ALL I WANTED WAS TO READ (story)

Balaiah brought in the day’s mail, stamped the date on each piece, put them in the tray, and left.

THE IMAGE IN HER MIND

 

“Viswapriya’s speech today,” 14-year-old Uma tiptoes into the room with the same humility as Nara [Arjuna] would approach Lord Narayana.                                                 

Six Blind men and the Elephant

 

 

I began my preparation to leave for the United States of America. An ardent patriot and well-wisher told me, “Look, you are an unofficial ambassador of India. Don’t forget that you inherit the spirit of Gandhi.”

Grading an LCTL student

  

Kantha, a young woman from India, wife of a geography lecturer, Murthy, and a mother of a 3-year-old boy, landed a job as a Telugu teacher in a midwestern university. She was not looking for a job. The job fell into her lap, literally.

 

A couple of decades ago, the U.S. government had realized the need for Americans to learn the languages of other countries, especially the countries in which they had vested interest. And India was one of those countries, and Telugu was one of those languages, which eventually had come to be known as Less Commonly Taught Languages. Telugu actually could be labeled as Even Less Commonly Taught Language. It did not make it to the top twenty among the Less Commonly Taught Languages.

 

Anyway, the American government offered funding for the foreign language education. Numerous colleges and universties jumped on the bandwagon, scrambling for a native speaker who would be willing to put in his/her two-cents worth to promote an LCTL. In that period, Dr. John Hastings, Associate Professor of Religious studies in a midwestern university was asked to teach Telugu. John was in Andhra Pradesh in his childhood and had learned the script. His resume said so. The Chair suggested John teach elementary Telugu and John agreed.

 

That was twenty years ago. Dr. John Hastings was up for tenure now. He told the Chair that he was writing a book, hard-pressed for time, and so, would prefer a teaching assistant share his responsibility of teaching Telugu.

 

“Well, we don’t have funds for a T.A. position. Maybe, a student can help you. Know anyone who knows the language?” the Chair asked him.

 

Thus, it turned out to be John’s job to find an assistant. The geography lecturer Dr. Murthy came to his mind. That afternoon he found Murthy in the faculty lounge sipping coffee.

 

John said hi to Murthy, sat down next to him, waiting for the right moment to broach the subject, and the right moment came soon enough. “Didn’t you say your wife has a master’s degree? No job yet, as I recall,” he said.

 

Murthy was confused. He’d never said anything about his wife looking for a job. 

 

“Yes, she has a master’s degree in economics, and no, she is not working,” Murthy said.

 

“I’ve an idea. We’re looking for an assistant to teach Telugu,” John said, looking sideways.

“My wife never taught Telugu. She used to work in customer service for a bank in my hometown.”

 

“Well, she is a native speaker. I’m sure she knows the alphabet, doesn’t she? Knows how to read and write, right?” John said.

 

“Let me talk to her,” Murthy said, still unclear where this was going.

 

“Think about it, don’t take too long though. The Chair’s pushing to outsource the position,” he added with a smile, “The pay isn’t much, but more than what she was making as a bank rep, I suppose.” 

 

Murthy was hurt by the last remark but kept quiet. John reminded him one more time to get back to him soon and left.

*

Kantha threw in dirty clothes in the washer, turned it on, and returned to the family room. She was reading a Telugu novel when Murthy walked in. She folded the corner of the page she had just finished and got up to bring coffee for her husband.

 

“Where’s Kittu?” Murthy asked, rolling his eyes around.   

 

“Janet was going to the park with her kid. She took Kittu also with her.”

 

Murthy looked at Kantha, sipping coffee. He was a bit hesitant to open the subject.

 

“What?” she asked. Instinctively she knew he wanted to say something.

 

“Nothing,” he said quickly. After a few seconds, he added slowly, “You remember John? We met him and his wife at the Christmas party last year.”

 

“Yes. Why?”

 

“Well, he says they’re looking for an assistant to teach Telugu.”

 

“So?”

 

“He says you can have the job if you want.” He stressed the last part.

