre on Boring Road. M. Shaqif, the thin, almost malnourished owner of Patna’s Pride, explained the various courses to me. He wore a purple shirt. Sunglasses hung out of his front pocket.
‘We teaching for five years. Good English. Personality development, interview preparing, everything people learning here.’
I was no expert in English, but I could still tell there was something wrong with what he had said. One too many ‘ings’.
‘I have to give a speech. To an important audience.’ I spoke in Hindi, to explain my situation better.
‘No problem. Speech okay,’ Shaqif said. ‘What qualification you having?’
‘Graduate.’
‘Good. Local?’
‘Delhi. St. Stephen’s.’
The name didn’t register. He nodded out of courtesy. He rummaged in a drawer, took out an admission form and handed it to me. I wondered if I should pay up or check out other classes. He sensed my hesitation.
‘Sir, we will make you top-class. Multinational-company English.’
‘I only have two months,’ I said. ‘I need fast results.’
‘We arrange private classes for you. Extra five hundred per class.’
‘Five hundred?’
‘Okay, four hundred.’
I shook my head.
‘Three hundred. Please. Good deal,’ he said.
I filled up the form and paid him an advance for the first month. In addition, I signed up for private classes every Saturday and Sunday.
I left Patna’s Pride and took an auto to a road outside the railway station, full of guest houses. I finally struck a weekends-only deal with a small hotel called Nest, provided I didn’t ask for a receipt.
Ten minutes into my first class at Patna Pride, I had a sinking feeling. This wouldn’t work. I shared the classroom with fifteen other students, mostly around my age and all men. The teacher asked us to call him ‘Verma sir’.
‘Say “how”,’ Verma sir said, asking the class to repeat the word.
‘How.’ The response came in ten different accents. The word sounded like ‘haw’ or ‘haau’ or ‘ho’.
‘Are. You,’ Verma sir said. ‘How are you?’
The class repeated the words with a Bihari twist.
‘Confidence,’ Verma sir said, ‘is the secret. It is
the key difference in coming across as high-class English or low class. You have to sound right, too. This is a foreign language. Not Bhojpuri. So the sounds are different.’
He turned to a student called Amit. ‘Why are you here, Amit?’
‘To learn English, sir,’ Amit said.
‘What kind of English?’
‘Top-class English. With big vocabulary.’
‘Relax,’ Verma sir said. ‘Forget big vocabulary in my class.’
‘Sir?’ Amit said, confused.
Verma sir turned and addressed the whole class.
‘Students, all you have to learn is simple, confident English. Don’t be scared of people who use big words. These are elitists. They want to scare you with their big words and deny you an entry into the world of English. Don’t fall into their trap. Okay?’
Everyone nodded, irrespective of whether they understood Mr Verma or not.
‘Anyway, let’s get back to “how are you”,’ he said.
Verma sir explained the ‘au’ sound in the word ‘how’ and that it did not exist in Hindi.
‘Like cow. It is not ca-u. It is a mix of aa and o together. Try.’
The class struggled to utter the simple word. I bet the British would have struggled just as hard if they tried to speak Bhojpuri. If the Industrial Revolution had taken place here, there would be Indian ex-colonies around the world. White men would have had to learn Hindi to get a decent job. White teachers would tell white men how to say cow in Hindi with a perfect accent.
Verma sir interrupted my desi-invasion daydream.
‘Yes, what is your name?’
‘Madhav, Madhav Jha, sir.’
‘Okay, Madhav, repeat after me: “I am fine, thank you”.’
‘I am fine, thank you,’ I said.
‘Good,’ he said.
After three years at Stephen’s, I wasn’t that hopeless. I could repeat simple phrases. I wanted him to teach me how to give a speech. Meanwhile, he moved on and corrected another student.
‘Faa-in. Not fane. Please open your mouth more.’
I spent the weekend in Patna. Apart from attending the classes, I bought a book on confident public speaking from the Patna Railway Station. I ate puri-aloo from a platform stall. The book recommended practising English with random strangers, so one would feel less ashamed if one made a mistake.
‘Excuse me, sir. Would you be kind enough to tell me if this is the platform for the Kolkata Rajdhani Express?’
I practised this sentence on the station platform ten times. In many cases, the passengers didn’t understand me. I moved towards the AC compartments. Rich people usually know English.
‘I’m not sure. I suggest you ask the TC,’ said one bespectacled man.
‘Was my English correct?’ I said.
‘Huh?’ he looked at me, surprised.
I explained my attempts at English practice. He patted my back.
‘You did fine,’ he said.
‘I’m trying,’ I said. ‘Your English is so good. What do you do?’
‘I’m in software sales. I’m Sudhir.’ He extended his hand.
‘I’m Madhav,’ I said.
‘All the best, Madhav,’ he said.
Private classes seemed much better at Patna’s Pride. I explained my situation to Verma sir.
‘I see,’ he said. He stroked his chin stubble. ‘Not only do you have to learn correct English, you have to also learn to deliver a public speech.’
‘Exactly, sir. I am so nervous.’
‘But you do know some English. You graduated English-medium, right?’
I wanted to tell him I didn’t just graduate English-medium, I graduated from a place where even the grass grows in English.
I switched to Hindi to explain myself. ‘Sir, I can put a sentence together in English. But all my effort goes into remembering the right words. I can’t think of what I’m saying.’
‘I understand,’ Verma sir said. ‘When you don’t know the language well, you are self-conscious. It shows in your confidence level. It affects your personality. Not good for job interviews.’
