(Which I wasn’t expecting, Mrs. Naidu, because you know how adults are with questions. Maybe Miss thinks questions are good for our hearts.)
“I brought some copies of the law,” Miss said. “I thought we could look at it together.”
“Oh,” I said. I probably should’ve been grateful or something.
“Here is a version in Kannada,” she said, passing out a glossy pamphlet with a drawing of a fair girl with brown plaits on the front. “Now remember, children, this law is designed for you. Well, for us, actually. Using the law, teachers and students can work together to realize the right to education for all.”
Miss sounded awkward, like she was repeating something she had mugged up from one of her just-and-beautiful-world books, but couldn’t quite remember properly. Still, in a way, it made me feel hopeful, like she cared enough to look for information about the stuff she didn’t know. I started to feel a little less angry.
“Let’s start with the reservations section, since that’s what you asked about, Sarojini,” she said. “According to this document, you can only register in the first accepting grades of a school. So that would be LKG or UKG, or sometimes Class One.”
If only she had said that a week ago.
“My cousin in Pune is in Sixth, and she just got a seat,” said Deepti.
“That can’t be,” Miss said. “This document clearly says that it’s only early grades where there are admissions.”
Deepti shrugged, so Miss kept going.
“It also says that there are some private schools that are exempt from the requirement,” she said. “That means that they don’t have to admit more students because they have so many minority students already. Like, for example, if there is a school for orphans, they are already serving the economically needy, so they wouldn’t have to take in more students.”
“But a lot of the private schools use that to keep us out,” Deepti said. “I tried to get my brother into UKG at St. Augustina. The school said they were Christian so they didn’t have to do reservations, but most of the students I saw there were definitely Hindu. I mean, maybe they just said that because I went without my Amma and Appa, but either way, it doesn’t seem fair.”
Are you surprised to hear this, Mrs. Naidu?
No, no, not the part about the school keeping Deepti’s brother out – that’s not surprising.
I mean the part where Deepti, with her grey-but-used-to-be-purple pavade and her dusty feet and her twiggy arms marched into one of the poshest schools in Bangalore and asked if her brother could get admission.
What I did was crazy, Mrs. Naidu, but what Deepti did? That was much crazier.
“Why would they want to keep your brother or any other child from realizing their rights?” Miss asked. But then she giggled nervously, and I could tell she wasn’t sure what she was saying.
“They think we’re a bad influence,” Deepti said.
“Why?” I asked, even though I maybe thought the same thing.
“Because we’re poor,” Deepti shrugged. “They think we’re dirty and badly behaved.”
That should probably have made me think about Deepti spitting, Mrs. Naidu, but it didn’t. You know what I thought about instead?
How the secretary at Greenhill had put that smelly stuff on her hand after she pulled away from Amma.
I wondered what it would be like to go to school in a place like that. A place where everyone thought they were better than you, and where parents thought that you were rude and carried diseases just because your Amma made less money than they did.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Deepti,” Miss said. “But the government passed this law so that it could help students like you. The government of this country believes in you and wants you to succeed.”
“If they really want us to succeed,” Deepti said, “why don’t they just fix the schools we can go to for free?”
This really stopped me, Mrs. Naidu. My whole life I’ve been sure that government schools were rubbish. I mean, obviously something you pay for is better than something that’s free, right?
But then I thought about what Deepti said and realized that maybe I was wrong.
Because I thought about you, Mrs. Naidu.
I thought about how you fought so hard for women’s rights to education.
I thought about how you once said, “the hand that rocks the cradle is the power that rules the world.”
When you said that, I don’t think you were thinking about the girls who go to Greenhill. I think you were thinking about girls like me and Deepti who could never afford to go to a fancy school.
So why would a law about the Right to Education talk so much about private schools instead of the schools we already go to?
“Actually,” Miss said, flipping through the glossy pamphlet, “I think most of this law is about government schools.”
“What does it say?” Deepti asked.
“I don’t know,” said Miss, looking anxious. Then she kind of lit up. “I have a wonderful idea. Let’s read it together! There’s no reason that a teacher has to tell you all the information all the time. This is an opportunity for us to learn side by side.”
If any other teacher had said that, I would’ve thought she was being lazy, Mrs. Naidu. But I think Miss really believes that reading the law together would be a good experience.
The only good thing about Child Rights Club, Mrs. Naidu, was that it went late enough that I knew Amma would be home. One less Vimala Madam day for me!
All the best,
Sarojini
July 12, 2013
Dear Mrs. Naidu,
I’m sorry to be bothering you so much, Mrs. Naidu. I mean, for one thing, the assignment is over, and for another thing, you are passed away no longer with us have better things to do than read my letters. But I was reading the book about you and I read this part about how you were in a protest once and the police came. Everyone ran away, except for you. Apparently you were waiting so long that you asked someone to bring a rocking chair to the verandah. You sat in the chair and just rocked and rocked and rocked until the Britishers came and put you in jail.
How did you get so much courage, Mrs. Naidu?
I thought if you wouldn’t mind telling me, maybe I could get some too.
