Notes of a Mediocre Man Read online

  NOTES OF A MEDIOCRE MAN

  STORIES OF INDIA AND AMERICA

  ESSENTIAL PROSE SERIES 130

  NOTES OF A MEDIOCRE MAN

  STORIES OF INDIA AND AMERICA

  Bipin Aurora

  GUERNICA TORONTO—BUFFALO—LANCASTER (U.K.)

  2017

  To Joel Aurora, John Robbins, and Rajive Aurora

  Munnu Shunnu

  The two brothers in school, how can one forget them? Their ranks were the lowest in class. In sports they were the worst. But the stories they came in with, always the stories.

  “A camel has been found, sir, found dead in the sand.”

  “A madwoman has been found, sir: in her right hand is a bag of burlap, in her left hand a red brick.”

  “A submerged temple has been found, sir—the water dry, the temple has risen to the ground. In the inner shrine the picture of God is still intact.”

  The teacher would grow angry at them, he would ask them where they had heard these stories.

  But the boys would grow silent.

  “Tell me.”

  The boys would not answer. And then:

  “There is a nice woman, sir.”

  “A nice woman?”

  “She can read in her sleep, sir. She can pray in her sleep. She can cook food in her sleep, sir, she can even knit sweaters.”

  The teacher would be furious at their words, he would slap them.

  “Useless boys,” he would say. “Foolish boys. Have you no shame?”

  But this is the way they were. This is just the way they were.

  The boys would return to their desks—they would sit there in silence.

  But then, a few minutes later (only a few)—or at least the next day:

  “We saw a cricket match, sir.”

  “What is this?”

  “The ball hit the bat, sir, the bat hit the ball. But this was not all. A crow came, sir (a black crow): it took the ball away.”

  “What is this?”

  “The crow, sir, it was a black crow. It took it to the temple, it took it to the market. Even to Dubai, sir (they were having a fair there, a nice fair)—it took it there as well.”

  The teacher would look at them, look in amazement. Was it in awe as well?

  ***

  The two brothers—no, we had never seen anyone like them. Where they came from, no one knew. Who their father was, no one knew. One day they had come to school—just like that they had come.

  “I am Munnu.”

  “Yes.”

  “This is my brother—he is Shunnu.”

  “Yes.”

  And like that—just like that they had come.

  There was a green bag—it was over the shoulder of Munnu. There was a red bag—it was over the shoulder of Shunnu. And like that—just like that they had come.

  They were different, so different from the rest of us. We had never seen anyone like them.

  We were fair-skinned; they were dark. We had hair on our heads; their heads were shaved (only a small tuft at the back). We wore shoes. They came in their bare feet. We wore shorts (and sometimes pants); they came in their white pajamas.

  And yes, here they were.

  The teacher would walk down the rows of the class, he would stop at their desk.

  “Five and five?” he would say.

  “Nine.”

  “How many grams in a kilogram?”

  “Three.”

  “The highest mountain in the world?”

  Silence.

  “Useless boys!” the teacher would shout. “Foolish boys. Have you no shame?”

  Useless boys, yes, foolish boys, yes. But this is the way they were. This is just the way they were.

  The teacher would recite a lesson, they would try so hard to follow it. The teacher would recite a lesson, they would recite with everyone else in return.

  “And Rangoon is the capital of Burma.”

  “And Rangoon is the capital of Burma.”

  “And eight times nine is seventy-two.”

  “And eight times nine is seventy-two.”

  “And water becomes water vapor and goes to the sky.”

  “And water becomes water vapor and goes to the sky.”

  The teacher would recite a lesson, how hard they would try to follow it. But when the lesson was over, did they retain any of it? Ask them five minutes later (or even one), did they remember—remember anything at all?

  “The capital of Burma?”

  “Sir?”

  “Eight times nine?”

  “Sir?”

  “What happens to water …”

  “Water from the fridge, sir, it is nice and cold. The poor people do not have it. But water from the fridge, sir, is it not a good thing?”

  Water from the fridge—what kind of answer was that? But this is the way they were.

  ***

  The teacher was a strict man, he tried to make an example of the boys. Sometimes he slapped them. Sometimes he made them come to the front of the class. In front of the others, he pulled on their ears (the ears turned red). In front of the others, he asked them to extend their hands. The cane was in the air; the cane made a slice through the air and it came down.

  But do you think it helped?

  “We are stupid boys,” they said.

  “We are the worst boys,” they said.

  “You punish us—is it not right that you punish us?” they said.

  The boys felt that they were being punished. They felt that they were being rightly punished. But the lesson to be learned, did they learn that?

