A Small Step

“I’ve got a plan,” I cap and uncap the pen in my right hand. And tap it on the aged table.

The man in dhoti tugs at his dusty turban and blinks. He keeps standing close to the door. The office boy looks on bemusedly.

“Please sit down,” I repeat. He doesn’t move.

I clear my throat, stand up and move towards him. He shrinks. I stop.

“Madam, why did you call me? The master will be furious if I don’t get back to threshing soon.”

His cracked heels peep out of worn-out sandals. I sense the impatience in his brown eyes.

“I understand. It would have been nice if your wife too had come along.”

He arches his eyebrows. I remind myself to tread cautiously.

He takes a quick breath and says in a gruff voice, “She is busy with the baby and housework, madam. And she is not keeping too well. If you tell me why you called me, I can leave.”

I cross my arms and lock eyes with him. He gulps.

“This is about your daughter, Parvati, in eighth grade.”

His mouth twitches. “What about her? Was she up to something no good?”

I smile, hiding my irritation.

“No, she cleared the National Scholarship test for rural students.”

He blinks. I sigh. The child has not told him.

“Sir, do you understand what that means?”

He nods from side to side. I uncross my arms.

“It means… she is one of the best students in the region and the government will pay her a monthly allowance till she completes tenth grade.”

“Monthly what?”

I take a deep breath.

“Money, to help her keep studying.”

“Oh!” his face darkens. I know what he will say next. But he doesn’t say it.

“Mr. Revanna,” he cringes at the unfamiliar respect coming his way.

The office boy sniggers. I ask him to get two cups of tea. His eyes spread into saucers but he leaves my office.

“Mr. Revanna, when I called her to my office to give her the news… she burst into tears.”

He continues to train his eyes on the calendar on the wall. I plod.

“It seems you are not keen on her coming to the school. Are you going to stop a bright student from attending school?”

He scratches his chin and looks out of the door, into the corridor. Lunch break is about to begin. The teachers have wound up their lessons and the children have begun to chatter.

“Sir, are you?”

He takes another step towards the door. I soften my tone.

“Mr. Revanna, if you are, please don’t.”

He looks at me. His eyes are moist.

“Madam, what good is it if a girl is bright or not? She has to start making rotis anyway, sooner or later.”

My jaws clench. I adjust my specs.

“But still, don’t you think she deserves to have a shot at a future she wants?”

He takes a step towards me. I am taken aback by the sudden fire in his eyes.

“Madam, city folks like you come here and talk about big things. What future does a labourer’s daughter have in a village like this? Do you even know how difficult it is getting for me to see to it that she comes to and goes from school safely? I don’t know how to tell you. But now that she has started having… er…women problems, do you know how scared I feel when she has to use the bushes outside the school? There are all kinds of scoundrels lurking there…”

I hold my right hand up to stop him. And point my left hand to the window, through which a half-built structure is seen.

“Sir, the new toilet will be ready in a month. And free pads will be provided to take care of… women’s problems.”

The tea cups on the tray shudder as the office boy walks in. The two men exchange embarrassed looks.

I move back to my chair and urge.

“Mr. Revanna, please sit down. And have a cup of tea.”

He sits on the chair like a deflated balloon. And partly hides his flushed cheeks behind the chipped cup. His callused hands tremble as he slurps the sugary tea.

I can tell when the iron is hot. I strike.

“I can understand your concerns. As I said, I have got a plan.”

He is scared to look up, after his outburst.

“Madam, sorry, but I have problems at home too. My wife needs help. She is not able to take care of the house or do the fieldwork after the birth of our baby last month.”

I want to scream. But count to five. One thing at a time. I offer him Marie biscuits and smile sympathetically.

“I understand, sir. But the child wants to study. Are you sure you don’t want a better future for her?”

He begins to get up.

“All right. I think there is a way. Please sit down and hear me out.”

He sits on the edge. The biscuit is soggy. My heart jumps to my throat as I spit the words.

“How about we enrol her in the National Institute of Open Schooling? That way she doesn’t have to attend school every day.”

He is confused.

“Does she still get money?”

I want to slap him. But rest my elbows on the table and clasp my hands under my chin.

“I think she may. But on one condition. My teachers may visit your home from time to time and Parvati has to come to school twice a week. What do you say?”

He is uncertain. My stomach is in knots. Then he nods up and down.

“As you say, madam. But I still don’t understand what is the big deal about her studies.”

I’m torn between wanting to choke him and thank him.

“No, it is not a big deal at all, Mr. Revanna. It is just a small step. Thank you for listening to me.”

I stand up and fold my hands in namaste. He returns it with a smile and walks out of the door, his steps light. I send out a silent prayer and hope he doesn’t change his mind.

The bell rings. The children troop out of the classrooms after their teachers; leaping, galloping, and flying towards the ground.

 I pull out the drawer and take my lunch box. The office boy leaves, half closing the door as he has been told, open for any child who wants to walk in; to share their lunch or bare their soul.