Do you think she’s combed her hair?
No, neither do I.
Since just going past the front door of the building makes my stomach twist, I wasn’t sure when I would ever feel brave enough to see Madam at her flat again. So this time, I didn’t tell Amma I was coming. I just showed up.
She was surprised when she opened the door.
“Sarojini,” Amma said – actually she kind of hissed, like a snake, or maybe a really angry cat. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m coming from school,” I said. Then I thought for a second, and asked, hopefully, “Am I allowed to go home by myself now?”
“Of course not,” Amma said – or actually, spat.
(Definitely an angry cat.)
“I’m just following the rules,” I said. “Plus Madam said that I had to tell her what happened with my, um, school project. Is she home?”
“She’s in her study,” Amma said. “When she’s in there she doesn’t like to be disturbed.”
“But wouldn’t it be disrespectful if I didn’t tell her what happened?” I asked. And then, just in case, I added, “I mean, it is a school project and everything.”
If there’s one thing Amma can’t stand, it’s disrespect. And as you know, Mrs. Naidu, she never says no to anything that has to do with school.
Well, hardly ever.
Amma folded her arms across her chest and said, “Madam is very busy. You can’t just expect her to be free when it’s convenient for you.”
(If I do become a lawyer – which I’m not saying I will – I don’t think any case will ever be as hard as the case of getting Amma to let me do what I want.)
“But Amma –”
“Sit quietly and do your schoolwork,” Amma said. “Don’t say anything or eat anything or touch anything.”
“Amma, can’t I just – ”
“What did I just say?” Amma said. “Don’t. Say. Anything.”
(Can you believe I was disappointed about not seeing Vimala Madam?)
I sighed and sat down and started doing my maths homework – which, by the way, was extremely frustrating because Amma kept looking over my shoulder and correcting me before I even finished any of the problems, because even though she never completed Class Five she is better at maths than me or Amir or Deepti or probably even our maths teacher – when I heard a door bang across the house.
A heavy door.
A heavy, wooden door.
“Sujatha, would you make me some tea?” Vimala Madam asked as she walked through the heavy door and between her heavy furniture and past her heavy books to her kitchen that, thanks to Amma, smelled delicious.
Where she saw me.
Madam pulled her glasses down her nose.
She pushed her one eyebrow up her forehead.
She ran her hand through her hair.
Then, she sat down on the flimsy plastic chair next to the flimsy plastic table where I was doing my maths and she asked, “Sarojini. Do you, by any chance, enjoy tea?”
She spoke to me like I was a lawyer and not a Class Six student.
“Um,” I said.
“Sarojini won’t have any, Madam,” Amma said. “But I’ll make some for you.”
Vimala Madam nodded and leaned across the table, clasping her hands in front of her, and running her hand through her hair one more time (I guess just to make sure it was messy enough). “Now then, Sarojini,” she said. “I believe I am owed an update.”
“Yes, Madam,” I said.
Mrs. Naidu, I read that when you made speeches all over the world, people liked you so much that they wrote about you in newspapers and elected you to lots of important positions, like the president of the South African Indian Congress and the president of the East African Indian Congress. I read that your speeches in England and America and Kenya and South Africa were about how women should be allowed to vote and girls should get an education and how all countries that the Britishers had taken over should be set free.
It seems like when you made those speeches, people listened.
Because everything that you said should happen did happen, which means, after a long time, people actually did what you told them to do.
But do you remember being a kid, Mrs. Naidu?
Do you remember how nobody wanted to listen to you because they thought you should listen to them instead?
Do you remember how they were more interested in telling you what to do than hearing about what you wanted to do?
Well, Vimala Madam didn’t treat me like a kid. She treated me like she would’ve treated you – like I was someone who had something important to say. She didn’t interrupt me once. Not when I told her about how Deepti and I had talked about getting seats in a private school, but then realized that we didn’t want to be away from our teachers and our friends who care about us. Not when I talked about how Deepti and I thought that maybe if we fixed our school, more people would come, and our brains and hearts could grow more. Not when I showed her the list we made in Child Rights Club, and told her how Annie Miss said that she’d help us, but what we really needed was help from someone who knew about laws.
By the time I stopped, Vimala Madam was leaning back in her chair, her arms crossed, her spectacles on top of her head. She nodded slowly, looking down her pointy nose at me, like she was deciding whether to use her evil genius to help me or to end the world.
I sat on my hands so she wouldn’t see they were shaking.
“My dear, I am so pleased,” she said.
(Honestly, Mrs. Naidu, if that’s what she looks like when she’s pleased, I never want to see her unpleased.)
“When the founders of this country wrote the Constitution, they envisioned an India in which every child had access to an excellent education,” she went on.
“Founders like Sarojini Naidu, Madam?”
“Especially Sarojini Naidu,” she said. “I see you are reading the book I gave you. If so, you know that your namesake was particularly motivated to make sure that girls could be educated.”
