10
That whole lovely evening I didn’t think about school at all. I sprinted barefoot across the lawns with my favorite playmate, the cook’s son, to the stream at the end of the garden. We quarreled in our usual way, waded in the tepid water under the lime trees, and waited for the night to bring out the smell of the
jasmine. I listened with fascination to his stories of ghosts and demons, until I was too frightened to cross the garden alone in the semidarkness. The ayah found me, shouted at the cook’s son, scolded me, hurried me in to supper—it was an entirely usual, wonderful evening.
It was a week later, the day of Premila’s first test, that our lives changed rather abruptly. I was sitting at the back of my class, in my usual inattentive way, only half listening to the teacher. I had started a rather guarded friendship with the girl with the braids, whose name turned out to be Nalini (Nancy in school). The three other Indian children were already fast friends. Even at that age, it was apparent to all of us that friendship with the English or Anglo-Indian children was out of the question. Occasionally, during the class, my new friend and I would draw pictures and show them to each other secretly.
11
The door opened sharply and Premila marched in. At first, the teacher smiled at her in a kindly and encouraging way and said, “Now, you’re little Cynthia’s sister?”
Premila didn’t even look at her. She stood with her feet planted firmly apart and her shoulders rigid and addressed herself directly to me. “Get up,” she said. “We’re going home.”
I didn’t know what had happened, but I was aware that it was a crisis of some sort. I rose obediently and started to walk toward my sister.
“Bring your pencils and your notebook,” she said.
I went back for them, and together we left the room. The teacher started to say something just as Premila closed the door, but we didn’t wait to hear what it was.
In complete silence we left the school grounds and started to walk home. Then I asked Premila what the matter was. All she would say was, “We’re going home for good.”
12
It was a very tiring walk for a child of five and a half, and I dragged along behind Premila with my pencils growing sticky in my hand. I can still remember looking at the dusty hedges and the tangles of thorns in the ditches by the side of the road, smelling the faint fragrance from the eucalyptus trees, and wondering whether we would ever reach home. Occasionally a horse-drawn tonga11 passed us, and the women, in their pink or green silks, stared at Premila and me trudging along on the side of the road. A few coolies12 and a line of women carrying baskets of vegetables on their heads smiled at us. But it was nearing the hottest time of day, and the road was almost deserted. I walked more and more slowly, and shouted to Premila, from time to time, “Wait for me!” with increasing peevishness. She spoke to me only once, and that was to tell me to carry my notebook on my head, because of the sun.
When we got to our house, the ayah was just taking a tray of lunch into Mother’s room. She immediately started a long, worried questioning about what are you children doing back here at this hour of the day.
Mother looked very startled and very concerned and asked Premila what had happened.
13
Premila said, “We had our test today, and She made me and the other Indians sit at the back of the room, with a desk between each one.”
Mother said, “Why was that, darling?”
“She said it was because Indians cheat,” Premila added. “So I don’t think we should go back to that school.”
Mother looked very distant and was silent a long time. At last she said, “Of course not, darling.” She sounded displeased.
We all shared the curry she was having for lunch, and afterward I was sent off to the beautifully familiar bedroom for my siesta. I could hear Mother and Premila talking through the open door.
Mother said, “Do you suppose she understood all that?”
Premila said, “I shouldn’t think so. She’s a baby.”
Mother said, “Well, I hope it won’t bother her.”
Of course, they were both wrong. I understood it perfectly, and I remember it all very clearly. But I put it happily away, because it had all happened to a girl called Cynthia, and I never was really particularly interested in her.