Grandmother and My School Days

I have a faint recollection of a great deal of hubbub myself in grandmother’s lap. I was dressed for the first time in a starched overall and a white crisp blouse ready for my first  day at school. At that time grandmother had stroked my hair lovingly and whispered words of endearment and encouragement while I clutched at her necklace for dear life. The prospect of being in alien surroundings away from the warm and affectionate atmosphere of my home, even for a short while, upset me. It was with difficulty that I was persuaded to go along with my cousins to school. Grandmother had to bribe me with many promises of giving sweets and other dainties on my return, and she said encouragingly, “Your grandmother wants to see you give up to be a teacher or lady doctor; don’t you want me to be proud of you….?”

The first day was not such an ordeal; so there was no need for any more fuss except when I deliberately behaved badly in order to get something special from grandmother.

The years seemed to slip by quite happily and grandmother watched over our upbringing with pride though she had her own ideas about education. One day she called me and asked, “How old are you?”

“Eleven.”

“Its time now that you made one plait. You are no longer a baby.”

“But I always want to have two plaits,” I protested.

“Thappu!” exclaimed grandmother, “That’s a disgrace. No big girl has her hair like that; where is your mother? I must speak to her; she should know how to bring up her daughter better.”

I was afraid lest mother got browbeaten. So I hastened mention, “But you don’t say anything to Kamla and she is so much older than me.”

“What is wrong with Kamla? I always see her with a bun now. She is fifteen; so you will do well not to criticise your elders.”

She only makes a bun when she comes to see you; other wise she has short hair cut up to her shoulders. I see her in school every day,” I blurted out.

Grandmother jumped up and shaking with anger she shouted at me, If you talk with disrespect about your elders I will thrash you.”

But ’tis true, ’tis true,” I said stamping my foot, struggling to fight my tears, “I will show you a snap of hers with a group of friends. It’s only when she appears before you that she tucks up her hair with hairpins and clips.” I ran to our side of the house and snatched up a group Photograph. Grandmother met me half way with blood-shot eyes. She snatched it out of my hand. She passed her finger from one figure to another till it came to rest on Kamla. She peered hard at it, speechless. Then with a tremendous shout she let out a volley of abuses meant probably for her daughter-in-law, Kamla’s mother. She rushed inside, swept through the rooms, brandishing the photograph in her hand, and yelling for grandfather. Grandfather, who was hard of hearing, came scuttling through the rooms. Mother and the rest of the family came running and stood around her nonplussed.

“But what are you so worked up about?” inquired grandfather coming up to her.

It’s that daughter-in-law of yours, kamla. It was your grand idea to marry my son into that family….”

“Oh, shut up! That was twenty years ago….”

“It may be a long time for us and we indeed have grown old but that woman grows younger each day. Just look how she send her daughter to school! Making her look like a widow before the poor child is even married. Has your son no commonsense either? Does he like to see his daughter look like a widow!’

Stop yelling and tell me what’s happened”, bawled grandfather.

She has chopped off  Kamla’s hair and the poor child looks miserable like a, God forbid, widow. Grandfather’s jaw dropped; he too was orthodox, but he never interfered. Co-existence was his policy.

‘These days short hair is no longer the sign of widowhood,” said mother soothingly.

“Perhaps you have the same ambitions for your daughter,” snapped grandmother, “As it is, I don’t like her to look stylish with two plaits.”

Grandfather quietly slipped away, as was his habit when his wife was in a temper. He did the same on some pretext or other leaving grandmother fuming, as she kept staring at the photo.

After this incident most of the time was smooth sailing for me. Grandmother seemed to forget about my pigtails compared to Kamla’s bobbed hair. But then, unwittingly I used to cause an embarrassing situation sometimes. One day I approached her for some money. “Mother is away and I need some new uniforms.”

“You do not need uniforms any longer. You need some long skirts.”

“But that is the school dress.”

“It is not our dress anyway.”

“I know, but our Principal insists upon it; those are the rules”

“Nonsense! Tell her to wear our dress instead. What does she mean by forcing our girls to wear clothes that are worn by women thousands of miles away? In our country she should dress in our style.”

“But Am-mama….”

“You just tell her that. I am going to send you to school in long skirts.”

“But Am-mama, how can I say these things to my Principal?”