This morning, I stopped by the construction site on the way to school. Deepti’s been borrowing pencils and erasers from other students, so I figured she probably needed a backpack and supplies. As you know, Mrs. Naidu, I happened to have some extras this year.
When I handed the backpack to her, Deepti said, “Thanks,” which is what I probably should have said to the person who gave it to me in the first place.
(We all know what I did instead, so there’s really no need to bring it up now.)
“How’s your brother?” I asked.
“Abhi? He seems happy,” she said. “He’s been singing this rhyme over and over again, about an elephant or something. He even makes an elephant noise. It’s cute, when it’s not annoying.”
“So… you tried to get him into St. Augustina?” I asked.
Deepti rolled her eyes, which I guess was her way of saying yes.
“I tried to get into Greenhill Public,” I said. “I mean, I didn’t know about the nursery school rule, so I tried to get myself a seat.”
“Really?” said Deepti. I’m not sure, Mrs. Naidu, but I think maybe she was impressed.
“Yeah,” I said. “They made me feel so small.”
“Well, of course,” Deepti said, like I’d said the most obvious thing in the world. “I feel small even standing across the street from that place. I can’t believe you went inside! Wow.”
On the outside I shrugged, but on the inside I felt a million times bigger.
“They said no, and I didn’t know what to do,” I said. “They knew all the rules and I didn’t.”
“That’s why we have to
learn the rules,” Deepti said. “Miss is nice, and she’ll help us, but she doesn’t know how this stuff works. What we really need is someone who can explain the law to us.”
Mrs. Naidu, when you were sitting on that rocking chair, waiting to go to jail, and then the police finally came, and you knew what you had to do, did you feel really scared and really brave at the same time? Because that’s how I felt right then.
The scared part was my stomach twisting, like it does before I do something I don’t want to do.
The brave part was my heart speeding up, like something big was about to happen, and I was ready for it.
I took a deep breath and said, “I know someone”
I know only one lawyer, Mrs. Naidu. I think you know who she is.
Wish me luck, Mrs. Naidu. If I don’t write to you for a few days, ask Amma to check in the walls behind Vimala Madam’s library. That’s where murderers who are also evil geniuses always hide their victims.
All the best,
Sarojini
July 15, 2013
Dear Mrs. Naidu,
There are a lot of bad things about having to wait for the water truck every day before school. I’m late a lot. My back always hurts and my clothes always get dirty. I sometimes see people I don’t want to see.
(If you’ve been paying attention, Mrs. Naidu, you know who I’m talking about. I’m glad that you’re a genius and can figure it out, because I really don’t want to remind you.)
There is one good thing about the water truck, though. People talk. And if you are in the right place at the right time, you hear things.
Useful things.
Like this morning, for example. I went to the truck and I saw Deepti. I stood next to her as we elbowed our way to the front to fill our jugs.
“I’m going to be late for school again,” I said.
“I’m not sure if I’ll even get to school,” Deepti sighed. “I still have to give Abhi a bath. By the time that’s done, the morning will be gone!”
“But the English teacher is always late,” I pointed out. “She won’t even know you’re missing. In fact, she’ll think you’re early.”
Deepti laughed, and she said, “Good point. Plus she never combs her hair properly, does she? If I show up with my hair half plaited, I can just tell her that I’ll do her hair if she’ll do mine!”
I pictured Deepti braiding Miss’s hair, and I giggled. It felt good to have a friend to laugh with at the water truck just like when Amir used to come with me. Deepti couldn’t lift my drums for me, but at least she could lift my spirits.
Deepti elbowed me, and I thought maybe she was trying to get me out of the way. Then she tilted her head and raised her eyebrows, and I realized that she wanted me to listen to Hema Aunty, who was complaining.
Normally, that’s nothing special. Honestly, Mrs. Naidu, Hema Aunty complains so much that usually I don’t pay any attention. She complains about everything: mosquitos, heat, cold, her children, her neighbours, her house, her husband, even her own face. But when I listened, I realized why Deepti had elbowed me. Today, Hema Aunty was complaining about something important.
“I took my Roshan there to that Gerao-something school – what is it called?” she was saying.
“The one by the big church?” Kamala Aunty asked. “Geronimo School?”
“That one!” Hema Aunty said. “So I said to the headmistress, someone told me that you have 25% reservations for economically weaker sections and backward castes. I am economically weak, I told her. I am backward caste. And, you know, my Roshan talks back and he is lazy as anything, but he is sharp.”
“Wow, she said something nice about her son!” Deepti whispered to me. I giggled, because Deepti’s only been coming to the truck for a few days and she’s already figured everyone out.
“Then this headmistress, can you believe her? She said to me, that’ll be twenty thousand rupees.” Hema Aunty did that thing aunties do where they touch their foreheads and then fling their arms out, like they’re casting off drishti or something. It’s what they do right before they turn red and start threatening to have a heart attack. “Can you imagine? This is supposed to be a government program and these people are asking me to pay for a seat.”
