Nathan does not look at Swamy; he keeps his gaze away from him and straight toward the tamarind tree in the yard, now noisy with night crickets.
Around Nathan, light spills in yellow rectangles from the verandah windows, from all the others’ quarters. Swamy, the watchman at the campus gates, puffed with importance at being able to deny entrance to whom he chooses. Vikram, the sweeper, who swirls his broom over the department offices, leaving brown dust under chairs and tables. Muthu, the gardener, who digs assiduously in the dry mud where nothing grows. Prashanth, the chai man—all he does is bring chai and coffee for the professors, making umpteen trips to the shop outside the campus and returning with a tray of clay cups balanced precariously on the back of his bicycle. Of course, this is a big campus, the biggest in the city, so there are other quarters for other department servants. But these quarters, attached to the Department of Electrical Engineering, are where Nathan has spent thirty-five years. In two rooms.
And here, last year, Parvati brought the child Krishna. She did not ask Nathan or his wife permission for the name; they would not have given it anyway. Preferring to let thechild be nameless, for giving him a name would mean putting a name to their shame.
Swamy, the watchman, calls out to him. “Nathan sir, how are you? And your wife?”
Swamy calls him sir because Nathan is not just the eldest of those who occupy these quarters, but, by profession, the highest rank. A peon does not soil himself with menial tasks. In Nathan’s barracks, he has precedence. This is something he has worked toward for many years, starting at the campus as a sweeper, then a chai man, then a watchman, and now finally, a peon.
Now Nathan nods briefly in Swamy’s direction. Two years ago, before the child became public knowledge, he had status. Now these salutations are empty, meaningless—there is no real respect behind them, as though there is no more reason for Nathan to be able to hold his head high again with pride.
Swamy’s wife is all smiles, her eyes aglitter with malice in the darkness. Even with his back to them, Nathan knows this; it is as though her gaze lights up the darkened yard. He hears the rustle of her cotton sari as she nudges her husband with a thick elbow. Swamy grunts heavily, clears his throat, and asks, “And your third daughter? And the child? Everything is well in your house?”
Nathan ignores him and looks at the tamarind, its fruit hanging heavy, brown with ripeness, and too high in the branches. When Parvati was a child she used to throw stones and rocks at the fruit to dislodge it from the tree and when itfell, she would gorge herself, carefully keeping the seeds. For the children of the barracks, the black smooth seeds, the size of peas, were currency. With them they traded for marbles, pieces of chalk, a broken slate, a rubber ball, flat stones for playing pittu, a ribbon for their hair.
The dull ache Nathan has carried around flares into a bitter pain in his chest when he hears Swamy’s wife stifle a giggle. Even now, after three years, he has not learned to disregard what others say. Every effort has gone into making his face smooth and expressionless, of listening with reverence to what his betters have told him about Parvati and the child, of seeming not to care when his lessers like Swamy have slyly taunted him. But the ache does not go away.
He remembers in the dark of the night when Parvati herself was born, their third girl child.
His wife had gone for her confinement to her mother’s house in the village as usual and Nathan waited for the news. The postman who brought the yellow postcard to Nathan slapped it down in front of him with a “Here. For you.” Then he turned his back and went around the department giving the professors their mail.
The previous Diwali, the postman had come to Nathan for his festival baksheesh for the first time. Nathan had not given him any, incredulous
Around Nathan, light spills in yellow rectangles from the verandah windows, from all the others’ quarters. Swamy, the watchman at the campus gates, puffed with importance at being able to deny entrance to whom he chooses. Vikram, the sweeper, who swirls his broom over the department offices, leaving brown dust under chairs and tables. Muthu, the gardener, who digs assiduously in the dry mud where nothing grows. Prashanth, the chai man—all he does is bring chai and coffee for the professors, making umpteen trips to the shop outside the campus and returning with a tray of clay cups balanced precariously on the back of his bicycle. Of course, this is a big campus, the biggest in the city, so there are other quarters for other department servants. But these quarters, attached to the Department of Electrical Engineering, are where Nathan has spent thirty-five years. In two rooms.
And here, last year, Parvati brought the child Krishna. She did not ask Nathan or his wife permission for the name; they would not have given it anyway. Preferring to let thechild be nameless, for giving him a name would mean putting a name to their shame.
Swamy, the watchman, calls out to him. “Nathan sir, how are you? And your wife?”
Swamy calls him sir because Nathan is not just the eldest of those who occupy these quarters, but, by profession, the highest rank. A peon does not soil himself with menial tasks. In Nathan’s barracks, he has precedence. This is something he has worked toward for many years, starting at the campus as a sweeper, then a chai man, then a watchman, and now finally, a peon.
Now Nathan nods briefly in Swamy’s direction. Two years ago, before the child became public knowledge, he had status. Now these salutations are empty, meaningless—there is no real respect behind them, as though there is no more reason for Nathan to be able to hold his head high again with pride.
Swamy’s wife is all smiles, her eyes aglitter with malice in the darkness. Even with his back to them, Nathan knows this; it is as though her gaze lights up the darkened yard. He hears the rustle of her cotton sari as she nudges her husband with a thick elbow. Swamy grunts heavily, clears his throat, and asks, “And your third daughter? And the child? Everything is well in your house?”
Nathan ignores him and looks at the tamarind, its fruit hanging heavy, brown with ripeness, and too high in the branches. When Parvati was a child she used to throw stones and rocks at the fruit to dislodge it from the tree and when itfell, she would gorge herself, carefully keeping the seeds. For the children of the barracks, the black smooth seeds, the size of peas, were currency. With them they traded for marbles, pieces of chalk, a broken slate, a rubber ball, flat stones for playing pittu, a ribbon for their hair.
The dull ache Nathan has carried around flares into a bitter pain in his chest when he hears Swamy’s wife stifle a giggle. Even now, after three years, he has not learned to disregard what others say. Every effort has gone into making his face smooth and expressionless, of listening with reverence to what his betters have told him about Parvati and the child, of seeming not to care when his lessers like Swamy have slyly taunted him. But the ache does not go away.
He remembers in the dark of the night when Parvati herself was born, their third girl child.
His wife had gone for her confinement to her mother’s house in the village as usual and Nathan waited for the news. The postman who brought the yellow postcard to Nathan slapped it down in front of him with a “Here. For you.” Then he turned his back and went around the department giving the professors their mail.
The previous Diwali, the postman had come to Nathan for his festival baksheesh for the first time. Nathan had not given him any, incredulous
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