“Well, can’t she see that we don’t go about displaying our legs! You just tell her your grandmother said so. It’s your mother who should speak to her, but do these modern women bother about their daughters? I would die of shame to see my young daughter showing her legs as you do.”

“But see how long my uniform is,” I said hopefully, displaying the length.

“It barely covers your knees; still the fact remains it is not our dress. Why should we be forced to wear it? I think I will come to your school, and speak to them about it.” Many a time grandmother had spoken about visiting our school, and each time, I prayed with all my heart, that she should never turn up there, because, with her temperament and ideas, I could well imagine what would take place; and this time too I fervently hoped the Almighty  would be especially kind to me. As before, for a moment I lost my wits.

“Oh, Am-mama, you need not bother to take the trouble, I’ll speak to her….I’ll speak to her, I promise.”

The next day the Principal called me to her office. I had a vauge fear of what was in store. As I entered, my legs trembling, my eyes fell on grandmother seated in a high chair, looking very prim, and wearing a new white saree, with its Trade Mark and price clearly visible over her shoulders. Our Principal was wearing, as usual, a white dress, with her silvery white hair wound round her head. Already very tall, she appeared forbiddingly tall in her high heeled shoes. Towering above me like some white cliff, she spoke, “Your grandmother has been so nice to call on me. Now you tell me what she says; come closer, child, don’t look nervous. It’s so sweet of the dear old lady to come here.”

Then grandmother addressed me, “Tell her I have a great regard for the work the Missionaries are doing, but I do not like some of their ways; for instance, their keenness to thrust their religion on our poor people, and their insistence on our girls wearing western clothes.” I stood speechless, not knowing what to do.

“What is your dear grandmother saying?” I stammered, faltered, and at last with an effort managed to say, “She says she has a great regard for the work you are doing.”

“Thank you, thank you,” beamed Miss X, folding her hands greeting. Grandmother smiled at her and returned the greeting; feeling encouraged she turned to me, “Tell her that I knew she was a sensible woman, and say, it is my special request that they should change their rules. The girls should be allowed to wear their own dress and the school should be closed on our festival days; most of us are not Christians.”

Miss X pricked up her ear and eagerly inquired, “Is the dear lady asking about Christianity?” I nodded.

“What did she say?”

“My grandmother says….er….my grandmother….my grandmother like your school and….and…..” I got stuck here not able to think of something nice to say.

“It appears you are mortally scared of this woman. I wish you were scared like this of some one at home,” said grandmother, speaking to me sharply.

“What did she say?”

“My grandmother says….she said…..she is saying….you most come to our home.”

“Oh thank you, thank you!” Exclaimed Miss X, getting up from her chair. Grandmother rose too and they both parted, smiling at each other.

On the day of the solar eclipse when I was annoyed over grandmother’s frequent intrusions upon my privacy as I sat studying, I said, “I cannot come….you are only wasting your time and money on Pujas and feasts….this eclipse has got nothing to do with Demons or Gods and good or evil. I can explain every thing about the solar and lunar eclipse from my geography book.” She stared at me with horror, “So that’s what you are learning in school! How are these foreigners to know about our religion and customs! They are teaching you all rubbish because they want to spread their religion.”

“It’s not their religion. It’s the work of the Vidwans….” I tried to explain. She cut me short, “As if their vidwans have more knowledge than our ancients.”

“But every school teaches this…”

“Yes, yes, I can see in which direction you are moving. I can see how they are influencing you. I think it’s time you left off going to school. You can stay at home and learn some needlework and music. It is not good for our women to acquire foreign knowledge; our traditions and customs will all disappear.” She spoke with determination and there was a gleam in her eye which convinced me that a big argument would take place between her and my parents. I at once saw the folly of my remark; so I jumped up from my chair, and ran into her arms; hugging her tight, I laughed.

“Oh, Am-mama, how easily you are teased. I was only joking.”

Patting me affectionately she said, “I know such things are written in your books, but it is better, if you ignore them,”

Just then a servant interrupted us, “The Principal of your school has come.”

I was surprised by the visit of my Principal. I could hardly believe my ears. My mother greeted her warmly and at once made her feel welcome. My grandparents entered the sitting room with some excitement. Grandmother sat down opposite Miss X, but grandfather declined a chair and stood in the doorway for a few seconds, straining his eyes to get a glimpse of the “terrible white woman” as grandmother had often described her, and over whom grandmother claimed some influence after her visit to the school. Grandfather was clearly overawed with his wife’s claim and it was to get a good look at the formidable lady that he kept staring, straining his weak eyesight; however a sharp rebuke from grandmother sent him shuffling out of the room. After a short conversation in English my mother excused herself in order to get some refreshments.

