Flame Tree Road. Shona PatelЧитать онлайн книгу.
and knee-length socks walk alongside was a dead giveaway.
“Why?” said Samir in a high-pitched whine. “Why don’t you want to walk with me? Why don’t you want to be my friend?”
Biren stopped in his tracks, almost causing the palanquin bearers to bump into him. “Because I don’t,” he said fiercely. “I don’t want to walk with you. I want you to stay two boat lengths behind me, do you understand?”
One of the palanquin bearers gave a snort, which made Samir fly into a rage. He looked like a miniversion of his mother. “Shut up, stupid donkey!” he yelled, kicking a small puff of dust with his shiny black shoe. “And you donkeys stay two boat lengths behind me, do you understand?”
And so the strange procession continued, Biren marching briskly ahead, followed by Sammy, two boat lengths behind, rounded up by the miserable palanquin bearers, for whom the lethargic pace was sheer torture.
* * *
When they reached the house, Sammy was hobbling and in tears. He removed his shoes to reveal two small, round blisters sprouted like batashas on his heels.
Shibani shush-shushed sympathetically, sat him on her lap, wiped his tears with the end of her sari and made him soak his feet in cool rose water. Just to see Samir with his fat tears wobbling on his chin and being fussed over by Shibani filled Biren with intense disgust. Even three-year-old Nitin had grown past such infantile behavior.
Shibani went into the kitchen to prepare fresh limewater.
“Your mother is so beautiful,” Samir said in a mellifluous voice. He twirled his pink toes in the basin. “I want to marry someone just like her.”
Biren went insane. “Well, you can’t!” he said fiercely. “She is already married to my father and she will be married to my father for the rest of her life!”
Nitin, who was splashing his hands in the foot basin, looked up with big, scared eyes. He had never seen his brother so angry.
Sammy tilted back his head to admire his toes. “I had an aunt once,” he said conversationally. He splashed a little water at Nitin, who darted away with a shriek, then tiptoed back to be splashed some more. “She used to be so beautiful. She had long black hair like your mother. Then my uncle died and she became very ugly. Nobody goes near her or talks to her anymore. Now she lives with the goats in the back of the house.”
“Who is it, Biren mia? Do we have a visitor?” Grandpa, woken up from his nap, called in a cracked sleepy voice from his room. “Bring him to me. Let me see who this is. Oh, my, my, what a fair and handsome fellow! What is your name, young man?”
Samir puffed out his chest. “My name is Samir Kumar Deb. I was born in Calcutta and I have been to London twice,” he said loudly. His eyes drifted lazily across the room, taking in Granny’s faded saris lumped over the clotheshorse and Grandpa’s lopsided clogs, the toes facing in opposite directions.
“London!” cried Grandpa, clapping his hands. “Imagine that! Tell me, mia, was it terribly cold? Lots of ice and snow?”
Biren left Samir sitting on Grandpa’s bed telling him all about Big Ben. Even Nitin fingered the fringe of the bedspread and listened with his mouth open. Biren was sick to his stomach. Samir enchanted the whole family. He made Shibani giggle by telling her she was beautiful like a goddess. Granny told them the story of Surparnarekha, the ugly she-demon with her sliced-off nose and used a candle flame to create shadow puppets. Grandpa, not to be outdone, pulled a cowrie out of Samir’s ear and offered it to him.
“No, thank you,” Samir declined politely.
“I’ll take it!” chirped Nitin, holding out his small hand. But Grandpa’s eyes wandered slyly and he put the cowrie away.
When Father came home, he cut a papaya and Biren was secretly pleased to see the wonder on Samir’s face. When Shamol handed him a slice, he wolfed it down wordlessly even before the others had taken a bite of theirs.
“I want some more,” he said, eyeing the remaining slices on the brass platter.
Biren opened his mouth to say everyone only got one piece each, when Shamol quickly cut up his own slice into equal portions and offered it to the boys.
“Here’s another small piece,” he said. “Today everybody gets a little extra.”
* * *
When it came time for homework, Shamol followed exactly the same routine as other days, not doing any more or any less than usual. Nitin stuck his tongue out and laboriously fashioned a capital A, only to be distracted by Samir making funny faces at him. Nitin broke into a squealy giggle and covered his mouth with his hands.
Shamol looked up from his book. “Boys,” he admonished them gently.
“I don’t need to do this sum,” Sammy announced, throwing down his pencil. “This is too easy. I already know the answer.”
“Is that so?” said Shamol mildly. “Perhaps you can show me how to do it, then.” He turned to Biren, who was standing beside him with a smug look on his face. “What is it, Biren, are you finished? Let me see. All right, you may put your things away and leave the room. And you, too, Nitin. Very good. Now, Samir is going to help me solve this tricky sum.”
Biren knew why Nitin and he were being sent out of the room. His father wanted to spare Samir the embarrassment of looking ignorant in front of others. Shamol Roy in his own quiet way instilled in his students a deep love of learning. He guarded their private struggles and brandished their victories to all. He was, after all, a born and gifted teacher.
* * *
The palanquin bearers slept peacefully under the mango tree. The shadows had lengthened in the bamboo grove and it was already time for evening puja by the time Samir was done. Shibani lovingly bandaged his feet in soft mulmul strips cut from her old saris and kissed the top of his head before sending him on his way. Biren sighed with relief to see the palanquin swing off at a brisk pace and disappear down the bend in the road. He had secretly begun to worry Samir would end up staying the night or, worse still, be adopted by the family and they would be stuck with him for the rest of their lives.
* * *
Six months later, Samir left for boarding school. Biren received a postcard with a beautiful photo of the marble domed Victoria Memorial of Calcutta.
Dear Biren Roy,
This is the Victoria Mangorial.
It is very fine.
I am very fine.
I hope you are fine, also.
Very truly yours,
Samir Kumar Deb
It was Shibani’s hair-washing day. Her jet-black hair, a whole yard and a half long, tumbled in tresses down to an old sari spread on the ground for the purpose. She sat on a footstool in the courtyard while Apu rubbed coconut oil into her scalp, parting her hair in sections with a wide bamboo toothcomb. Shibani’s eyes were closed and her head bobbed willingly under her friend’s massaging fingertips. She looked blissfully relaxed. Beside her stool was a brass bowl containing a solution of soap nuts and shikakai for her hair wash.
Shibani squinted up at the gathering clouds. “Looks like rain, don’t you think? Maybe I should put off washing my hair today. It will never dry in this humidity. I always catch a head cold when I sleep with wet hair.”
“Then,