honesty and goodwill to oneâs fellow man.
Chopra hoped that his wife was taking notes.
When Poppy had first told him that she had taken up the post of Drama and Dance teacher at St Xavier, he had thought she was making a joke.
But Poppy had been deadly serious.
After twenty-four years she had finally decided to join the rat race, as she had put it.
Chopra knew that Poppy had struggled for years with the fact of their childlessness. It saddened him too, though he had taken care to mask his disappointment lest Poppy mistake it for recrimination. He knew too that Poppy had never understood his steadfast refusal to adopt. He was not sure if he understood it himself. But each time he thought about taking on a child that was not his own he had somehow balked. Not because he believed that he could not love a child he had not fathered himself, but because of a strange sense that the child might not believe in
him
. In his authenticity as a parent.
After all, what qualifications did he have to be a father? For thirty years he had known only how to be a policeman. How to work long hours for little pay; how to deal with rapists and murderers; with cheats and thugs; with thieves and scam-artists. In what way did these endeavours qualify him to raise a young life?
But often, in the quiet of an evening, he would reflect that perhaps he had been selfish, and that his wife had paid for his selfishness.
Poppy loved children and they loved her. This was one reason why he had not protested when she had told him about her new job.
Chopra considered himself a traditionalist, but not old-fashioned. He had no objection to Poppy working, but he worried for her. He did not think that his wife quite understood what she was letting herself in for.
When he later discovered that Poppy had had an ulterior motive in pursuing this sudden career change it had come as no surprise. Over the years he had become accustomed to her personal crusades, which, like solar flares, burst forth with predictable regularity, usually incinerating everything in their path, but just as quickly running their course.
Poppy had learned that in the one hundred years of its history the St Xavier Catholic School for Boys had never hired a woman. This single explosive fact had seemed to her to encapsulate the entrenched attitudes that conspired to hold back the Modern Indian Woman. She had decided there and then that this scandalous state of affairs could not remain unchallenged.
And so began her campaign of guerrilla warfare.
She had hounded the schoolâs Board of Trustees for months, relentlessly haranguing them with threatening letters whilst simultaneously firing off countless articles to the local newspapers, one of which had been published under the incendiary headline âFÃTED SCHOOL INVITES WOMEN TO SWAB ITS FLOORS BUT NOT TO INSTRUCT ITS PUPILSâ. Worst of all, she had organised a
petition
.
The St Xavier trustees, a roll call of octogenarians accustomed to dozing through the annual board meeting in readiness for the eight-course banquet that marked the end of another successful year, had felt as if an invading army had arrived at the gates.
Finally, hollow-eyed with terror at the prospect of yet another visit from Poppy, they had hoisted the white flag of surrender. A resolution had been passed unanimously agreeing that it would be an excellent idea to hire a woman and why the devil hadnât anyone thought of it before?
Poppy had then proposed that
she
be considered for the position.
The trustees had exchanged looks and then fallen over each other in their haste to be the first to congratulate her.
Poppy had suggested that perhaps they should interview her first, just to ensure that she was the most deserving candidate. The trustees, a sheen of perspiration on their wrinkled brows, had assured her that no interview was necessary. They were more than impressed with her non-existent credentials⦠and by the way, what exactly would
Chopra hoped that his wife was taking notes.
When Poppy had first told him that she had taken up the post of Drama and Dance teacher at St Xavier, he had thought she was making a joke.
But Poppy had been deadly serious.
After twenty-four years she had finally decided to join the rat race, as she had put it.
Chopra knew that Poppy had struggled for years with the fact of their childlessness. It saddened him too, though he had taken care to mask his disappointment lest Poppy mistake it for recrimination. He knew too that Poppy had never understood his steadfast refusal to adopt. He was not sure if he understood it himself. But each time he thought about taking on a child that was not his own he had somehow balked. Not because he believed that he could not love a child he had not fathered himself, but because of a strange sense that the child might not believe in
him
. In his authenticity as a parent.
After all, what qualifications did he have to be a father? For thirty years he had known only how to be a policeman. How to work long hours for little pay; how to deal with rapists and murderers; with cheats and thugs; with thieves and scam-artists. In what way did these endeavours qualify him to raise a young life?
But often, in the quiet of an evening, he would reflect that perhaps he had been selfish, and that his wife had paid for his selfishness.
Poppy loved children and they loved her. This was one reason why he had not protested when she had told him about her new job.
Chopra considered himself a traditionalist, but not old-fashioned. He had no objection to Poppy working, but he worried for her. He did not think that his wife quite understood what she was letting herself in for.
When he later discovered that Poppy had had an ulterior motive in pursuing this sudden career change it had come as no surprise. Over the years he had become accustomed to her personal crusades, which, like solar flares, burst forth with predictable regularity, usually incinerating everything in their path, but just as quickly running their course.
Poppy had learned that in the one hundred years of its history the St Xavier Catholic School for Boys had never hired a woman. This single explosive fact had seemed to her to encapsulate the entrenched attitudes that conspired to hold back the Modern Indian Woman. She had decided there and then that this scandalous state of affairs could not remain unchallenged.
And so began her campaign of guerrilla warfare.
She had hounded the schoolâs Board of Trustees for months, relentlessly haranguing them with threatening letters whilst simultaneously firing off countless articles to the local newspapers, one of which had been published under the incendiary headline âFÃTED SCHOOL INVITES WOMEN TO SWAB ITS FLOORS BUT NOT TO INSTRUCT ITS PUPILSâ. Worst of all, she had organised a
petition
.
The St Xavier trustees, a roll call of octogenarians accustomed to dozing through the annual board meeting in readiness for the eight-course banquet that marked the end of another successful year, had felt as if an invading army had arrived at the gates.
Finally, hollow-eyed with terror at the prospect of yet another visit from Poppy, they had hoisted the white flag of surrender. A resolution had been passed unanimously agreeing that it would be an excellent idea to hire a woman and why the devil hadnât anyone thought of it before?
Poppy had then proposed that
she
be considered for the position.
The trustees had exchanged looks and then fallen over each other in their haste to be the first to congratulate her.
Poppy had suggested that perhaps they should interview her first, just to ensure that she was the most deserving candidate. The trustees, a sheen of perspiration on their wrinkled brows, had assured her that no interview was necessary. They were more than impressed with her non-existent credentials⦠and by the way, what exactly would
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