 

Kantha was surprised. “You know I am not looking for a job. Besides, I don’t have a degree in Telugu literature. You know that too,” she said, staring at her husband.

 

“I’m not saying you’ve to take it. He suggested it, I didn’t tell him you’re looking for a job. I’m simply conveying the message. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

 

He smiled. Kantha laughed.

“Think about it. It’s not like you’ve to be there 8 to 5 pouring over a pile of files. You go to the class, teach and go home. You may have to have some office hours but you don’t have to be there for preparation. You can prepare at home and the preparation time counts too. Plus, that may serve as a break from your housework.”

 

Kantha did not say it alound, he wants me to take this job?

 

Murthy added almost like an afterthought, “It may not be much but the money is still money. It’s more than what you used to make as a bank rep.”

 

That was a slap in the face. She rejoined quickly, “How could you …?”

 

Before she finished the sentence, Murthy cut in. He knew he misspoke. “I didn’t mean it that way. I was simply stating what John had said,” he said quickly.

 

“Still you know, with the money I was making as a bank rep, I could afford a maid, a dobi, and save a little for the rainy days too.”

 

The debate continued for another hour or so. In the end however Kantha agreed to give it a try. Thus, Kantha had entered the job force.

*

Kantha started teaching Telugu, and found soon enough that it was anything but a breeze, it was more like a three-ring circus or a dog walking on his hind legs. The entire education set up and the attitude of the students were so different from what she had grown up with.

 

She received her first lesson in the first week itself.

 

The class consisted of three students – two of Indian origin and one American. Anita,one of the two Indian students, was born in the U.S. and picked up a few Telugu phrases from her grandma, who visited them every other year.

 

The second student, Phon, was originally from India. He was adopted by Mary Hawk, when he was eight-years old. Mary was vacationing in India and had met Phon at the hotel where she had stayed. Back then he was known as Premkumar. He was not an employee of the hotel but hung around, offering help to the hotel customers. One day he offered Mary to show her the temple. Something struck a chord in her, and a year and half later, and after overcoming several bureaucratic hurdles, Mary succeeded in bringing him to the States. Phon had a hard time adjusting to the new culture and the new environment.

 

The third student, a nonheritage student, Julie came from Chicago. She said she had several Telugu friends.

 

“Does that mean you know some Telugu?” Kantha asked.

 

“Oh, no. I never heard them speak Telugu. In fact, they all speak very good English,” Julie replied with a wry smile. Nevertheless, she seemed to be the only student who was aware of the process of learning a foreign language. She stayed on course dutifully.

 

In all, all the three needed to learn the structure of the language. But the heritage speakers could pick up the skills faster, understandably.

*

Kantha started with the alphabet and pronunciation. Gave them a few words and told them to copy down until they got them on their fingertips, literally; that was their homework. She insisted on the importance of memorization in learning the language.

 

“It is like swimming. When you are thrown into a lake, you don’t have the time to check the handbook. You will just flap your arms and legs and get to the shore anyway you can. If you want to have a good conversation with a native speaker, you don’t walk around with a couple of dictionaries and keep checking each time you need to say a word. The words must be on the tip of your tongue, I mean literally.”

 

Anita disagreed. “No, Kantha, memorization is dated. In fact, that is the reason, all these Asian countries are lagging behind. They still believe in the dated tradition of learning by rote; they hang on to a handful of tumbledown textbooks they’ve had for centuries. You know what is our strength here in America? Our strength lies in identifying the sources and putting them to work. That’s what managing intelligence is about; using the brains,” she said, touching her temples with her index finger.

 

Kantha was stunned at the way Anita uttered our. Kantha grew up with a different set of values and traditions. In her country, they never called the teacher by name, nor told the teacher what should be taught, much less how it should be taught. In her tradition, the teachers possessed the knowledge; the rule in the class was to listen, do the assigned work and ask the questions later, much much later.

 

Kantha took a few seconds to respond. She said, “You’re right about learning in general. But then, there are also skills which require mastering them to use effectively. And language learning is one of them.”

