so far; he had come the way of the rear entrance. A surprise attack. He had figured that the news of Mendonza’s change of mind on Angel Talkies was by now common knowledge. The boys had of course construed it as cowardice on the part of the school authorities. The danger was highest now, but also the opportunity to teach them a lasting lesson.
The class was quiet—too quiet.
D’Mello went in on tiptoe. The last row, where the tall, overdeveloped boys sat, were clumped together, a soundless knot around a magazine. D’Mello hovered over the boys. The magazine was the usual kind of magazine. “Julian,” he said gently.
The boys turned around, and the magazine dropped to the floor. Julian stood up with a grin. He was the tallest of the tall, the most overdeveloped of the overdeveloped. An inverted triangle of chest hair jutted out of his open shirt already, and when he rolled up a sleeve and made a muscle, D’Mello could see his biceps swelling into pale, thick tubers. As the son of a coffee-planting dynasty, Julian d’Essa could never be expelled from the school. But he could be punished. The little demon looked up at D’Mello, with a lecherous grin pasted on his face. In his mind Mr. D’Mello heard d’Essa’s voice; it goaded him on to do his worst: Ogre! Ogre! Ogre!
He heaved the boy out of the seat by his collar. Rip —the collar came off the shirt. D’Mello’s shaking elbow straightened out—it connected with the side of the boy’s face.
“Get out of the class, you animal…and kneel down…”
After shoving Julian out of the class, he put his hands on his knees and caught his breath. He picked up the magazine and flipped its pages about for public view.
“So this is the sort of thing you boys want to read, huh? Now you want to go to Angel Talkies? You think you’ll see the posters on the wall: those Murals of Sin?”
He walked around the class with his shaking elbow and thundered: Even the lechers were ashamed to go into Angel Talkies. They covered themselves in blankets and pushed rupee notes shamefully to the desk attendants. Inside, the walls of the theater were papered with posters of X-rated films, purveyors of every known depravity. To see a movie in such a theater was a corruption of body and soul alike.
He hurled the magazine against a wall. Did they think he was frightened to beat them? No! He was not one of these “new-fashioned” teachers trained in Bangalore or Bombay! Violence was his staple, and his dessert. Spare the rod, and spoil the child.
He collapsed onto his chair. He was horribly out of breath. A dull pain spread its roots across his chest. He saw with satisfaction that his speech had had some effect. The boys were sitting without a squeak. The sight of Julian with his torn collar kneeling outside the class had a quieting effect. But Mr. D’Mello knew it was just a matter of time, just a matter of time. At the age of fifty-seven he had no more illusions about human nature. Lust would inflame the boys’ hearts with rebellion again.
He ordered them to open the Hindi textbooks. Page 168.
“Who will read the poem?”
The class was silent around one raised arm.
“Girish Rai, read.”
A boy wearing comically large spectacles got to his feet from the first bench. His hair was thick and parted down the middle; his small face was overpowered by pimples. He did not need the textbook, for he knew the poem by heart:
Nay, Said the Flower
Cast me, said the flower,
Not on the virgin’s bed
Nor in the bridal carriage
Nor in the merry village square.
Nay, said the flower,
Cast me but on that lonely path
Where the heroes walk
For their nation to die.
The boy sat down. The entire class was silent, humbled for a moment by the purity of his enunciation in Hindi, that alien language. “If only all of you could be like this boy,” Mr. D’Mello said quietly.
But he had not forgotten that his favorite had let him down in the Rotary competition. Ordering the class to copy
The class was quiet—too quiet.
D’Mello went in on tiptoe. The last row, where the tall, overdeveloped boys sat, were clumped together, a soundless knot around a magazine. D’Mello hovered over the boys. The magazine was the usual kind of magazine. “Julian,” he said gently.
The boys turned around, and the magazine dropped to the floor. Julian stood up with a grin. He was the tallest of the tall, the most overdeveloped of the overdeveloped. An inverted triangle of chest hair jutted out of his open shirt already, and when he rolled up a sleeve and made a muscle, D’Mello could see his biceps swelling into pale, thick tubers. As the son of a coffee-planting dynasty, Julian d’Essa could never be expelled from the school. But he could be punished. The little demon looked up at D’Mello, with a lecherous grin pasted on his face. In his mind Mr. D’Mello heard d’Essa’s voice; it goaded him on to do his worst: Ogre! Ogre! Ogre!
He heaved the boy out of the seat by his collar. Rip —the collar came off the shirt. D’Mello’s shaking elbow straightened out—it connected with the side of the boy’s face.
“Get out of the class, you animal…and kneel down…”
After shoving Julian out of the class, he put his hands on his knees and caught his breath. He picked up the magazine and flipped its pages about for public view.
“So this is the sort of thing you boys want to read, huh? Now you want to go to Angel Talkies? You think you’ll see the posters on the wall: those Murals of Sin?”
He walked around the class with his shaking elbow and thundered: Even the lechers were ashamed to go into Angel Talkies. They covered themselves in blankets and pushed rupee notes shamefully to the desk attendants. Inside, the walls of the theater were papered with posters of X-rated films, purveyors of every known depravity. To see a movie in such a theater was a corruption of body and soul alike.
He hurled the magazine against a wall. Did they think he was frightened to beat them? No! He was not one of these “new-fashioned” teachers trained in Bangalore or Bombay! Violence was his staple, and his dessert. Spare the rod, and spoil the child.
He collapsed onto his chair. He was horribly out of breath. A dull pain spread its roots across his chest. He saw with satisfaction that his speech had had some effect. The boys were sitting without a squeak. The sight of Julian with his torn collar kneeling outside the class had a quieting effect. But Mr. D’Mello knew it was just a matter of time, just a matter of time. At the age of fifty-seven he had no more illusions about human nature. Lust would inflame the boys’ hearts with rebellion again.
He ordered them to open the Hindi textbooks. Page 168.
“Who will read the poem?”
The class was silent around one raised arm.
“Girish Rai, read.”
A boy wearing comically large spectacles got to his feet from the first bench. His hair was thick and parted down the middle; his small face was overpowered by pimples. He did not need the textbook, for he knew the poem by heart:
Nay, Said the Flower
Cast me, said the flower,
Not on the virgin’s bed
Nor in the bridal carriage
Nor in the merry village square.
Nay, said the flower,
Cast me but on that lonely path
Where the heroes walk
For their nation to die.
The boy sat down. The entire class was silent, humbled for a moment by the purity of his enunciation in Hindi, that alien language. “If only all of you could be like this boy,” Mr. D’Mello said quietly.
But he had not forgotten that his favorite had let him down in the Rotary competition. Ordering the class to copy
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