I was still in a bit of a daze that I’d been with the most beautiful girl in our school, talking to her, walking with her, holding her hand, sharing a lemon with her, and kissing her, and the best part was that I didn’t even have to try. She along with a few others had planned this trip to the park and she had invited me to join the group. Actually, not so much invited as just ordered me…
We’re going to the National Park tomorrow, you’re coming with us. Don’t get food, get money, she said; her eyes sparkled and she smiled.
Mrs. Iyengar taught us English. She was the same height as most of the students in her class and shorter than others. She wore a starched cotton sari every day and must’ve poured a bucket of coconut oil on her hair every morning. She also wore large glasses that she’d take off when she read. The first time I met her was when I went into grade 10. She was in the classroom when I reached there. She told me to sit in the second row in front of her. There was a girl sitting on the bench. It was Masuma. She moved a little to make place for me.
Mrs. Iyengar was to be our class teacher. She had placed a big book and a small book on the teacher’s desk. She lifted the big book with some effort and held it up for all to see. It was a book bound in dark green cloth, with the spine and edges in dark brown leather.
This is the Complete Works of Shakespeare, she said, and then asked, who was Shakespeare?
A number of hands went up, including Masuma’s. Mrs. Iyengar picked Masuma to answer.
He was a writer. He wrote many plays, Masuma said. Her voice was tinny and she sounded shrill when she raised her voice so that everyone could hear her.
Correct. Very good Masuma, Mrs. Iyengar said, and smiled at her. Then she lifted the smaller book and read aloud the title of the book. Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare.
Mrs. Iyengar explained: Shakespeare was a playwright. A playwright writes plays. These are performed on the stage by actors. It’s like the movies but instead of seeing everything on a big screen, there are live actors on a stage. How many of you have seen a play on a stage?
Again, many hands went up, including Masuma’s. But this time, Mrs. Iyengar didn’t ask her to answer. So she looked at me and I said I went to see a play in Gujarati with my parents, my Mummy and Papa. I looked at my neighbour as I sat down after answering Mrs. Iyengar’s question. I nodded and smiled weakly.
My name is Sharad.
I’m Masuma. I’m a new student, she said.
I offered her my hand, but she didn’t want to shake it, so I let it limply fall on my lap.
In the background, Mrs. Iyengar was talking about Shakespeare. I wasn’t as interested in what she was saying as much I was in this new girl who was sharing my bench. But she was listening with rapt attention to Mrs. Iyengar’s stentorian tone as she explained the importance of Shakespeare to the English language.
After the Bible, Shakespeare has given English language the maximum number of words, but if you read his original plays you will not understand anything, which is why we read the Lamb’s version, Mrs. Iyengar said.
Masuma came early to the school and was among the first to arrive in the classroom. She always had something to eat before Mrs. Iyengar came to take the attendance. She’d offer me whatever she had, and watch me eat with a smile. Then she’d open her workbook and write the date on a fresh page. The first page of her workbook had what appeared to be the letters, LAY. I asked her about it, and she, turning wise beyond her years, told me these were Arabic numerals 786, which were holy in her religion. I wasn’t interested in it at all; so I asked her if she’d seen the latest Amitabh Bachchan film. Her eyes brightened and she smiled.
I love movies, I see one every week at Ambar-Oscar, she said.
I’d do that, too, but I’m not allowed to, I said, unable to hide the envy in my voice.
She smiled and then abruptly looked at Mrs. Iyengar in fear because she shouted at us to be attentive and not talk to each other.
In a few days we were close friends. The other boys teased me about her. I told her about it, and she confided that other girls teased her, too. After a few days of feeling awkward about the unwanted attention, we ignored the teasing. We were happy to be with each other. Every day, she’d talk about her home. Her mom, her dad, her brother, Sultan; it means emperor, she said. I’d tell her about my mom, my sister and my Dadi – my grandmother.
What about your dad? She asked.