 

Anita was not convinced. “I don’t care. I’ll make enough money to have a resident translator wait on me hand and foot, if need be. All I need is a C and I am done with this second language requirement.”

*

It became a tug of war ever since Anita told Kantha that a C was enough for her.

 

“Did you do the homework?”

 

“Yeah!” she would hand in the paper.

 

“I said ten sentences. You wrote only two.”

 

“No time. I have social life, you know.”

*

“Where is your homework?”

 

“Sorry, I had to take care of my friend’s dog.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“She was sick. I took her to the vet.”
           

“Why didn’t your friend take her to the vet himself?”

 

“He had Chemistry class.”

 

Kantha wondered if her next line would be dog ate my homework.

*

“Did you write the past tense forms?”

 

“I will, tomorrow.”

*

 

“This is not what I asked. I asked you to write a few sentences using the vocabulary given in the class yesterday.”

 

“I couldn’t think of any. So, I thought if I threw a curve …”

 

And then, came another twist. “I will be the only student next semester. There is plenty of time to get this stuff,” she said, watching Phon through the corner of her eye. Phon snickered. It started to look like they two were having a private session of their own in the class.

 

“I am paying,” Anita said on another occasion. It is like she was out-Americaning Americans!

 

Kantha was annoyed as she understood what those three words meant. Anita could choose not to register, and then there would be no class, meaning no job for Kantha. She collected herself and remained calm for the moment but her patience was wearing off. She tried to explain that Anita must learn the basics; understanding the structure is the first step. On another occasion, she had one of her Indian friends write the story for her and showed it to Kantha as her own. Once again Kantha explained to her that it was plagiarism and unacceptable. Anita could get an F, it was reported.  

*

Kantha told Murthy about Anita’s attitude in class. Murthy dismissed it lightly at first. Kantha was persistent, she was committed to getting results. And results was not the thing Anita had in mind. Well, maybe she did but not on the same lines as Kantha. Finally, Murthy said, “You are the teacher. Tell her she must stick to the course content.”

Kantha struggled to explain to him that she tried and it was not working, and that Anita’s attitude was getting out of hand. Then, one more revelation.

 

“Look, Kantha, you must understand that you are in America. Things are different here, the system is different. You can’t act like you were teaching a class back home in our village. The reality is Anita just needs to get through the second language requirement. I know she will not behave same way in her biology class or math class. The students set their priorities. Don’t take it personally.”

*

It was time for the mid-term exam. Kantha told them the test would be on the two lessons covered during that week. The quiz included ten questions. As always, Anita had to say something. She wanted to make it open book.

 

“All right,” Kantha consented.

 

All the three students opened their books. Anita opened the wrong lesson, apparently she was not listening when Kantha made the announcement. Kantha walked up to her and pointed to the correct lessons.

*

At night, after dinner, Kantha sat down with the tests. Clearly Anita was hellbent on getting a C. She was so careless in her performance. She wrote the English equivalents even for the Telugu words, which she could have easily copied from the question. Probably, she was making a point, or, may be, copying was not her strong suit. Either way Kantha was not pleased.

*

For Phon, it had been always a struggle ever since he had arrived in this country. He had no friends in school to talk to; nobody spoke the only language he had known all this life. The other children were teasing him for his accent, for the way he ate and the clothes he wore, which were made in Taiwan and bought from a local Wal-Mart store.

 

“Did your dad make them?” children would tease him.

 

“I am not from Taiwan,” he would say, steaming inside. 

 

He could not take it anymore, and ran away from home. Luckily, Mary found him sleeping on a park bench, a few miles away and brought him back. Thenceforth, she worked harder to make him feel at home. Taught him a few things about survival in this country – he must stand up for himself, must not let others step on his toes, he is as smart as the next, must never think less of himself, never let others think less of him, success means beating others at their own game and getting ahead.

 

His little brain processed the advice in his own uncouth way and he formed his own attitude. Eventually, he had grown into a sneaky little brat without ever being caught in the act. His slight build, baby face and his mischief-mongering eyes had been helpful in he wiggling out of any sticky situation.