‘Sir, this isn’t just a job interview. This is about the future of my school and the students who study there.’
I showed Verma sir the book I had brought from the railway station.
He shook his head. ‘No, not this. You don’t learn how to become a confident English speaker from books found at a railway station. Else the whole country would be by now.’
‘Please help me, sir,’ I said.
Verma sir became silent.
‘Why are you quiet?’ I asked, worried his silence meant I was a hopeless case.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’m wondering how to go about this.’
‘Should I quit?’ I said.
He shrugged. My heart sank.
‘Give it a few weeks. We can decide then. Now stand up and speak your fears out loud.’
‘Fears?’
‘Yes, open up and face them. In English.’
I stood in front of the empty classroom. Verma sir took one of the student’s seats.
‘Hi, I am Madhav Jha, and I have a fear of speaking in English.’
‘Good. And?’
‘I have a fear that my school will not manage itself and close down.’
‘Go on. One more fear.’
‘I have a fear that I will never be able to get over someone I loved deeply.’
22
I returned to Dumraon after my Patna weekend and resumed duties at the school. I also coordinated with MLA Ojha’s office for the whitewash.
Later in the week I sat with a paint contractor in the staffroom. My phone buzzed.
‘Madhav? Hi, this is Samantha from the Foundation.’
‘How are you, Samantha?’ I said, pronouncing the words just right, as Verma sir would have liked.
‘I am great. How are the preparations going?’
‘We are working on it,’ I said slowly.
‘Super. Listen, two of my colleagues are in Patna later this week. I think you should meet them.’
I tried hard to understand Samantha’s words, given their breakneck speed.
‘Meet whom?’
‘My seniors from the New York office. They have a say in grants. You should network with them.’
‘Network?’
English is hard enough to decode, but when these Americans speak it, it is impossible.
‘Get to know them. Can you come?’
‘I am in Patna on weekends anyway.’
‘How about Saturday then? We have field visits later, but you can meet us for breakfast.’
‘Sure,’ I said.
‘We will be at the Chanakya Hotel. Eight o’clock?’
‘Eight is fine.’
‘See you on Saturday,’ she said and hung up.
The paint contractor looked at me in awe. I had managed an entire conversation in English.
‘What?’ I said to him.
He shook his head and took out the shade card.
I entered the Chanakya lobby at 7.47 a.m. I mention the exact time because it changed my life. A minute earlier or later and things would have been different. Samantha and her colleagues entered the hotel lobby at 7.51.
‘This is Chris and that’s Rachel,’ Samantha said. I shook hands with the rich who wanted to help the poor.
‘Breakfast?’ Samantha said.
We entered the hotel coffee shop at 7.55. The breakfast buffet consisted of over twenty dishes. I loaded my plate with toast, porridge, fruit, paranthas, poha and idlis. I ordered a masala dosa at the live cooking counter.
‘Madhav here runs a village school,’ Samantha said. She nibbled at her jam and butter toast.
‘You look really young,’ Chris said, opening a bottle of mineral water.
‘It’s my mother’s school. I help out,’ I said.
I told them about the Dumraon Royal School.
‘Seven hundred children, negligible fee, no state support. Amazing,’ Chris sai
d.
‘I saw the school. The staff and owners are really dedicated. It’s sad they don’t have basic facilities or the funds to grow,’ Samantha said.
My American friends ate little; the buffet was wasted on them.
I refilled my plate thrice. I wanted to eat enough so I didn’t need food the entire day. We finished breakfast at 8.27 a.m.
‘We better get going. Our project is in Mongor. Four hours away,’ Samantha said.
‘You mean Munger?’ I said.
‘Hey, sorry, I murder the names of places here,’ Samantha giggled.
I have murdered English all my life, I wanted to say.
We stood up to leave. Samantha and Rachel collected their handbags. Chris called the driver.
I looked around. I wondered if I should have eaten some more.
That was when I spotted a tall girl, her back to me, at the other end of the coffee shop. Her long hair came down to her waist. She wore a mustard salwar-kameez. If she wasn’t tall, I wouldn’t have noticed her. If we had started breakfast a few minutes later, I would still be eating and wouldn’t have noticed her. It had to be just that moment. At 8.29 a.m., when I stood up to leave, was exactly when she had stood up to leave as well. She picked some files from her table.
‘Lovely meeting you, Madhav,’ Chris said. He extended his hand.
I nodded, my eyes still on the girl, as I shook hands with him.
‘All okay?’ Chris said. He turned his head to see what had distracted me.
‘Huh? Yeah, I am fine,’ I said, my eyes still on the other end of the room.
She turned towards the exit. The waiter followed her to get a bill signed. She stopped and turned towards the waiter. I saw her face for half a second. Yes, it was her.
‘Riya Somani,’ I said.
‘Who?’ Chris said. Samantha and Rachel turned towards her, too.
Before any of us could react, Riya had left the restaurant.
‘Is she someone famous?’ Rachel said.
‘Excuse me, I need to go,’ I said. My fingers trembled as I shook Samantha’s hand.
‘Have a good trip to Munger,’ I said.
‘We’ll see you soon in Dumraon,’ Samantha said, her voice cheerful.
‘Yeah,’ I said absently. I walked towards the door. I wanted to run towards it but I didn’t want to create a scene. I came to the lobby, but there was no sign of her.
Half Girlfriend Page 13
