“Amir,” I said.
“You know him?”
“He’s my best friend,” I said. “Well, one of my best friends.” After a second, I added, “Madam.”
“I see,” the headmistress said. “He’s a lovely boy. So polite. Just like you. And actually, he was in here the other day with one of his teachers asking about starting a tuition program for out-of-school students. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“He hasn’t mentioned anything,” I said, smiling quietly, “but it sounds like something he would do.”
“Hmmm,” the headmistress said. She made a note in a register on her desk, and said, “I’ll call your headmaster and formalize the arrangements. Both for the press conference and the donation. As for the tuition program, we’ll have to see.”
“Yes Madam,” I said.
“Sarojini,” Vimala Madam said, “I trust you will call your media connections?”
“Yes, Madam,” I said.
“And I trust that you, Padmini, will address the issue of bribery with your staff.”
I looked over at the secretary again. Her eyes glittered like a trapped cat’s.
“You can be sure of it, Mrs. Rao,” the headmistress said. Then she reached out and took my hand. “I am so sorry that this happened to you at our school, Sarojini. Thank you for coming to me so we could make it right.”
Then Vimala Madam said a few lawyerly things and mentioned how she would love to attend the next board meeting and some other stuff that I didn’t hear. Then she and I left.
And it was done.
Madam drove me to Ambedkar School. I couldn’t wait to run inside and tell Annie Miss to call Rohini Reporter and to convene an SDMC meeting and to tell Deepti and Amir that after all the fighting and failing and fighting and failing, finally, we had stopped failing.
(Don’t get me wrong, Mrs. Naidu. I know there’s lots more fighting and failing in our future. But it’s a lot easier to fight when you have a non-failure in your past.)
As I was getting out of the car, Vimala Madam shook my hand.
“I am more and more impressed with you, my dear,” she said. “Please know that in all things, you have my full support.”
(Which I think is Vimala Madam’s fancy lawyer way of saying that she wants to help me always, and not just now, and not just because we’re working on this together.)
(I don’t know why she couldn’t just say it like that, Mrs. Naidu.)
“Thank you, Madam,” I said.
“Mark my words, darling. This is only the beginning.”
I hope she’s right, Mrs. Naidu.
Because the best endings are the ones that lead to new beginnings.
But I guess you already know that, Mrs. Naidu. Because I learned that from you.
All the best,
Sarojini
September 2, 2013
Dear Mrs. Naidu,
Well, Mrs. Naidu, I’m happy to say that even though the secretary of Greenhill may be dishonest, the headmistress is not. She called our HM to arrange the donation and the press conference, just like she said she would. It’s lucky that she called today, because if you remember, usually, our HM only comes in on the first of the month. But this month, the first was a Sunday, so he came in today, which is the second.
Deepti and I didn’t know anything about Greenhill calling until almost the end of English class. It seemed like any other day. English Miss came late, as usual, and then she put a bunch of sentences on the board and told us to copy them on our slates, as usual. Then she got out a stack of Kannada language magazines and started reading them and not paying attention to us.
(You would think that since she’s the English teacher, she’d read English magazines, but she never does. The only time she doesn’t read Kannada magazines is when she has other work to do. Then she doesn’t put sentences on the board and she makes us help her.)
(Once we put address stickers on all of her daughter’s wedding invitations. Even though it took us two whole classes to finish, and even though the mandapam was across the street from the school, she didn’t ask any of us to come.)
Deepti and I worked together on copying the sentences down. We kept going up to Miss to have her check our work and to read what we were writing out loud to see if we got the pronunciation right. We were the only ones though – nobody else was paying attention. Miss didn’t seem to care, even when the talking got kind of loud. I guess her magazine was pretty interesting.
So it was basically a normal day in class, until Roshan and Joseph started acting out their favourite scene from the latest Rajni film.
In case you don’t know who Ranjnikanth, Superstar is, he’s a famous Tamil cinema action hero. The reason he is popular here is because he’s from Bangalore, and he started out as a bus conductor. I think that’s why the boys love him: they all think if Rajni can become a star, then so can they. (Well, all the boys except Amir, Mrs. Naidu – but he’s not like regular boys. He’s much smarter.)
So anyway, whenever those two act out a Rajni scene, it’s always the same thing. Roshan jumps around the desks doing these weird karate chop moves that I’ve never seen in any films, but that Joseph swears is a perfect impression. Probably because Joseph thinks everything Roshan does is perfect, even when it’s dumb. Especially when it’s dumb.
English Miss was reading her magazine, ignoring all the jumping around, until Roshan got the brilliant idea to launch himself off the old broken metal desk that’s been sitting in the back of the room for at least five years now.
(You see what I mean about Amir compared to most boys, Mrs. Naidu?)
He landed right on Joseph, and Joseph fell over and all his books went everywhere and there was a loud crack, which at first we all thought was either Joseph or Roshan, but turned out to be the wooden bench Joseph and a bunch of other kids had been sitting on.
(I wasn’t surprised, Mrs. Naidu, considering that these benches are so warped and rotten from rain that even sitting on them makes them buckle and bend.)
Joseph and all the kids hit the floor and slates and chalk pieces flew everywhere.
