my interest and explained the organizational system, and soon I was shelving and dusting her books.
Now that I was fifteen, Virginia Woolf, E. M. Forster, and the American John Steinbeck were some of the authors I read, at Miss Richmond’s suggestion. I was grateful for these recommendations and the other things the teacher gave me: old newspapers and magazines and stubs of pencils and paper scraps. She taught books that the other teachers in school thought were unsuitable, which made me even more interested in reading them, as well as the beautiful poems by Tagore.
“Why are you still lingering? People are waiting!” Miss Rachaelbarked when she came upon me in the scullery using a handed-down notebook to finish a few more lines of a poetry translation.
“Miss Richmond wants this.” My voice was short, because she had interrupted me when I was on the verge of finding the right word to finish a couplet.
“Miss Richmond wants! Mukherjee-memsaheb needs!” Miss Rachael wagged her head back and forth. “Their wanting you is like pouring ghee on a fire.”
“There is no fire.” Tired of her proverbs, I closed the notebook and got to my feet.
“The fire is you, already too hot and proud. But after that Mukherjee-mem is gone, I shall give you duties building fires and collecting ash. It is what you deserve!”
I regarded Miss Rachael’s flushed round face, thinking how different she was from my mother. I didn’t allow myself to think often of Ma, but now I remembered her praising me as I mastered my duties in the house. She always expected me to work hard and would have criticized me when it was due, but not given me work out of malice.
“There is no reason for you to do anything with books or papers again. Here, give me what nonsense you were writing!”
“No!” I reached out in vain as Miss Rachael’s rough hands opened the precious book where I had written pages of Bengali and English side by side.
She tore out a page and held it up to me. “Good kindling for the kitchen fire, isn’t it?”
Panic and anger surged in me. As I struggled to keep my grasp on my writing, she hit my arms and then face. Still, I kept my hands on the notebook. I could not imagine coming up with the same words and phrases again to reflect the calm beauty of Tagore’s poetry.
Behind me I heard the clearing of a throat. I turned and saw Miss Jamison, who had come in without being heard.
“Stop it!” said Miss Jamison, who must have come from hersleeping quarters as she still wore her high-necked dressing gown. “If you spend time beating the girl, she cannot bring my tea or anyone else’s. I’ve been waiting ten minutes!”
“Burra-mem!” Miss Rachael brought her reddened hands to her face, and her breathing slowed. “It is because of that lateness that I’m punishing her! Sarah is a very bad girl.”
Miss Jamison shook her head at me and then, stern-faced, looked back at Miss Rachael. “Tardiness is a situation for reprimand, not a beating. This is a Christian school.”
I breathed deeply and hugged myself. I was relieved that Miss Jamison had intervened, but I didn’t dare tell her what had really happened with the notebook. I wasn’t stupid enough to violate the servants’ code of silence.
“Sarah, there’s something else.”
I bobbed my head, wondering what punishment Miss Jamison was going to mete out.
“The student whom you tutor in English took ill last night. Matron came to me and said she was asking for you.”
“Miss Bidushi?” The aches in my body from Miss Rachael’s beating subsided as a strange new fear filled me.
“Yes. Come along to the infirmary, and Nurse-matron will speak with you.”
As we left, Miss Rachael made a parting shot at me in Bengali. “The best medicine is beating!”
LOCKWOOD’S NURSE-MATRON WAS someone I didn’t know much about, except that she was a large Irishwoman with very pink skin that was always sweating, regardless of the season. Today, a thin cloth
Now that I was fifteen, Virginia Woolf, E. M. Forster, and the American John Steinbeck were some of the authors I read, at Miss Richmond’s suggestion. I was grateful for these recommendations and the other things the teacher gave me: old newspapers and magazines and stubs of pencils and paper scraps. She taught books that the other teachers in school thought were unsuitable, which made me even more interested in reading them, as well as the beautiful poems by Tagore.
“Why are you still lingering? People are waiting!” Miss Rachaelbarked when she came upon me in the scullery using a handed-down notebook to finish a few more lines of a poetry translation.
“Miss Richmond wants this.” My voice was short, because she had interrupted me when I was on the verge of finding the right word to finish a couplet.
“Miss Richmond wants! Mukherjee-memsaheb needs!” Miss Rachael wagged her head back and forth. “Their wanting you is like pouring ghee on a fire.”
“There is no fire.” Tired of her proverbs, I closed the notebook and got to my feet.
“The fire is you, already too hot and proud. But after that Mukherjee-mem is gone, I shall give you duties building fires and collecting ash. It is what you deserve!”
I regarded Miss Rachael’s flushed round face, thinking how different she was from my mother. I didn’t allow myself to think often of Ma, but now I remembered her praising me as I mastered my duties in the house. She always expected me to work hard and would have criticized me when it was due, but not given me work out of malice.
“There is no reason for you to do anything with books or papers again. Here, give me what nonsense you were writing!”
“No!” I reached out in vain as Miss Rachael’s rough hands opened the precious book where I had written pages of Bengali and English side by side.
She tore out a page and held it up to me. “Good kindling for the kitchen fire, isn’t it?”
Panic and anger surged in me. As I struggled to keep my grasp on my writing, she hit my arms and then face. Still, I kept my hands on the notebook. I could not imagine coming up with the same words and phrases again to reflect the calm beauty of Tagore’s poetry.
Behind me I heard the clearing of a throat. I turned and saw Miss Jamison, who had come in without being heard.
“Stop it!” said Miss Jamison, who must have come from hersleeping quarters as she still wore her high-necked dressing gown. “If you spend time beating the girl, she cannot bring my tea or anyone else’s. I’ve been waiting ten minutes!”
“Burra-mem!” Miss Rachael brought her reddened hands to her face, and her breathing slowed. “It is because of that lateness that I’m punishing her! Sarah is a very bad girl.”
Miss Jamison shook her head at me and then, stern-faced, looked back at Miss Rachael. “Tardiness is a situation for reprimand, not a beating. This is a Christian school.”
I breathed deeply and hugged myself. I was relieved that Miss Jamison had intervened, but I didn’t dare tell her what had really happened with the notebook. I wasn’t stupid enough to violate the servants’ code of silence.
“Sarah, there’s something else.”
I bobbed my head, wondering what punishment Miss Jamison was going to mete out.
“The student whom you tutor in English took ill last night. Matron came to me and said she was asking for you.”
“Miss Bidushi?” The aches in my body from Miss Rachael’s beating subsided as a strange new fear filled me.
“Yes. Come along to the infirmary, and Nurse-matron will speak with you.”
As we left, Miss Rachael made a parting shot at me in Bengali. “The best medicine is beating!”
LOCKWOOD’S NURSE-MATRON WAS someone I didn’t know much about, except that she was a large Irishwoman with very pink skin that was always sweating, regardless of the season. Today, a thin cloth
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