(I nodded, but actually, Mrs. Naidu, I have no idea what a namesake is – except that now I know that you are mine.)
“Unfortunately, their vision was never properly realized. This is why laws like the Right to Free and Compulsory Education Act of 2009 are necessary even today. Speaking of which,” she said, “do you have that circular with you? Perhaps we can find some clues that will help us decide our next move.”
(Did you catch that, Mrs. Naidu? Clues? Our next move?)
(I guess maybe lawyers are sort of like detectives.)
Vimala Madam and I sat with the pamphlet and looked for clues so we could decide our next move. She turned to the very end – which she showed me was called ‘The Schedule,’ even though it’s a list of stuff, not a list of timings, which is what I thought a schedule was – and showed me how a lot of what we wanted, like drinking water and a playground, are mandatory, which means the government has to give them to us. (I sort of knew that already, Mrs. Naidu, since she showed me last time too.) Then she showed me the part of the law that says how each school has to have a management committee (she said in Karnataka we call it an SDMC which stands for School Development Management Committee). She said the SDMC comes up with a school development plan, which is kind of like a list of things to ask for to make our school better – in fact, it’s a lot like the list we’d already made.
“Remember, we discussed that the SDMC should include parents, teachers, local officials, and students,” Vimala Madam said. “It should have nine people. Three-quarters of the committee should be parents and at least half should be women.”
It sounded like a math problem, Mrs. Naidu, which was why I suddenly remembered that Amma was in the kitchen. I think Madam remembered too, because we both looked up at the same time.
Amma was scrubbing the sink really hard.
“Sujatha,” Madam
said to Amma. “You should join this committee. You’d be a strong leader, and you’d set an excellent example for Sarojini.”
Amma stopped scrubbing and smiled at Madam. It wasn’t a typical Amma smile though – usually, her smiles go straight through her, and they fill up her whole body with light. This smile was just on the surface. There wasn’t light underneath, exactly, but there may have been another kind of glow – a little like fire.
“Yes, Madam,” Amma said. Which you’ll notice, is not exactly a response to Vimala Madam’s suggestion.
That’s when I knew I was in trouble, even though I wasn’t sure why.
Madam, though, had no idea.
“Well then,” Madam said. “Sarojini, darling, you have the same assignment as last time. Please come back and tell me what you decide. But no matter what, remember,” she said, holding up the pamphlet and kind of rattling it with one hand. With the other she (you guessed it) put her glasses down her nose so she could peer over them at me. “The law is on your side. And the law is a powerful thing.”
It was really like an evil genius move, Mrs. Naidu, except what Madam was saying was the opposite of evil. It was confusing, but at least I knew now she wasn’t going to end the world.
“Yes Madam,” I said, putting the law and my maths homework in my bag and standing up. I glanced over at Amma, and my legs started shaking.
“We should go,” Amma said then. She dug her fingers into my wrist so hard that I had to stop myself from gasping. (Which, by the way, I think is corporal punishment.) “It’s getting late, and Sarojini still has a lot of homework to finish.”
“Of course, of course,” Madam said. “School comes first. I very much enjoy our conversations, Sarojini. Do come by as often as you can.”
“Yes, Madam,” I said between my teeth. Amma’s death grip was making my wrist throb and my heart race.
Amma kind of jerked us both outside. Vimala Madam kept the door open and waved as we walked down the huge driveway. The second we were out of sight, Amma dropped my wrist and leaned very close to me, shooting all kinds of laser beams out of her eyes.
“You told me you were getting help on a school assignment,” she said – or, more accurately, she barked.
(I hope Vimala Madam isn’t contagious, Mrs. Naidu.)
“It was for Child Rights Club,” I said. “Which is at school.”
“A club is not a class,” Amma said. “What do you think you’re doing, starting all this nonsense?”
“But our club wants to improve our school,” I said. “I thought you’d be proud. You always say education is the most important thing. Why are you so angry?”
“That’s exactly why I’m angry,” Amma said. “You’re supposed to be studying, not worrying about drinking water and toilets and god knows what else you and that construction site girl have been carrying on about.”
“Deepti,” I whispered. “Her name is Deepti.”
Amma ignored me, and said, “My job is to make sure you go to a good school. Your job is to get good marks. It is not to create problems.”
“I’m trying to fix problems,” I said, “not create them.”
“You’re twelve years old. You should not be fixing anything.” She turned and started walking quickly down the main road. I had to scramble to keep up with her.
“Amma, I can’t stop now. I promised Deepti,” I panted.
“Deepti and that family of hers will be gone in a month. She’ll be away from all the galatta and where will you be? Stuck here.”
“But you heard Madam. She says I’m making the right decision. And she says she does cases like this all the time, she told me– ”
“That’s another thing,” Amma said. “I need this job. If you keep interacting with Madam this way, asking her for help, dragging her into our problems, she’ll get tired of us and I’ll lose my best-paying house.”
“But you just took on so many new houses!”
“Of course I did. How else are we going to pay for your supposedly free seat?”