Well that got Miss to pay attention. She jumped up from her desk and grabbed her wooden stick and hit Roshan with it.
“Stop misbehaving, you idiot!” she yelled.
(Only she didn’t say “idiot.” She said something much worse.)
None of this was that unusual, Mrs. Naidu. Whenever you disturb Miss’s reading, she gets out her stick and screams and then she forgets about it.
But then, something unusual happened.
The HM came running through the door.
And his Rajnikanth impression was much more believable than Roshan’s.
He sailed across the room and, just like an action hero, stopped the stick in midair before it hit Roshan again. He grabbed it out of Miss’s hand and yelled, right in her face, “What do you think you’re doing to this child?”
The room went silent.
It was the first time in my life I have seen Roshan and Joseph be perfectly still.
“Sir,” Miss said, after a minute. “He was disrupting class, and I –”
“Hitting students is illegal,” the HM barked. He backed away, but kept the stick. He held it tightly in front of him when he spoke, and I got the feeling that he could use it to do some Superstar moves if he needed to.
“But Sir,” Miss said, laughing nervously. “If we don’t use the stick, the students will not respect us.”
“Earn their respect,” the HM said. He looked at the sentences on the board and picked up my slate. He kind of threw the slate back down on my bench. “Show them you actually care about your job.”
“And if they misbehave?” Miss asked. She kept smiling, like she was trying to make the HM think she was joking, even though we all knew she wasn’t.
“It’s called positive discipline, and you sho
uld’ve studied it in your B.Ed. program. Anyway, you and the other teachers will be attending training on it later this month,” the HM said. “You’ll get plenty of ideas then.”
Deepti and I looked at each other. Deepti’s mouth dropped open, and I think mine probably did too.
Do you know why, Mrs. Naidu?
Training about corporal punishment was an item on our school improvement plan!
“Until then,” the HM said, leaning close to her and growling, “I suggest you keep the students occupied by actually teaching.”
Deepti turned bright red and covered her mouth. I stared down at my slate so I wouldn’t start laughing looking at her.
“Deepti, Sarojini,” the HM barked. “I need to see you in my office. Now.”
Remember how I said that the HM looked like a sidekick? Not any more, Mrs. Naidu.
Now, he looked like a Superstar.
Or maybe an evil genius.
It was hard to tell.
The walk through the school from our classroom to the HM’s office never felt so long. I think even Deepti was nervous, because she grabbed my hand and crushed it between her fingers. She didn’t let go.
We finally made it to the HM’s office after what seemed like hours (even though it was probably not even a minute). He twirled around and crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes.
“I got a call from the Greenhill Public School headmistress today,” he said.
“And?” Deepti asked.
I elbowed her, but the HM didn’t seem to notice.
“She tells me she’s interested in donating a playground,” he said. “She mentioned something about a press conference?”
Then Deepti elbowed me. Hard. I turned to look at her and she kind of nodded and raised her eyebrows, which is Deepti for, “Be lawyerly.”
I gulped and said in a tiny, squeaky, unlawyer-like voice, “It’s an item on the school improvement plan, sir. I went and asked for the donation on behalf of the SDMC.”
Sir nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“You said not to bother you…” I said, my voice trailing off.
“You’ll get full credit at the press conference,” Deepti said. “Don’t worry. Sarojini is handling the donation, but I’m handling the press stuff.”
“Is that right?” Sir asked.
And I can’t be sure, Mrs. Naidu, but I think he almost smiled.
“Yeah, I know the reporters around here,” Deepti said, like she was a local leader instead of a twelve-year-old girl.
Then the HM really did laugh. But it wasn’t a mean laugh. It was kind. And for a second, I thought I saw the face of someone who used to think of his students as his sons and daughters.
“Fix it for the thirteenth,” the HM said. “My wife says it’s an auspicious day for this kind of thing. And make sure you speak to one of your mothers. They’ll know what we need for a lamp-lighting.”
“Yes sir,” Deepti said, grinning.
We stood there watching him for a second. Then, he seemed to remember where he was. He replaced his grin with a growl, and said, “Get back to class.”
“Yes sir,” we both said at the same time.
As soon as we left the office, we jumped up and down and squealed.
“Class!” he yelled. Then he put his head around the doorway and waved the stick at us.
“Yes sir,” we said, and ran back to class together giggling.
When we got to English, everyone was sitting silently, doing their work. Even Roshan and Joseph. The sentences were still on the board, Miss had unlocked the bureau and was pulling out some workbooks that Janaki Madam bought for the last teacher.
Deepti and I went back to our benches and got out our slates. By the end of the day, we had to sit at opposite sides of the room, because we couldn’t look at each other without laughing.
In the book about you, Mrs. Naidu, there’s a French saying, ‘A chacun son destin,’ which means, ‘to each his her own destiny.’ Which I think is just another way to say, ‘it is written.’
The book says that you never liked that phrase much. So you did what writers do – you found the right words. You read them in a poem, and you started signing your letters that way.
Here are the words you found, Mrs. Naidu:
‘A chacun son infini’
‘To each his her own infinity.’