*

Kantha noticed that Phon possessed average vocabulary, his oral skills were above average but his writing and reading skills needed lot of work, and he was not inclined to put in that. On the other hand, he resorted to other sneaky means.

 

“You are beautiful,” he said one day.

 

The next day he brought cookies, and flowers on the following day. Yet another day, he asked her, “Will you go to the movies with me?” Then he said he wished that she taught all his Telugu classes. It was awkward for Kantha, and becoming increasingly so as the days passed by.

 

And then came another surprise.

 

That night, Murthy came home late. Kantha’s done cooking and waiting for him. He looked slightly distraught.

 

“Something wrong?” she asked him casually.

 

“No, nothing wrong,” he said, but his tone said otherwise.

 

“What’s wrong?” she asked him again.

 

“Nothing. Don’t worry,” he said, and after a few seconds, added, “Students say things sometimes out of frustration.”

 

“What students? What’re you talking about?”

 

“I’m telling you, nothing wrong. Sometimes students take out their frustration on teachers. I see it all the time.”

 

“Will you stop tap-dancing and tell me who said what?”

 

“Did you make any denigrating comments about John’s teaching in class?” Murthy asked her straight.

 

“What?” Kantha was shocked, “Who said that? Of course not, I did no such thing. Why would I say anything about any teacher for that matter? Who said that, anyway?”

 

“Apparently, somebody told him that you have said something belittling about his teaching.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like who taught you this gibberish or something like that … I don’t know. John didn’t give me any details, just said it’s inappropriate to comment on other teachers in front of students.”

 

“That is a big lie.”

 

“That’s okay. Just don’t refer to other teachers in class.”

 

“I did no such thing most certainly,” Kantha said, stressing each word clearly. She was perplexed. Whoever could have spread such lies and why?

 

Kantha wondered if it was Anita but she knew there is nothing she could do about it.

*

From Phon’s perspective, learning Telugu was a totally different story. With this Telugu class, he was reminded of his childhood days. Phon never spoke two sentences without referring to mothers and sisters. That is what he had picked up on Vijayawada streets. Now this lady was teaching him the language of the polite society, which was very frustrating to him. So called standard Telugu or colloquial Telugu Kantha was pushing down his throat was just trash for all he cared. In his mind, he already knew to speak the language. “That’s all what matters,” he said to Kantha.

 

“So, why are you taking this class?” Kantha asked patiently.

 

Phon shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t know. Thought it would be fun, maybe.” The truth is it was not his idea. Mary wanted him to study Telugu; she wanted him to keep in touch with his roots.

 

Kantha did not venture the next question.

 

As for the homework, the two phrases - teleedu (I don’t know) or raayaledu (I didn’t write) became his favorite responses. Kantha found another way to make them do their homework. Make work right there in class.

 

Phon sat in his chair laying back, chewing gum and with his legs stretched out. After a few minutes, she asked him if he had finished the exercise.

 

“raayaledu,” he replied in Telugu.

 

“Why?”

 

“teleedu“

 

“What is it you did not know?”

 

“Meanings for these words here,” he pointed out.

 

Kantha walked up to him, and put her index finger on the list of the new words noted at the end of  the exercise.

 

“Oh,” Phon stared at the page for a few seconds and said “What about this?” pointing to a word that was not on the list.

 

Kantha said that it was given the previous week. “You could have looked it up in the dictionary,” she added.

 

Recently, Phon was spending his time in the class either jotting down notes or referring to the dictionaries he had borrowed from the library. Kantha was not sure if he was taking notes. One day she asked him a question and found out that he could not explain his own notes. Kantha tried to tell him that he was missing what was being taught in the class while he was busy with his own private session as it were.

 

“John told us to refer to the dictionary,” Phon said.

 

Kantha took a few seconds and said, “Yes, that is true. However, the purpose of this class is to equip you with the tools necessary to enable you to read the texts by yourself. You do need to understand the structure – separating a word and identifying the root form of a verb – to be able to refer to the dictionary. Therefore, it is important to pay attention to the explanations in class. That helps you to be able to use the dictionary at home.”