“What are you talking about?” Amma and I never talked about Greenhill after that day, and I thought the whole thing was over. But even if it wasn’t over, and Amma was trying to get me in, why would she need money for a free seat? That’s the whole point – when something is free, you don’t need money for it.
Amma stopped walking. She turned around, leaned over, and put her hands on my shoulders, the way she used to when I was little and she had to tell me something difficult, like that Appa had left or we didn’t have enough food for dinner.
“You don’t know what happened, do you?”
First, I shook my head.
But then I remembered the clues:
How the hard glittery woman at Greenhill passed Amma a piece of paper.
How Amma said that thing about honesty.
How Hema Aunty and Nimisha Aunty complained about the price of free seats.
“They want you to pay a bribe,” I said, slowly, as I was drawing my conclusion. “You’ve got all these extra houses so you can pay for my seat.”
Amma didn’t say anything at first. But then, after a minute, she whispered, “You know I’ll do anything for your future, ma. But if you stir up trouble, you’ll get a reputation, and no one will take you no matter how much we pay.”
It felt like all the traffic on the main road got louder and faster and the air got thicker and dustier and more confusing.
But maybe it wasn’t the main road. Maybe it was the inside of my head.
“Amma, I don’t want to go to a posh school. Especially one that is corrupt. If I go there, what will happen to my heart? It definitely won’t grow like Annie Miss thinks it should.”
“Darling, I know you think you can change Ambedkar School. But no matter how many changes you make, it won’t help. Government school students don’t have a future. Look at me – I went to a government school. I even won prizes and topped my exams. But what do I do now? I wash dishes and sweep floors.”
Amma stopped being angry, then – or at least, she stopped being angry at me. She kept being angry at the world. “For you, it will be different.”
We walked the rest of the way home in silence. I don’t know what Amma was thinking about – maybe about my future at Greenhill or how she was going to raise the money for the bribe.
But I was thinking about what she said.
I thought about how all the kids I knew in our neighbourhood had parents who went to government schools.
I thought about how so many of us wore old clothes or were always hungry or had to leave school to work, even though our parents already worked all day, and sometimes all night.
I thought about how none of the detectives I read about could have gone to government schools.
Most of all, I thought about how I always imagined that if I ever became fighter, Amma would be on my side.
Right now, my thoughts feel more tangled up than Bangalore traffic, and I don’t know what side I’m on.
But I have a feeling it’s not Amma’s.
All the best,
Sarojini
July 27, 2013
Dear Mrs. Naidu,
It’s Saturday, Mrs. Naidu, so we only had a half day of school. I spent the afternoon reading about you. I just finished the part where you became friends with an American woman named Jane Addams. She came all the way to India to support you when you were elected to the municipal government in Mumbai (which used to be called Bombay when you were alive before you died when you lived there), and you went all the way to visit her in the United States, to a city called Chicago. You were probably friends because you had a lot in common: she cared about women’s rights and education, and she was smart and famous and wrote a ton of books. Just like you.
But you know what else this book says? It says that the American government thought that Mrs. Addams was one of the most dangerous women in the world
. That means that you could’ve gotten in a lot of trouble for being friends with her, Mrs. Naidu.
Then I started thinking – the Britishers probably called you dangerous too. So that means that Mrs. Addams could have gotten in trouble for being friends with you.
Mrs. Naidu, how did you know that you should be friends with Mrs. Addams even though people said she was dangerous?
I was wondering about it this morning, when Deepti was waiting at the construction site with Abhi so the three of us could walk to school together, like we do every day now.
When I said hi to Deepti, she rolled her eyes. Then she pointed to Abhi who, as usual, was singing.
Abhi used to be quiet when we went to school, but ever since he started at the anganwadi, he’s always got some rhyme that he repeats over and over and over again. Today he was singing something about alphabets and freedom fighters.
“ABCDEFG, G is the name of Gandhiji,” he said.
“Hi Abhi,” I said.
“HIJKLMNOP, P is the name of Panditji,” he replied.
(I told him to add you when he got to S, Mrs. Naidu, but he wouldn’t do it. I’ll keep trying.)
“How long has he been like this?” I asked Deepti.
“Since Wednesday. First he only knew up to G. Now he knows the whole thing.”
“Wow. And he hasn’t stopped?”
“Nope. But at least he knows his ABCs – pretty good since he’s only four years old, you know, and nobody in our family speaks English.” Deepti shrugged and rolled her eyes again, but she was sort of smiling, like she was proud but trying to hide it. “Did you go see the evil genius?”
I said yes, and I told Deepti the whole story the part of the story where Vimala Madam said we need to form a committee and then get them to approve all our ideas.
“Who’s on the committee again?” she asked.
“Teachers, parents, and students. But there has to be nine people, and three fourths of them have to be parents. Oh, and half of them have to be women.”
“Students are no problem. We’re students.”
“Me too,” Abhi said.
Dear Mrs. Naidu Page 8
