was very busy and had important stuff to do. She went to the desk and shuffled the folders there, and Nani followed her, two small steps behind. She pointed to the sheet of paper, still blank except for Neema’s name and the title of Ms Dallimore’s essay.
‘ Iskool ka kaam ?’ she said.
Neema could tell it was a question because Nani’s voice went up a little at the end. ‘It’s homework, ’ she said.
‘ Kaisa kaam ?’
Now she must be asking what kind of homework it was, like Gran did when she came to visit; only Nani’s voice wasn’t bossy like Gran’s, it was soft and rather shy.
‘For English. It’s an essay.’ Neema’s voice sped up again. ‘Well, it’s not an essay yet, because I haven’t really started it. No-one has, except for Kate, and she’s actually finished hers. Can you believe that? Kate ! And it’s the kind of essay where it’s really hard to think of anything to say. Like, I don’t know–’ Neema broke off on a sudden gasp, and Nani stood there, still studying her face.
Neema smiled uncertainly, and then Nani studied the smile, frowning slightly, as if there was something wrong with it, as if it was the wrong sort of smile.
It was. Neema could see her face reflected in the wardrobe mirror, a face that hardly looked like hers. Her mouth was a stiff quirky shape, and her little dimple didn’t show. Oh, how she wished Nani would leave her alone!
And as if she’d heard that very thought Nani turned away sadly and walked out through the door.
Gone.
Neema stood and listened to the soft brushing sound of Nani’s bare feet on the polished boards of the hall. ‘Nani!’ she called guiltily, running after her.
Nani turned round.
‘Goodnight, ’ said Neema. ‘Goodnight, Nani.’
Goodnight. Kalpana knew that word. Indeed, she knew many English words which she’d picked up from Usha, long ago when her daughter was small and had gone to the English Language School. But she couldn’t bring herself to say them out loud to other people; she was afraid they might sound thick and stupid in her voice. That people might laugh . . .
‘You are too proud, always, ’ Sumati often said, ‘too proud in little things.’ And she was, thought Kalpana. Too proud to risk one single word, even to her lovely great-granddaughter, Nirmolini.
‘ Soja beti , ’ she said instead, which meant, though Neema didn’t know it, ‘sleep well, my child’.
Was that goodnight? wondered Neema. Should she repeat it, then? But what if it meant something else? Like, ‘Go away, you heartless girl!’ Or what if it was a phrase that, in India, only old people were allowed to use?
So Neema only smiled again, that stiff uncertain smile she always gave to Nani, which froze her soft features and concealed the small dimple that showed when she truly smiled.
11
Dear Sumati
Dear Sumati , wrote Kalpana.
I am happy to hear that you have arrived safely at your sister’s place after the long train journey from Ahmedabad and those many troublesome hours on the bus.
Yes, you are right: some of these bus drivers are ignorant fellows indeed! To think that he would boss you around: refuse to let you take your sack of sweet potatoes onto the bus – the sweet potatoes you bought for your sister Lakshmi from Ratan Lal’s stall! Everyone knows that Ratan Lal’s sweet potatoes are the best in all India, perhaps even in the world. That this bus driver should throw them on the roof-rack! And that later, in the mountains, you would look out through the window and see them tumbling down! And hear the other travellers cry out in distress, believing your potatoes were stones and avalanche!
I am not surprised to learn your throat is sore from shouting (take lemon and best honey, mixed together, warm) and yes, you may be right again: that driver may have been a school teacher in his former life, and for his sins will surely be a cockroach in the next.
Here it is very strange, Sumati, so strange it would take many pages to
‘ Iskool ka kaam ?’ she said.
Neema could tell it was a question because Nani’s voice went up a little at the end. ‘It’s homework, ’ she said.
‘ Kaisa kaam ?’
Now she must be asking what kind of homework it was, like Gran did when she came to visit; only Nani’s voice wasn’t bossy like Gran’s, it was soft and rather shy.
‘For English. It’s an essay.’ Neema’s voice sped up again. ‘Well, it’s not an essay yet, because I haven’t really started it. No-one has, except for Kate, and she’s actually finished hers. Can you believe that? Kate ! And it’s the kind of essay where it’s really hard to think of anything to say. Like, I don’t know–’ Neema broke off on a sudden gasp, and Nani stood there, still studying her face.
Neema smiled uncertainly, and then Nani studied the smile, frowning slightly, as if there was something wrong with it, as if it was the wrong sort of smile.
It was. Neema could see her face reflected in the wardrobe mirror, a face that hardly looked like hers. Her mouth was a stiff quirky shape, and her little dimple didn’t show. Oh, how she wished Nani would leave her alone!
And as if she’d heard that very thought Nani turned away sadly and walked out through the door.
Gone.
Neema stood and listened to the soft brushing sound of Nani’s bare feet on the polished boards of the hall. ‘Nani!’ she called guiltily, running after her.
Nani turned round.
‘Goodnight, ’ said Neema. ‘Goodnight, Nani.’
Goodnight. Kalpana knew that word. Indeed, she knew many English words which she’d picked up from Usha, long ago when her daughter was small and had gone to the English Language School. But she couldn’t bring herself to say them out loud to other people; she was afraid they might sound thick and stupid in her voice. That people might laugh . . .
‘You are too proud, always, ’ Sumati often said, ‘too proud in little things.’ And she was, thought Kalpana. Too proud to risk one single word, even to her lovely great-granddaughter, Nirmolini.
‘ Soja beti , ’ she said instead, which meant, though Neema didn’t know it, ‘sleep well, my child’.
Was that goodnight? wondered Neema. Should she repeat it, then? But what if it meant something else? Like, ‘Go away, you heartless girl!’ Or what if it was a phrase that, in India, only old people were allowed to use?
So Neema only smiled again, that stiff uncertain smile she always gave to Nani, which froze her soft features and concealed the small dimple that showed when she truly smiled.
11
Dear Sumati
Dear Sumati , wrote Kalpana.
I am happy to hear that you have arrived safely at your sister’s place after the long train journey from Ahmedabad and those many troublesome hours on the bus.
Yes, you are right: some of these bus drivers are ignorant fellows indeed! To think that he would boss you around: refuse to let you take your sack of sweet potatoes onto the bus – the sweet potatoes you bought for your sister Lakshmi from Ratan Lal’s stall! Everyone knows that Ratan Lal’s sweet potatoes are the best in all India, perhaps even in the world. That this bus driver should throw them on the roof-rack! And that later, in the mountains, you would look out through the window and see them tumbling down! And hear the other travellers cry out in distress, believing your potatoes were stones and avalanche!
I am not surprised to learn your throat is sore from shouting (take lemon and best honey, mixed together, warm) and yes, you may be right again: that driver may have been a school teacher in his former life, and for his sins will surely be a cockroach in the next.
Here it is very strange, Sumati, so strange it would take many pages to
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