  The school session ended, the report cards came out. And their ranks—was it any surprise?—were the lowest in the class. There were thirty-seven students in the class. Sometimes Munnu was thirty-six, Shunnu thirty-seven. Sometimes it was the other way around.

  Their ranks were the lowest, yes. But the brothers—and this was also a part of their strangeness—did not seem concerned. In fact when the report cards came out, they asked, “So Praveen, what rank were you?”

  “I was eight.”

  And then Munnu would say, “I was thirty-six.”

  And Shunnu would add, “I was thirty-seven.”

  They asked their questions matter-of-factly. They offered the information about themselves matter-of-factly as well.

  One time the brothers were asked, “Are you not jealous that the others finish ahead of you?”

  “Oh no,” they said.

  “But the others finish ahead?”

  “We are so happy for them.” “How intelligent they are.” “How proud their parents must be of them.”

  Perhaps the boys were telling the truth, perhaps they were pretending. But in this way they spoke.

  ***

  The teacher was a strict man—from Sialkot he came. When partition had come, he had left his home, he had come to Delhi.

  Sometimes the teacher would walk around the room, he would tell a story. And how the brothers would come to life!

  “It is a good story, sir.”

  “Tell us another story, sir.”

  “The story, sir, is it not a good thing?”

  Their ranks were the lowest. They had trouble following their lessons. But when the teacher told a story (and sometimes he did—even he), how their minds came to life!

  Sometimes the teacher would walk around the room, he would say to the children: “You children, you do not listen.” Or else: “You are too spoiled.” Or else: “You do not know the meaning of discipline.” And then he would tell a story about the time that he had been a child. The teachers had been so strict that if you made any noise in the class—if you so much as sneezed or dropped an eraser to the floor—you would be punished.

  The other studen
ts thought that the teacher was silly, old-fashioned, too strict; and behind his back they laughed at him.

  Only the brothers did not laugh: “We like the teacher,” they said. “He is a good teacher,” they said.

  “In the days of old,” said the teacher, “the boys showed respect for the teacher. They swept the teacher’s house, they did the shopping. They chopped the wood and they brought daily offerings—offerings of milk and curd, of vegetables and fruit.”

  Again the other children sneered at the teacher, they laughed. “So students were not students,” they said, “they were slaves in those days.”

  Only the brothers did not laugh. With rapt attention they listened to the teacher. “Tell us more,” they said. “Tell us more.”

  They had trouble following the lessons. (What trouble they had!) But now the teacher was telling a story. And could they just refuse?

  The teacher told the children stories about the past. The brothers walked around the grounds of the school repeating the stories.

  The teacher spoke of the days in Sialkot when he had been a child.

  The brothers spoke of the days in Sialkot as well.

  He spoke of the times when he had been a student.

  They spoke of the times when he had been a student.

  They would stand on a mango crate (or on the top of the steps). “Listen children,” they would say. “Listen.” And then they would tell the story that the teacher had told.

  Sometimes they would repeat the story of the teacher word by word. Sometimes they would add to the story. And sometimes they would come up with a new story of their own.

  The bell would ring, it would be time for the children to return to class.

  But the boys would be there, still there, telling a story—waving or gesturing with their hands.

  The teacher was a busy man, he must return to the lessons.

  “But the lessons, sir, are they really important?”

  “What is this?”

  “The lessons, sir, are they really the key?”

  “What is this?”

  The brothers would stand there, nodding their heads. They would stand there, rocking back and forth.

  “A story, sir, is it not a good thing?”

  “A story, sir, is it not the best?”

  “A story, sir—one more story (just one).”

  They were strange words—what strange words they were. (Were they insolent words as well?)

  But this is the way the boys were. This is just how they spoke.

  ***

  One time the teacher told all the children to read the newspaper. There was news in the world, important news, they must keep up with it.

  Some of the children ignored the teacher, others did the minimum work required (and did it as a duty). But with what eagerness the boys read the news. The next day the boys came in, they came in bursting with the news!

  “A horse has been found, sir, lying flat on its back. There was no food in the house, the mother killed it. What else could the mother do?”

  “A boy has been found, sir, he was walking in the streets. His father has kicked him out, said he was not a good son.”

  “A man has been found, sir, eating the roots of trees. He used to live on the second story, eat carrots and peas. The monsoon rains came, sir (or was it the bad people?). They took his house away.”

  The teacher just looked at the boys. He looked at them aghast. He had asked them to read the news, to keep up with the news of the world. Was this the news?

  “A boy has been found, sir, a tear in his eye. He does not have a fridge, he does not have a flush toilet. He must go to the back, he must use the public latrines.”

  “A man has been found, sir, an Assistant (a small man) in the government. He thinks he is no one, he should have been more. He hits himself in the forehead, and sometimes he hits his wife.”

