opened one eye slightly and pulled a face. ‘Now, now, you only just stopped frowning – there’s no need to start again. We were only talking. He was so impressed with you I just thought, you know, that you could make a life with him.’
The room was spinning and I had to steady myself. What on earth is he thinking? I won’t leave here. How could I?
‘Why? I don’t want to go anywhere with anyone. My whole life is here. This is where we come from, isn’t it? You, Ma, Bhai and me.’
Bapuji turned to stare at his wall of books. He slid deeper into the bed and pulled the covers closely about him.
‘I wasn’t trying to get rid of you, Bilal. He was so impressed with you, I just thought . . . or I didn’t think.’ Bapuji smiled sadly. ‘It’s hard to think at the moment.’
Sighing, I settled back down on the stool.
‘You know Grandfather always said you acted first and thought later . . .’ I teased.
Bapuji made a face and pretended to look outraged. ‘You’re lucky I can’t move else I’d have cuffed your ear by now.’
Lifting the covers I slid in next to him, attaching myself to his arm. He pushed the hair from my face and began gently stroking my hair. In the next instant I was asleep.
Chapter 15
It was a long time since we’d played cricket and Mr Mukherjee was reminded of his promise at least ten times a day by ten different boys, so the following Tuesday he announced that we were to play that afternoon. The build-up to a cricket match was always boisterous with notes in barely legible writing being passed around the classroom about the batting order and who had put themselves forward to bowl. This would of course be hotly disputed and the notes would be circulated with more urgency, each time collecting insults and threats as to what would happen if such and such were to bowl and so on.
Manjeet nudged me and slipped me a note from Saleem, which said: What about Chota? Chuckling, I shook my head. It was amazing how many times Saleem and I thought the same thing at the exact same time. The thought of Chota spending too much time on the roof was worrying me even though he appeared to be happy. We visited him every day after school, bringing him food to eat and relieving him to go home to see his family. Stubbornly, he would try to convince us that nobody at home actually noticed whether he was there or not but we still made him go. Saleem turned round, pointed to his chest and mouthed, ‘I’ll do it.’ I nodded in reply and settled back down. Saleem didn’t like playing cricket anyway and could sneak off when no one was looking.
Mr Mukherjee held up his hands and asked for silence. He had a quick look at his pocket watch and smiled.
A loud cheer erupted from our little classroom.
‘OK, boys, it’s time. I need some volunteers to carry the bats and wickets. I’ll bring the ball.’
Twenty hands shot into the air and Mr Mukherjee picked a couple of boys from the front. He seemed even more nervous than usual. I slid next to Saleem and nudged him.
‘Mr Mukherjee doesn’t look very happy, Saleem. Can you guess what I’m thinking?’
Saleem looked at me and shook his head. ‘Not unless you’re thinking about the ripe mango I hid on the roof last night that I just know Chota will have found and eaten.’ He pulled a face and scowled.
‘I’m being serious, Sal. I don’t feel good about this cricket match.’
Saleem smiled but it wasn’t one of his usual smiles. There was concern in his eyes, though he hid it quickly. He nudged me playfully and pointed at Mr Mukherjee.
‘You always worry so much. You’re more like Mr Mukherjee than you know. Always nervous about what’s going to happen next. What about right now, Bilal? Let’s have fun now and leave tomorrow to, erm . . . tomorrow.’
I tried to suppress the unease I felt. It was hard to tell with Saleem if he was worried, scared or even the slightest bit nervous. He always appeared happy and always remained calm. I envied
The room was spinning and I had to steady myself. What on earth is he thinking? I won’t leave here. How could I?
‘Why? I don’t want to go anywhere with anyone. My whole life is here. This is where we come from, isn’t it? You, Ma, Bhai and me.’
Bapuji turned to stare at his wall of books. He slid deeper into the bed and pulled the covers closely about him.
‘I wasn’t trying to get rid of you, Bilal. He was so impressed with you, I just thought . . . or I didn’t think.’ Bapuji smiled sadly. ‘It’s hard to think at the moment.’
Sighing, I settled back down on the stool.
‘You know Grandfather always said you acted first and thought later . . .’ I teased.
Bapuji made a face and pretended to look outraged. ‘You’re lucky I can’t move else I’d have cuffed your ear by now.’
Lifting the covers I slid in next to him, attaching myself to his arm. He pushed the hair from my face and began gently stroking my hair. In the next instant I was asleep.
Chapter 15
It was a long time since we’d played cricket and Mr Mukherjee was reminded of his promise at least ten times a day by ten different boys, so the following Tuesday he announced that we were to play that afternoon. The build-up to a cricket match was always boisterous with notes in barely legible writing being passed around the classroom about the batting order and who had put themselves forward to bowl. This would of course be hotly disputed and the notes would be circulated with more urgency, each time collecting insults and threats as to what would happen if such and such were to bowl and so on.
Manjeet nudged me and slipped me a note from Saleem, which said: What about Chota? Chuckling, I shook my head. It was amazing how many times Saleem and I thought the same thing at the exact same time. The thought of Chota spending too much time on the roof was worrying me even though he appeared to be happy. We visited him every day after school, bringing him food to eat and relieving him to go home to see his family. Stubbornly, he would try to convince us that nobody at home actually noticed whether he was there or not but we still made him go. Saleem turned round, pointed to his chest and mouthed, ‘I’ll do it.’ I nodded in reply and settled back down. Saleem didn’t like playing cricket anyway and could sneak off when no one was looking.
Mr Mukherjee held up his hands and asked for silence. He had a quick look at his pocket watch and smiled.
A loud cheer erupted from our little classroom.
‘OK, boys, it’s time. I need some volunteers to carry the bats and wickets. I’ll bring the ball.’
Twenty hands shot into the air and Mr Mukherjee picked a couple of boys from the front. He seemed even more nervous than usual. I slid next to Saleem and nudged him.
‘Mr Mukherjee doesn’t look very happy, Saleem. Can you guess what I’m thinking?’
Saleem looked at me and shook his head. ‘Not unless you’re thinking about the ripe mango I hid on the roof last night that I just know Chota will have found and eaten.’ He pulled a face and scowled.
‘I’m being serious, Sal. I don’t feel good about this cricket match.’
Saleem smiled but it wasn’t one of his usual smiles. There was concern in his eyes, though he hid it quickly. He nudged me playfully and pointed at Mr Mukherjee.
‘You always worry so much. You’re more like Mr Mukherjee than you know. Always nervous about what’s going to happen next. What about right now, Bilal? Let’s have fun now and leave tomorrow to, erm . . . tomorrow.’
I tried to suppress the unease I felt. It was hard to tell with Saleem if he was worried, scared or even the slightest bit nervous. He always appeared happy and always remained calm. I envied
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