the flat lawn of Aspen Lodge, she hid in the bushes and peeped through the scrub at the edges of the lawn. She saw that the place was full of people: men and women in fine clothes, holding glasses, laughing and talking. White tables and chairs were set out under umbrellas bigger than she had ever seen. Two bearers with trays went from one knot of people to the next, waiting to be noticed and for something from their trays to be picked out and eaten. One of the bearers was the boy: hers.
Later she giggled and said, “When we are married, you will do the cooking and look pretty, and serve me food when I come home. I’ll go out and earn the money.”
He did not smile back. He turned away without a word. He went to where the stream disappeared into trees as if he had seen something there. He bent down and picked up a stone, which he flung into the water. She called his name: “Kundan,” she said, “O Kundan Singh!” and broke into more giggles. But after a few more minutes when he looked away still unsmiling and pretended she was not there, she ran up to him and tugged at his clothes and pleaded, “Don’t you know when I’m joking?”
eight
The principal of my school, Miss Wilson, had realized soon enough that I was not much good as a teacher. She thought my classes undisciplined and chaotic; I thought of it as a happy noise and could not bring myself to silence the children and impose the order that was required. Miss Wilson stormed in from time to time and imposed order with one bellowed “Quay-it!” and a stinging rap of her cane on the desk, after which the class and I stood in meek disgrace waiting for the angry speech that usually followed. Charu was not my only failure; there were others who had gone through my classes for two years or more, playing truant and then failing examinations. At staff meetings, looking pointedly in my direction, Miss Wilson said, “Some people think teaching is a job anyone can do. No, madam, no, it needs dedication, discipline, love of Jesus Christ Our Lord.” She addressed me as “madam” whenever she wanted to take me down a peg or two.
Miss Wilson was a Catholic from Kerala. Somehow, any sari she wore became an untidy roll of cloth around her, making her an animated bundle. Her austerity was renowned: she ate only two brisk, salt-free meals every day and for jewelry wore just a silver crucifix. Her thick, black-framed glasses slid down her bump of a nose every few minutes and she was always pushing them back up with a stubby forefinger. During her First Communion and First Confession, she had “heard the voice of Jesus, as clearly as yours or mine,” she liked to say. In her teens, she joined a convent wanting nothing but to be a nun. She was sent for a year to teach in a church school, attend Mass, recite novenas. During the time there, she, along with other girls, was under observation: were they fit for the religious life? Miss Wilson was fervent enough, but in the end the church did not allow her to take orders. She would not say why, only hinting at convent politics, but this was the great tragedy of her life and she held the world responsible for it. Whenever someone annoyed her, she would say in her grating voice, “And it is for this, for this that the Lord sent me out to serve the world when I wanted to be His bride in prayer and solitude!”
It was a canny move for her to make me manage the modest jam-making cooperative the church owned: the revenues from it went into the school’s coffers, and I ran it well, quickly expanding its operations. She nevertheless made it seem a favor. “You need not take the afternoon classes,” she said. “There are other teachers more experienced. You sit with the girls in the factory.” After a year or two the factory began to make good money, as well as acquiring a reputation for providing occasional employment to village girls and a ready market for the local fruit harvest. Miss Wilson took credit for it when visitors
Later she giggled and said, “When we are married, you will do the cooking and look pretty, and serve me food when I come home. I’ll go out and earn the money.”
He did not smile back. He turned away without a word. He went to where the stream disappeared into trees as if he had seen something there. He bent down and picked up a stone, which he flung into the water. She called his name: “Kundan,” she said, “O Kundan Singh!” and broke into more giggles. But after a few more minutes when he looked away still unsmiling and pretended she was not there, she ran up to him and tugged at his clothes and pleaded, “Don’t you know when I’m joking?”
eight
The principal of my school, Miss Wilson, had realized soon enough that I was not much good as a teacher. She thought my classes undisciplined and chaotic; I thought of it as a happy noise and could not bring myself to silence the children and impose the order that was required. Miss Wilson stormed in from time to time and imposed order with one bellowed “Quay-it!” and a stinging rap of her cane on the desk, after which the class and I stood in meek disgrace waiting for the angry speech that usually followed. Charu was not my only failure; there were others who had gone through my classes for two years or more, playing truant and then failing examinations. At staff meetings, looking pointedly in my direction, Miss Wilson said, “Some people think teaching is a job anyone can do. No, madam, no, it needs dedication, discipline, love of Jesus Christ Our Lord.” She addressed me as “madam” whenever she wanted to take me down a peg or two.
Miss Wilson was a Catholic from Kerala. Somehow, any sari she wore became an untidy roll of cloth around her, making her an animated bundle. Her austerity was renowned: she ate only two brisk, salt-free meals every day and for jewelry wore just a silver crucifix. Her thick, black-framed glasses slid down her bump of a nose every few minutes and she was always pushing them back up with a stubby forefinger. During her First Communion and First Confession, she had “heard the voice of Jesus, as clearly as yours or mine,” she liked to say. In her teens, she joined a convent wanting nothing but to be a nun. She was sent for a year to teach in a church school, attend Mass, recite novenas. During the time there, she, along with other girls, was under observation: were they fit for the religious life? Miss Wilson was fervent enough, but in the end the church did not allow her to take orders. She would not say why, only hinting at convent politics, but this was the great tragedy of her life and she held the world responsible for it. Whenever someone annoyed her, she would say in her grating voice, “And it is for this, for this that the Lord sent me out to serve the world when I wanted to be His bride in prayer and solitude!”
It was a canny move for her to make me manage the modest jam-making cooperative the church owned: the revenues from it went into the school’s coffers, and I ran it well, quickly expanding its operations. She nevertheless made it seem a favor. “You need not take the afternoon classes,” she said. “There are other teachers more experienced. You sit with the girls in the factory.” After a year or two the factory began to make good money, as well as acquiring a reputation for providing occasional employment to village girls and a ready market for the local fruit harvest. Miss Wilson took credit for it when visitors
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