“Twenty thousand? That’s nothing,” said Mary Aunty. “I tried to get a seat for Joseph, and they wanted me to pay a full thirty thousand. And that was only if he passed some entrance exam. Twenty thousand is a bargain.”
“How can they do that?” Deepti asked. “Doesn’t the law say they have to make it free?”
“Law? What law?” Mary Aunty said, sucking her teeth. “Since when did the law apply to people like us? Whenever we decide to go get something we’re entitled to, there is a line of people waiting to take our money. Even getting that BEO to sign some useless form cost me.”
“What’s a BEO?” Deepti asked.
(You might have noticed, Mrs. Naidu, that Deepti’s asking-adults-questions policy is the opposite of mine.)
“Block Education Officer,” Amina Aunty answered. “These people had no money before. What bribes could you get for a government school, na? But now this reservations business has come in and they’ve seen their opportunity.”
“It’s enough to make my blood pressure shoot up,” Hema Aunty said, fanning herself with the pallu of her sari. “It will kill me, I tell you.”
Hema Aunty has always loved drama, so don’t worry, Mrs. Naidu, she wasn’t in any danger. But I understood why she was angry. I think my blood pressure rose too.
“If you ask me, these reservations are a waste of time,” Amina Aunty said.
“Completely useless!” Nimisha Aunty agreed. “This new law says we’re supposed to get a free education. So why should people charge us? And how are we supposed to make money if we don’t have jobs because we don’t have schooling ourselves?”
“God only knows,” Kamala Aunty said, looking at the sky. The other women nodded too and touched their foreheads and their hearts and muttered, “Jai Ram,” all except Amina Aunty, who said something about Allah.
“What to do? It is written,” Hema Aunty said. “Women have to bear the burden of life. Mothers more than daughters. Daughters more than sons.”
Deepti and I had filled our drums by then, so we left together.
“I don’t care what’s written,” she said - though it sounded more like a growl. “I’m rewriting it.”
Mrs. Naidu, I think Deepti’s a lot like you – she’s a fighter. And she doesn’t let other people distract her or make her doubt herself. Plus, she’s kind of a writer – she doesn’t write poems like you do, but she writes her own destiny.
(I’m not sure who is writing my destiny, Mrs. Naidu, but probably someone pretty boring, since nothing exciting ever happens to me.)
“When are you meeting that lawyer madam?” Deepti asked me.
“After school one day,” I said. “Do you want to come?”
“I have to watch my brother,” she said, shaking her head. “You’ll have to go alone.”
“Do you think this law can really help us?”
“I don’t know. But that’s what laws are supposed to do, right?”
She has a point, Mrs. Naidu. I know you believed in laws – that’s why you were so involved in the government that formed when India first became free, and why you became a governor. You changed things using laws and government. Maybe Deepti and I can too.
We walked back to our area without saying anything.
Mrs. Naidu, you know how silences can sometimes be loud? Like they’re full of questions and doubts and tension?
This wasn’t that kind of silence.
This is the kind of silence that is quiet with all the questions you’re saving up to ask each other, because someday, when you know each other better, there won’t be room for silence. There will be too many other sounds to make.
All the best,
July 17, 2013
Dear Mrs. Naidu,
I did it. I spoke to Vimala Madam. And you know what? It wasn’t so bad!
I went there after school, even though I really didn’t want to. I wasn’t thinking about the law or the questions I was going to ask or what I was going to say, like I should have been. I was thinking about all kinds of other things instead. Like, for example, whether Amir was angry at me and whether Deepti and I could become better friends and whether the only way to get seats was to buy them. And then I thought about how maybe if we understood the law, Deepti and I could both get seats at Amir’s school, and how maybe the three of us could be friends.
Anyway, after all that thinking, I got to Vimala Madam’s house and Amma answered the door and told me that Madam was expecting me.
(I asked Amma if it was okay for me to ask Vimala Madam about a school project. Which, if you remember, Mrs. Naidu, is the best way to get an adult to let you do what you want.)
(I know it’s not completely honest. But it’s mostly honest, right?)
Amma said I should knock on the door and reminded me to be polite and not take up too much of Madam’s time. Then she fixed my skirt and patted down my hair and wiped something off my cheek even though there was probably nothing there, and then she kind of nodded and shoved me towards the study in the back of the flat.
Let me tell you, Mrs. Naidu, if I was scared before I was even more scared now – although I was also curious. I’ve been in Vimala Madam’s home so many times but I’ve never been in that study. When she’s in there, she makes all kinds of scary noises. I hear her on the phone yelling, and I hear thumping a lot, like she’s getting huge, heavy books off the shelves, books that might be full of laws but also might be full of recipes for boiling children.
(I know, Mrs. Naidu, you probably don’t approve of me describing Vimala Madam this way, like she’s an evil genius in a detective novel. But you have to understand that everything about her is different than any other woman I’ve ever met. And don’t say you’re like that, Mrs. Naidu, because I’m reading about you and all the things you’ve done, and I don’t think you were evil – I think you were just a genius.)
Dear Mrs. Naidu Page 5