 

“Whatever,” Phon mumbled.

 

Kantha clinched her teeth without showing it. 

*

Kantha sat down to grade the final exam papers. There was one paper jumping at her – it was Phon’s. First she put a check next to each mistake, and then, went back, and started writing down the correct answer – two to three mistakes per line! Unbelievable. Was Phon being idiotic on purpose? Wanted to show that he was  incharge?

 

She knew he was better than that. If an outside examiner were to evaluate that paper, Phon would get a C for that performance. Kantha kept thinking: If I take his homework into consideration, he will get a BC; if I take his grammar and attitude into consideration, he gets a BC, but with his vocabulary and performance on a few occasions in class, he deserveds a B or even an AB …

 

Kantha shut her eyes and started weighing all the factors up for consideration – the student’s attitude factor, his needs factor, her job factor, her husband’s position factor, the professor’s goodwill factor, the department’s prestige factor, the bell curve factor, her income factor, and the last but not the least, the enrollment factor, …

 

Suddenly she was jolted into the present by her son’s bubbly voice. “Mommy, see, A, B, …” He was babbling gleefully for all the show of his expertise in scribbling the alphabet.

 

Kantha jumped to her feet, screaming, “Oh, no, no,” and snatched away the pencil from his tiny grip before he could scribble a C as well. 

She stared at his scribbling, A and B, for a second. An impish smile spread on her lips. “Good job, my boy, you resolved it for me.”       

 

                                                            ***                 

 

 

 

(©Malathi Nidadavolu. Originally published in www.museindia.com, June 2007)   

A Shell With a Hole

(A young boy may see parallels between a flawed seashell and himself; the seashell could also be symbolic
of something beautiful, and even possess a value of its own, considering the fact that it did catch his eye.)

                                                                       *


Muthyam was dawdling along the beach. He was a fifteen-year old young man. Two years back,
Muthyam fell ill and lost his voice.

His older brother, Giri, a software engineer in a mid-size firm, offered to get him medical help. He had
promised to have the surgery on his vocal chords done in the States. That was a year ago.
Muthyam was walking slowly, with his eyes down, as if he was searching for something in the sands. He
stopped suddenly. There, right at his feet was a shell lying in the sands, belly up like two crescent moons
holding a tiny dark marble fondly, or, rather like sunbathing or studying the skies. Muthyam stopped; his
eyes squinted. The sunrays bounced back from the shell and added a new halo to it.

After a few seconds, he bent down slowly and picked it up; held it up and noticed a hole at the center; he
could see the glimmering sands through the hole. The sands, the waters, the vast expanse of the open sky
reminded him of his home in his village. That was the reason he would go to the beach often. Today, he
was here for the same reason. But he had never found a shell this big and this beautiful and also with a
blemish. He closed his fingers around the shell tight, looked up, mustered all his might and threw it into the
waters. The shell fell into the water with a splash and headed to the bottom quickly. He stood there staring
at the spot where the shell had fallen. In his village, he used to throw small flat stones into the water and
they would hop on the ripples a couple of times and then drown. This shell did not jump; it just drowned.
He returned home. His little nephew Bobby drew the chart for the ‘tiger and the goat’ game on a tarpaulin
sheet and was waiting for him. Muthyam had taught him that game soon after he had arrived here. For
Bobby it was fun to create the board game on a tarpaulin sheet; it was lot more fun than running to the
store and buying one.

Muthyam was about to sit down.

“Muthyam, come here for a second. Get me some curry leaves,” Vanaja called from the kitchen. Muthyam
turned around to go to the kitchen. Bobby clutched his hand and pulled him down. They both knew only
too well that whenever his sister-in-law called out for him, it was not going to be just for a second. But
there was nothing Muthyam could do about it. He gently pulled his hand out of Bobby’s clutch and went
into the kitchen.

Bobby pouted, kicked away the tarpaulin sheet and went away to ride his bike.