“Please tell your grandmother I have come mainly to see her,” said Miss X, her face writhed in smiles. Grandmother felt very flattered to hear this.

“I am going to tell her a tale of two cities and like a good girl you keep translating it for me.”

“She wants to tell you a tale of two cities.” Grandmother sat silent, as puzzled as myself.

“One city is the city of death, and the other, the city of life….” Grandmother nodded, smiling to show she understood the meaning, and said, “One is Hell and the other is Heaven.” Miss X appeared pleased with this explanation, and continued with great seriousness, “The City of death is a terrible place–a place of great sorrow, darkness and pain.” Grandmother nodded, clicked her tongue and mumbled sympathetically, “Karma.”

“The city of light, where there is no pain, no sin, no sorrow…”

“Yes,” muttered grandmother, “it all depends on one’s Karma. Ask her if she has changed the rules about the school dress.”

“My grandmother is saying she understands,” I put in when Miss X halted, frowning a little at the interruption. “The dear old soul, I knew the understanding would come to her soon. Well, now tell her, everybody, even every boy and girl in this world is travelling to one of these cities.”

“When does her story begin?” asked grandmother, “and what does she say about the rules?”

Ignoring the interruption Miss X continued, “Now let me tell you how one can avoid taking the road to the dark city, where, I am sure, no one would like to enter. Man must not commit sin, believe in God, who created all things, and in his Son, for died for us…”

“She is talking about sin and God,” I explained, beginning to feel bored.

“She must be a good woman and very religious; ask her if they do Puja in her country.”

“Miss X rummaged through her big leather bag and drew out some pamphlets. “My grandmother is asking if you worship a lot in your country.”

“Tell her all good Christians go to Church and many pray at home too. Now this is the story I will read out and you tell her about it.” Her eyes sparkled, dilated. She spoke in an even tone with the look of one who is inspired, regardless of our interruptions. Grandmother started to yawn, and I began to fidget about in my chair with my eyes glued on the door, wondering why my mother took so long in coming. But nothing seemed to disturb Miss X; she continued her story, unaware of the fact that I was no longer translating for her. “It is a true story about a young man Vijayakumar, who was one of eleven children. Hi father was a drunkard and a lawless man; so Vijayakumar also began to drink and steal. One night an older man began to tell him about Jesus Christ….” As she was nearing the end, my mother entered, followed by a servant, carrying a tray of eatables. Grandmother quietly slipped away, practically unnoticed, and I followed her. We were surprised, however, to find grandfather eavesdropping. On seeing us he stammered.

“She is very talkative, like all women.”

It was indeed a sad day when I returned home, knowing that I would never return to school. Those happy days were now over and I was in a bad humour as I entered the house. The family was sitting on the verandah chatting. On seeing me they felt silent, smiled and said, “How happy you must feel! now you have completed your schooling at last.”

“College life is so interesting,” said father. Grandmother who was busy making pickles looked up. “What is that? You are surely not thinking of sending her to college?”

“Of course,” put in mother, “what is the use of her sitting idle at home, besides...”

“Rubbish! At her age I had two children. She should be married like any other respectable girl.”

“But I want to be a doctor,” I cried.

“ Nonsense. That means, going to the same college as boys. Have you no sense of decency?”

“But then she will earn as much as a boy some day,” put in father.

“It is certainly the age of Kali when a son tells his pious old mother that he means to make his daughter earn.” She shook her head sadly.

“Then, why did you send me to school,” I protested. “All these years and all your money has gone waste; besides, a pious lady never breaks her promise.”

“What’s that?” she asked pushing aside the jars, “What promise? How much did we spend….” She spoke reflectively, looking at me pensively.

“Lots, and double on my clothes, for I never could attend school in long skirts until I was in High School. I had to slip them off in the car. Grandmother stared at me, ‘Incredible!’ was all that she could utter. “…and on the first day I attended school you said I should grow up to be a doctor or a teacher.”

“If you say I made a promise, well...” she shrugged her shoulders. Then suddenly she broke into a smile and returned to her pickles.