out the poem six times in their notebooks, he ignored Girish for two or three minutes. Then he summoned him with his fingers.
“Girish…” His voice faltered. “Girish…why didn’t you get first prize in the Rotary competition? How will we ever get to Delhi unless you win more first prizes?”
“Sorry, sir…” the boy said. He hung his head in shame.
“Girish…lately you haven’t been winning so many first prizes…Is something the matter?”
There was a worried look on the boy’s face. Mr. D’Mello panicked.
“Is someone troubling you? One of the boys? Has d’Essa threatened you?”
“No, sir.”
He looked at the tall boys in the back row. He turned to his right and glanced at the kneeling d’Essa, who was grinning hard. The assistant headmaster came to a quick decision.
“Girish…tomorrow…I don’t want you to go to Angel Talkies. I want you to go to the Belmore Theater.”
“Why, sir?”
Mr. D’Mello recoiled.
“What do you mean, why? Because I say so, that’s why!” he yelled. The class looked at them; had Mr. D’Mello raised his voice to his favorite?
Girish Rai reddened. He seemed on the verge of tears, and Mr. D’Mello’s heart melted. He smiled and patted the small boy on the back.
“Now, now, Girish, don’t cry…I don’t care about the other boys. They’ve been to the talkies many times—they’ve read magazines. There isn’t anything left to be corrupted. But not you. I won’t let you go there. Go to Belmore.”
Girish nodded, and went back to his seat in the front bench. He was still on the verge of tears. Mr. D’Mello felt his heart melting out of pity; he had been too harsh on the poor boy.
When the class ended, he went up to the front bench and tapped on the desk: “Girish—do you have any plans for this evening?”
What a terrible day, what a terrible day. Mr. D’Mello was walking along the mud road that led from the school to his home in the teacher’s colony. That awful whack of the stone echoed over and over again in his head…the look in the poor animal’s eyes…
He walked back with his poetry books beneath his armpit. His shirt was now speckled with red curry, and the tips of his collars were curled in, like sunburned leaves. Every few minutes, he stopped to straighten his aching back and catch his breath.
“Are you ill, sir?”
Mr. D’Mello turned around: Girish Rai, with a huge khaki schoolbag strapped to his back, was following him.
Teacher and pupil walked a few yards side by side, and then Mr. D’Mello stopped. “Do you see that, boy?” He pointed.
Halfway between the school and the teacher’s house ran a brick wall with a wide crack yawning down the middle. Both the wall and the crack had been there for years, in that road where no detail had significantly changed since Mr. D’Mello had moved to the neighborhood thirty years ago to take up the quarters assigned to him as a young teacher. Three lampposts along the adjacent road were visible through the crack in the wall, and for nearly twenty years now, Mr. D’Mello had stopped every evening and squinted hard at the three lampposts. For twenty years, he had been searching the lampposts for the explanation of a mystery. One morning, about two decades ago, while passing the crack he had seen a sentence in white chalk marked on all three lampposts:
NATHAN X MUST DIE .
He had squeezed through the crack in the wall to get to the three lampposts, and scraped the words with his umbrella, to decipher their mystery. What did the three signs mean? An old man pulled along a cart of vegetables. Mr. D’Mello tried asking him who Nathan X was, but the vegetable man just shrugged. Ernest D’Mello stood there, with the mist in the trees, and wondered.
The next morning the signs were gone. Intentionally wiped out. When he got to school, he scanned the obituary column of the newspaper, and couldn’t believe his eyes—a man called “Nathan Xavier” had been murdered the previous
“Girish…” His voice faltered. “Girish…why didn’t you get first prize in the Rotary competition? How will we ever get to Delhi unless you win more first prizes?”
“Sorry, sir…” the boy said. He hung his head in shame.
“Girish…lately you haven’t been winning so many first prizes…Is something the matter?”
There was a worried look on the boy’s face. Mr. D’Mello panicked.
“Is someone troubling you? One of the boys? Has d’Essa threatened you?”
“No, sir.”
He looked at the tall boys in the back row. He turned to his right and glanced at the kneeling d’Essa, who was grinning hard. The assistant headmaster came to a quick decision.
“Girish…tomorrow…I don’t want you to go to Angel Talkies. I want you to go to the Belmore Theater.”
“Why, sir?”
Mr. D’Mello recoiled.
“What do you mean, why? Because I say so, that’s why!” he yelled. The class looked at them; had Mr. D’Mello raised his voice to his favorite?
Girish Rai reddened. He seemed on the verge of tears, and Mr. D’Mello’s heart melted. He smiled and patted the small boy on the back.
“Now, now, Girish, don’t cry…I don’t care about the other boys. They’ve been to the talkies many times—they’ve read magazines. There isn’t anything left to be corrupted. But not you. I won’t let you go there. Go to Belmore.”
Girish nodded, and went back to his seat in the front bench. He was still on the verge of tears. Mr. D’Mello felt his heart melting out of pity; he had been too harsh on the poor boy.
When the class ended, he went up to the front bench and tapped on the desk: “Girish—do you have any plans for this evening?”
What a terrible day, what a terrible day. Mr. D’Mello was walking along the mud road that led from the school to his home in the teacher’s colony. That awful whack of the stone echoed over and over again in his head…the look in the poor animal’s eyes…
He walked back with his poetry books beneath his armpit. His shirt was now speckled with red curry, and the tips of his collars were curled in, like sunburned leaves. Every few minutes, he stopped to straighten his aching back and catch his breath.
“Are you ill, sir?”
Mr. D’Mello turned around: Girish Rai, with a huge khaki schoolbag strapped to his back, was following him.
Teacher and pupil walked a few yards side by side, and then Mr. D’Mello stopped. “Do you see that, boy?” He pointed.
Halfway between the school and the teacher’s house ran a brick wall with a wide crack yawning down the middle. Both the wall and the crack had been there for years, in that road where no detail had significantly changed since Mr. D’Mello had moved to the neighborhood thirty years ago to take up the quarters assigned to him as a young teacher. Three lampposts along the adjacent road were visible through the crack in the wall, and for nearly twenty years now, Mr. D’Mello had stopped every evening and squinted hard at the three lampposts. For twenty years, he had been searching the lampposts for the explanation of a mystery. One morning, about two decades ago, while passing the crack he had seen a sentence in white chalk marked on all three lampposts:
NATHAN X MUST DIE .
He had squeezed through the crack in the wall to get to the three lampposts, and scraped the words with his umbrella, to decipher their mystery. What did the three signs mean? An old man pulled along a cart of vegetables. Mr. D’Mello tried asking him who Nathan X was, but the vegetable man just shrugged. Ernest D’Mello stood there, with the mist in the trees, and wondered.
The next morning the signs were gone. Intentionally wiped out. When he got to school, he scanned the obituary column of the newspaper, and couldn’t believe his eyes—a man called “Nathan Xavier” had been murdered the previous
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