Vanaja was busy in the kitchen, organizing the items on the counter. They were expecting guests. Two
weeks back, Giri’s English teacher in college, Sekharam, called Giri and told him that he (Sekharam) was
taking his parents in his minivan and showing places. Their first stop would be Giri’s house, a four-hour
drive from his town. That would be this afternoon. Vanaja got busy cooking for the guests.

Muthyam came in with curry leaves, washed them and put them on the counter. Then he started washing
the dishes in the sink.

It was past noon. Giri’s office was not too far from his home. Normally he would not come home for
lunch but today he made an exception in honor of the expected guests. He was about to open the door;
Sekharam’s car pulled into the driveway.

Giri turned around and greeted them with a big smile. Sekharam got out of the driver’s seat, and opened
the door for his father Somayya and mother Kotamma. Vanaja was standing at the door with a smile. She
had never met them but heard Giri mention something about them.
After they all got out of the car and exchanged civilities, Sekharam walked back to the car and started
unloading the suitcases.

“Oh, no. Don’t worry about the luggage. I’ll get them,” Giri said, without budging from the spot. He did
not mean exactly he would when he said “I will”. Muthyam knew that only too well. He quickly moved
forward and took the luggage from Sekharam. Sekharam felt a little uncomfortable but let go of the
suitcases anyway, and followed Giri into the living room.

Muthyam carried all the six suitcases to the guestroom upstairs and went into the kitchen. He returned
with coffee and served to the guests. Giri noticed that Somayya was watching the boy curiously and felt a
little embarrassed. He said to Muthyam, “Come on, sit down. Where is your coffee?”

Muthyam did not sit down. He motioned toward the kitchen and went away. Kotamma followed him into
the kitchen. “Can I help?” she asked Vanaja.

“There isn’t much to do, nothing really,” she replied, sounding casual. She gave Muthyam two eggplants
and a knife to cut.

Kotamma stood there watching them; she was trying to make a conversation. She said, “It’s strange, I
mean, the life nowadays. Sometimes it feels like four generations have gone by just in the past one decade.
In my childhood, take any household, it would be teeming with uncles, aunts and cousins, a dozen at the
least, not counting the constant influx of guests, that is. A regular traveler’s bungalow, if you ask me. We
women were always busy with something or other; no one telling the other ‘do this or do that.’ My
grandfather had never sat down to eat, unless there was a guest next to him, you know.”

Vanaja was listening to the lady with chuckles. She was used to this kind of rambling. Almost always, the
visitors from India have only two things to talk about—either the vanishing traditions in India or the
astonishing happiness in America.

In the living room, Sekharam, Somayya and Giri also were also engaged in a conversation on similar lines.
Muthyam had heard them all; there was no expression on his face. He gave the cut vegetables to Vanaja,
and returned to the dishes in the sink.

Somayya stood up, as if he was looking for something.

“What? Want something?” Giri asked anxiously.

Somayya replied, “Just water. You stay, I will get it myself,” he said.

“No, no. You stay. I will get it,” he said, and called out for Muthyam.

Muthyam brought a glass of water and gave it to Somayya, and sat down next to Bobby to help him with
his homework.

Kotamma could not help noticing. She said, “You’ve found a good boy. Nowadays, we can’t find
domestic help even in our villages; nobody wants to work hard anymore.”

Vanaja cringed as if a splash of water hit her face; she was fidgety. “Oh, no, madam. He is not a domestic
help; that’s my brother-n-law, Giri’s little brother. He fell sick two years back and lost his voice. We
brought him to have the surgery done here,” she said quickly, anxious to set the record straight.

Kotamma was even more curious now. “So, what happened? It did not work?”

Vanaja was annoyed. Why do I have to explain to this lady, a total stranger! She’s not my cousin, on
mom’s or dad’s side!

