‘Taiji went mad and shouted at me, saying that I must be giving out numbers to boys in my school.’
‘That’s not right. Why would she say that?’
‘Can you do me a favour, Raghu? Can you call home?’ she asked.
‘Me? Why?’
‘Talk to Taiji and tell her you didn’t call me? You’re the only classmate of mine she knows by name and she thinks you’re a rascal.’
‘But I’m a not a rascal.’
‘Please call and tell her so?’
‘But—’
‘Please.’
I am the rascal.
Last night it had taken me an hour of staring at the phone to dial her number. I had practised what I would say.Hi Aunty, may I talk to Brahmi Sharma? It’s regarding the notes she took in the physics class today.The words died in my throat the minute I heard Brahmi’s voice. She sounded different on the phone, much older but without her trademark authority. I called her three more times and every subsequent time her voice became mellower but still as lovely. I imagined her in a T-shirt and a skirt, the phone stuck to her ears, saying,Hello, hello, who’s this?I thought of her not in her uniform but otherwise. It’s probably what everyone does. If you’re used to not seeing someone in uniform you fantasize about them being in one and vice versa.
‘Fine, I will call her. But who do you think called at your place?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe someone who likes me and is too scared to tell me. A secret admirer? Or someone who just wants me to be in trouble,’ she said.
‘Probably,’ I said.
Excusing ourselves from the class, Brahmi and I went off to call her Taiji from the school phone. I put in the coin and waited for the call to connect.
‘Hello . . . ch . . . Taiji. Raghu will talk to you. He is saying he didn’t call you. I told you he wouldn’t. I’m giving the phone to him.’
‘Hello, Aunty,’ I said.
‘Sun ladke.I don’t know if you called at my number or not. But if you call in the future I will know. I will come to your house and slap you up in front of your parents. Do you understand,saali?Rakh ab phone. Saala Bangali.’
‘Okay, Aunty—’
Click.
Brahmi’s face flushed pink. ‘My Taiji has a bit of a temper,’ she said, embarrassed, overhearing some of the abuses.
‘This is the first time I have been abused by a grown woman. It sounds strange.’
‘She didn’t mean to abuse you. She’s really nice otherwise. Do you want to sit together at lunch?’
Unlike my lunch which consisted of chapattis (Baba), daal (Maa), paneer (Baba) and raita (Maa), hers was a lone, dry sandwich.
‘Mumma keeps really busy. She usually doesn’t have time to cook . . .’
‘You can have mine. It’s too much for one anyway. Half of it goes waste.’
‘No, it’s fine.’
‘I don’t eat so much anyway. Maa gets really angry when I waste food. You will be doing me a favour.’
‘Thank you,’ she said and dug in. ‘I haven’t had food like this—’
And just then her voice tuned out and something came into focus. Something I had missed all this while because I could only see her wrists and imagine the stories in the ridges. What I had not noticed were the little welts on her upper arms, behind her ears, on her back. They were purple and blue and red and sad. She had been hit at home yesterday. Was it because of the calls I made? If it was, I deserved the abuses from her Taiji and more.