When we left school today, I asked Annie Miss what infinity is. She says that it’s an English word that means going on forever and ever and ever. That’s how my heart felt today, Mrs. Naidu. Like it went on for ever and ever and ever.
I guess my heart really is growing.
All the best,
Sarojini
September 13, 2013
Dear Mrs. Naidu,
Today, I went to my very first press conference. I guess you’ve probably been to a lot of those, Mrs. Naidu, but just in case they changed after you died you’ve forgotten what they’re like, let me tell you what happened.
Even though it is the thirteenth, and not the first, the HM came to school. He brought flowers and a brass lamp that he said used to be his Appa’s. He even helped us sweep and clean the classrooms, just like Janaki Madam did before she retired.
Right before lunch, the SDMC members came, and so did the HM from Greenhill. She came with Tasmiah Aunty, Amir, and a bunch of other Greenhill students.
When Vimala Madam greeted the Greenhill HM, I heard them talk about how the glittery secretary had resigned. But I didn’t say anything.
When our HM saw Amma, he pulled a folder out of his bag. He opened it and flipped through the pages with her, saying, “Here’s the school budget. And here are some notes I made on what the school needs. Talk to that SDMC of yours and see what we can do.”
Amma ran her hand down the page, nodding slowly. I could see the numbers adding and subtracting and dividing in her head.
We set up Annie Miss’s classroom with lots of paper decorations that Hema Aunty got from the temple after they finished celebrating Krishna Janmashtami last week. Nimisha Aunty set up the lamp and drew rangoli around its bottom in orange chalk she got from the anganwadi Miss. Deepti’s Appa poured the oil, and then Kamala Aunty set up the wicks. Hema Aunty and Amina Aunty got all the Ambedkar School girls together and pinned orange and white jasmine flowers to our hair. It made us smell sweet and smoky, like a temple.
Nobody from Ambedkar School talked to anybody from Greenhill, and nobody from Greenhill talked to anybody from Ambedkar. Except Amir, who is from Greenhill, but only spoke to Ambedkar students.
Then a bunch of parents from Ambedkar and Greenhill showed up, and so did the journalists. While everyone was finding seats and setting up cameras, Rohini Reporter came over and hugged me and Deepti, which maybe wasn’t very reporter-like, but was definitely very Rohini Reporter-like. I saw the Headmistress of Greenhill watching us, but she didn’t say anything.
Then the Headmistress of Greenhill told Amir and the other students to line up behind her. There were five wicks on the lamp. The HMs lit one each, then Annie Miss lit one, and then Amma lit one. The Headmistress of Greenhill asked Vimala Madam to light one, but she handed the match to me and Deepti, so we did it instead.
I saw both HMs watching us, but they didn’t say anything.
Then the Headmistress of Greenhill talked on and on in a fluffy-clouds-at-sunset voice about how the board and faculty of the school was committed to helping all children fulfill their potential, regardless of their economic status, and how it was their privilege to break ground on a playground today. As she spoke, she kept readjusting her purple silk sari, which was much fancier than anything anyone else was wearing, but that she would probably give to her maid in another year or two.
Our HM and Vimala Madam spoke then, but they didn’t take as long as the Headmistress of Greenhill. Madam seemed annoyed, like she wanted Annie Miss and me and Deepti to speak instead of
her, but luckily we didn’t have to.
Then the reporters asked questions. Usually this scares me, but today, every time I got nervous I looked at Rohini Reporter and she smiled and blew her hair out of her face and nodded so her chunky plastic earrings danced around her cheeks, and I felt better.
Just as the questions were ending, the click of cameras flashing and whisper of pens scribbling was drowned out by a thuk-thuk-thuk-thuk rattle-rattle-rattle-rattle sound. Some of the Ambedkar School students ran to the door, and Roshan called out, “Someone’s here!”
Can you guess who it was, Mrs. Naidu?
I’ll give you three clues.
She was wearing enough gold to pay for all the roofs in the coconut grove.
She was staring at her phone.
She had nails as long as tiger claws.
By now, you have probably concluded that it was Mrs. Reddy, the local Councillor.
But even though she lived only a few blocks away from the school, she wasn’t walking.
And she wasn’t alone.
She came in a rickshaw.
Actually, she came in three rickshaws. She sat in one, and two rickshaws chugged along behind her, which explained the thuk-thuk-thuk-thuk.
The second rickshaw was full of water purifiers, which explained the rattle-rattle-rattle.
The third rickshaw held three brand new toilets, which didn’t explain anything at all.
And even though the press conference was over, and nobody had invited Mrs. Reddy, and nobody had asked for toilets, and all the wicks of the lamp had been lit, and all the photos had been taken, Mrs. Reddy started speaking into the cameras like it was part of the agenda the whole time.
Which I guess explains why she was wearing a sari instead of a nightie.
“I’d like to thank all the generous people at Greenhill Public for supporting our humble little school,” Mrs. Reddy said in English, even though everyone else had spoken in Kannada. Someone came up behind her (he must’ve been in the rickshaw with her – or maybe underneath the toilets) and handed her a garland. She placed it around the Greenhill Headmistress’s neck.
Dear Mrs. Naidu Page 18