Yet, she had to be civil; she must explain. “We’re working on it. First, it took six months to find a good
doctor; and then, been through two rounds of tests. Before we could set a date for surgery, other things
had come up—like my sister’s marriage. Father said the groom’s family did not ask for dowry—you
would think that’s a blessing. But, oh no. They wanted so many other things—a very long list of items—
gifts for his mother, sisters, and grandma, a scooter for himself and what not. Father suggested I should
do something about it. Had I said I was in no position to offer help, I would be the bad daughter, right? By
the time we were done with it, here the home repairs came up. We craved for a home on the lakefront; we
grew up on the riverside, you know. Anyway, last spring, the rains nearly dredged up the foundation; four
inches of rain outside, and the basement was flooded. It cost us an arm and a leg to fix it. Both Giri and I
are sincerely hoping to have the surgery scheduled coming summer.”

Kotamma was confused, what’s she talking about? Just the last line would’ve been sufficient!
In the next room, Giri was talking; he sounded more like a politician on the eve of Election Day, “I don’t
know, Saar, I don’t understand this society at all. People here say time is money, which is really hogwash.
In truth, they put value only on their own money. We can put sweat and toil all we can, yet we cannot
please them; they want us to work twice as hard for half the pay. And then, what is worse, they still act
like they’re doing us a favor.”

“Well, Giri, market value is different from the intrinsic worth,” Somayya said complacently. He
understood that one simple truth, the gist of his experiences: People are not interested in one’s abilities;
they’re concerned only with that part of one’s capabilities they could use. Each employer puts a value only
on the amount of capabilities he could use to his own benefit; he will not consider it as evaluating the other
person’s total worth.

Vanaja came in to announce that lunch has been served.

Muthyam set the plates and glasses of water. Giri sat at the head of the table and Vanaja across from him.
Kotamma and Bobby sat on either side of her. Muthyam sat next to Bobby. Sekharam and Somayya sat on
either side of Giri.

Giri resumed his speech on the principles of economics in the world’s richest country. “Our folks in India
think here we are making lots of money, hefty dollars,—fifty rupees per dollar, you know. But, as the
saying goes, dollars don’t grow on trees. They have no idea how hard we sweat to make those dollars.
Come to think of it, my entire property, land and all, was washed up clean, by the time I was done with
my education. Mother got by barely. I’ve got to understand the value of labor only after I’d started out on
the job here, to be frank. I put my heart and soul into this, a job in the number one country in the world.
Now I know. I am working thirty hours a day; holding my heart in my fist; constantly worried who might
complain about what? scared about the company shutting down, I getting the pink slip; the worries are
endless. The fear is always hanging over my head eternally.”

Somayya nodded sympathetically.

“You can’t live in fear forever. Pull yourself together,” Sekharam said as if he was obliged to say
something.

Giri was still stuck on his own line of thinking, “A friend of mine in my office was saying the same thing.
He nearly broke into tears as he talked about his predicament. He said his uncle had given some ten
thousand rupees to his mother, probably long before he was born; he had sent the money back to his uncle
god knows how many times. But the uncle obviously had been asking him for the money over and again.
He commented ruefully that that account would never get settled until one of them was dead.” Giri broke
into a big laughter.

Funny how someone else’s miseries of others make the best material for laughter for some people.

“Watch the time,” Vanaja alerted him.

Giri looked at his watch and jumped to his feet, “Oh no. I have to go. Please, don’t rush on my account.
Eat well and rest for a while. We can go around in the evening.”

In the evening, Giri came late. Sekharam and his parents went out briefly. The long drive was tiresome for
the older couple. So, Sekharam returned home early. They all gathered in the living room. Vanaja put a
Telugu movie.

They heard the door open and turned around. “Hi, dad,” said Bobby.

They looked at Giri and were silent; nobody knew what to say. Something was very wrong. It was writ
large on his face. Giri looked as if he had not eaten for six months.

“What’s wrong? Are you sick?” Vanaja was the first to speak.

Giri shook his head limply and went into the bedroom. His wife followed him. After ten minutes, they both
returned to the living room. Giri got the pink slip that afternoon.

Sekharam said he was sorry. Somayya showed his sympathy in his face. Kotamma was not sure what to
say.