He’s dead.
Masuma hugged me. I gasped in surprise. Mrs. Iyengar, who was engrossed in describing the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet, stopped speaking and stared at us.
Why are you hugging him, Masuma? Is Sharad feeling cold without you, or do we have this generation’s Romeo and Juliet in the making, she asked, glaring at Masuma and then at me; the classroom broke out into titters.
Masuma looked down into the book and pretended to read in rapt attention, but she was trying hard to supress a smile. I was too dazed by her hug, and Mrs. Iyengar’s stinging barb, and the general mirth that engulfed the classroom following the teacher’s remark. Tears welled up in my eyes and began to flow. Masuma reached out to me and held my hand beneath the desk so that Mrs. Iyengar couldn’t see.
I was trudging down the school’s compound after school that day, still trying to comprehend Masuma’s sudden show of affection when I heard her calling out my name and turned to see her running up to me.
Will you walk home with me? She began walking with me even before I agreed. She offered me the pink gum that was sold outside our school.
I’m not allowed to chew gum, I told her.
Why not?
I wear partial dentures, I said.
This is so weird, a teenager with false teeth, she said and laughed, but immediately stopped when she saw me looking sternly at her. We walked quietly and reached the gate of Fidai Baug, the housing complex where she lived. A tall, burly boy, older than us walked up to Masuma.
Sultan, meet my classmate Sharad. He wears false teeth, she said.
Sultan looked at me and narrowed his eyes as he took the bag from Masuma. They walked inside the arch door of the housing complex. Masuma smiled and waved goodbye. I began my trudge again. I still had to go some distance. When I was about to reach home, I saw Sultan running up to me. I stopped as he reached me, panting. I waited for him to catch his breath.
Don’t walk with my sister, he said, and grabbed my shirt collar.
She asked me to, I said, my voice came out thin, and I struggled to get out of his grip.
Don’t you ever walk with her near our home; even if she asks you to, he said looking menacingly at me, but letting go of my shirt collar.
The next day, Mrs. Murthy was teaching history – the medieval Indian history where the kings battled each other all the time over some fort somewhere. She was strict and stern, and not given to cracking jokes. If she had her way, she’d rather crack a whip.
I’d resolved that I was not going to talk to Masuma. I didn’t smile back when she smiled at me. I kept my school bag between us. I wasn’t going to give her mean brother another chance to bully me.
What’s the matter?
Your brother doesn’t like me talking to you.
Ignore Sultan. He’s crazy, she whispered. She again reached out to me and held my hand. I tried to push her hand away, but she held my hand firmly. This time, I felt the softness of her palm. She patted me and smiled.
Sharad, my brother is like all brothers, she said, and put my school bag on the floor. Then she moved closer to me. She continued to hold my hand and gently squeeze it. Nalini, who sat on the bench behind ours, was peering over our shoulders to see what we were doing. Masuma looked at her and both of them giggled.
Mrs. Murthy, disturbed by the noise, looked at me in a mixture of anger and disgust.
Get out of my class, right now, she said.
I didn’t do anything, I said, but she couldn’t hear me.
He didn’t do anything, Masuma said.
Both of you get out of my class right this moment, Mrs. Murthy said.
Serves both of you right, Nalini whispered. I turned back in anger, but Masuma giggled again. She walked in front and I followed her out of the class, ashamed at my needless humiliation. She, on the other hand, was reveling in the attention she was getting from the class.
We stood outside the classroom till the bell rang and then went down to the canteen to have usal and pav (lentils in spicy gravy and bread). She watched me intently as I dipped the pav into the usal and began to chew. I had some water after I swallowed the morsel. She continued to stare at me.
What’re you looking at me for? Why don’t you also eat? I asked.
Does it bother you?
No. And don’t let it bother you, I’ve been wearing them since I was 13, I said without getting angry.
How did you know I was asking you about your teeth?
1 Comment
So sad