Giri gave them the details. The company had been planning a major reorganization to improve the
production quality. They decided to bring in a young man, fresh from Yale, in his place. No, Giri was not
laid off. They offered him a job in a different department, but it was not suitable for his qualifications.
They even gave him a week’s time to think about it and get back to them. The management assured him
that there was always room for growth.

“That’s good; isn’t it? I mean some job instead of no job,” Kotamma said.

Giri turned to Somayya and said, “Saar, we were talking about this yesterday. You tell me. How do people
measure the competence of a person?” He spoke very softly; the insolence of yesterday was
conspicuously absent in his tone today.

Sekharam said persuasively, “Giri, each person has a different yardstick. Possibly, you two are looking at
two different things; your qualifications could be excellent, yet a mismatch for their requirements. They
would put the same value on their dollar as you would on yours. I’m sure you can see the difference
between the two perspectives”

No, Giri did not see the difference; he could not. He was not to be blamed either. That was not the kind of
difference that was taught at schools. No textbook discussed such things.

Giri grit his teeth, without his teacher not noticing it.

Sekharam and his parents decided to leave first thing in the morning.
“Why change of plans? You don’t have to leave so soon. We still can feed you,” Giri said, smiling vaguely.

“No, no; don’t get us wrong,” Sekharam protested quickly, “Mother and father are tired already. They are
not used to this kind of long drives you know. So, I thought, if we start early enough, we will be in the
twin cities by noon. Gives them more time to relax.”

“Have breakfast at least before you leave.”

They sat down at the dining table, and kept fumbling with their knives and forks quietly. Nobody had
anything to say. Giri could not take it anymore, even if it meant showing he was desperate. He turned to
the most revered man in the room and asked feebly, “Saar, what do you suggest?”

Somayya was not his ‘Saar’; he had never been his teacher, yet, he was equal to a teacher. Giri was
grasping at straws. It did not occur to him that he was asking the wrong person. Somayya was just about
as much befuddled by the local practices.

He spoke softly, “Look, Giri, I don’t know whether you would or should take that second job or not. Let
me tell you what I’ve noticed in the past few days I’ve been here. All I see nowadays is that everybody is
constantly searching for ways to grab the most for himself; it’s the same here or back home. . Yesterday I
said the market value is different from the intrinsic worth of a product. Let’s say, in your resume you
mentioned that you possessed remarkable knowledge of Carnatic music. You’ll try to convince your
employer that you could make your presentation music to the ears of your clients. If your prospective
employer were also a music buff, he could be persuaded of your argument. Otherwise, he might dismiss it
as a totally useless skill for the job on hand. What I’m trying to say is the employer will put a value on only
that part of your capabilities which he could utilize. You on the other hand are weighing up your worth,
based on your needs and capabilities as you know them. Almost all the smart folks know this simple truth
but nobody acknowledges it. Why? That is what I could not figure out.”

Giri could not understand Saar’s argument. He did not get the answer he was looking for.

Muthyam went upstairs, brought all the six suitcases and loaded the minivan.

Somayya watched him and wondered if there was anything he could do for this boy. Suddenly, he walked
up to Muthyam, took his hand and shoved a green bill in his palm. Muthyam tried to refuse the money; he
pulled back his hand. Somayya closed the boy’s fist, patted on his shoulder gently and went to the van.

Giri and Vanaja waited until the car pulled out of their driveway and then went in.

Muthyam stood there motionless scrunching up the paper in his fist. His heart was writhing like a
rattlesnake. His mother’s words came to his mind: Open the fist and the magic is gone. The magic stays
only as long as the fist was closed.

Bobby tugged at his sleeve and asked again, “What is it?”

Muthyam’s eyes bounced back and forth on his fist and Bobby. What good this piece of paper would do
under the circumstances he was caught up?

“Show it. Show it to me,” Bobby was asking.

Muthyam’s five fingers opened up slowly like lotus petals at dawn. In the next moment, a breeze came
blowing and swept away the currency from his palm.
He thought about the shell he had tossed away yesterday. It needed a little effort on his part to toss it out;
this green bill was not worth even that broken shell.


(Copyrighted by Malathi Nidadavolu. Published on www.writegallery.com (2004)