  “A cricket player has been found, sir, he was out on the first ball. He sits in the dark room, his face to the wall. He rocks back and forth, sir, he rocks back and forth.”

  Again the teacher just looked at them. He looked at them in silence. Was it in awe as well?

  “A blind man came, sir, he took the sun away.”

  “What is this?”

  “In a horse carriage he came, sir, he took the sun away.”

  “What is this?”

  “Our father, sir, he tells us.”

  “Your father?”

  “He is a good man, sir, a good man’s son. And he tells us—he tells us about the world.”

  The teacher just looked at the boys, he looked at them in wonder. The boys were orphans (so the teacher knew). A father who was a good man—who told them all about the world—how could it be?

  “This father,” he said, “show me this father.”

  But the boys were silent.

  “This father,” he said, “take me to this father.”

  But the boys were silent. And then:

  “He is busy, sir.”

  “He is away, sir.”

  “One day, sir, you will meet him. And then all will be made clear (is it not so?). All will be made clear.”

  They were strange words—what strange words they were. But this is the way the boys were. In this way they spoke.

  ***

  The teacher sat at his desk, he thought about the boys. He thought about them for some time. They were strange boys—what strange boys they were. They told these stories—why did they tell them? They spoke about their father—this father who did not exist. Why did they do it?

  The teacher went and talked with the principal. Do you think it helped? He went and checked the school records that were kept for the boys. Do you think it helped? He checked the money that was received for the boys’ tuition and books. Quietly the money came, anonymously.

  Many times the teacher went up to the boys, he spoke to them directly. But was it of any use?

  “Your father,” he said.

  They did not answer.

  “Your father,” he said.

  They did not answer.

  “Your father,” he said.

  “But God, sir, God is our father.”

  “What is this?”

  “But God, sir, God is our father.”

  There was truth, of course, there was truth to the words. But could the words be enough—could they really be enough?

  “In the assembly each morning we say our prayers. We say the words ‘Our Father Who Art in Heaven.’ And God is our father, the father of all of us. But on earth, I mean, who is your father on earth?”

  The boys were silent.

  “On earth?”

  Still the boys were silent. And then: “But God, sir, God is our father.”

  They were strange words—what strange words they were. Did the boys believe the words—did they actually believe?

  One day the teacher tried to take a slightly different approach. He went up to the boys again.

  “Where do you live?” he said.

  “There, sir.”

  “Where?”

  “There.” And the brothers pointed into the distance, in a general direction.

  “Do you live alone?”

  “Oh no, sir, we live with each other.”

  “But you are so small. Who takes care of you? Who cooks your food, who washes your clothes?”

  The boys smiled sheepishly.

  “Well?”

  “Each other, sir. Munnu cooks for me, I cook for Munnu. Munnu washes for me, I wash for him.”

  The teacher smiled. “And this God that you speak of, this Father, doesn’t he cook for you, doesn’t he do the wash?”

  The brothers looked at each other.

  “And this God that you speak of …”

  The brothers looked at each other. And then:

  “But God, sir, he is a busy man. He has so many children; he must listen to their prayers, he must tell them stories. Time to cook, to wash—how can he have time for that? To cook, to wash—how can he have time for tha
t?”

  The teacher was amazed (was he even impressed?). There was truth to their words (they were not without merit). Were they really so stupid, were they really so mad?

  The teacher shook his head—he shook it in acknowledgment. He shook his head—was it in frustration as well?

  ***

  And so the days passed. The boys came in, they told their stories. Each day they came, they told their stories. The teacher told them to be quiet. Do you think it helped? He told them not to disturb the class. Do you think it helped? He told them to concentrate on their studies. After all, isn’t this what they were there for? There were exams to be taken, tests to be passed. If they did not make an effort, would they ever be able to do it—to pass?

  “A story, sir, a story.”

  “A story?”

  “A story, sir, is it not a good thing?”

  “A story, sir, is it not the best?”

  The boys came in—each day they came. “There is shame in the world, sir.”

  “Shame?”

  “There is shame in the world, sir, so much shame. But who will come, sir—who will come and take the shame away?”

  And then they would talk for days and days—talk about nothing but the shame.

  “There is sadness in the world, sir.”

  “Sadness?”

  “There is sadness in the world, sir, so much sadness. They are looking for someone—someone to take the sadness away.”

  And then they would talk for days and days—talk about nothing but the sadness.

  “We saw an old man, sir.”

  “An old man?”

  “He is trying, sir, he is trying. But he is not sure that even he can do it—that even he can take all the sadness away.”

  They were strange words, they were astounding words. But this is the way the boys were. This is just the way they spoke.

  “There is a nice man, sir.”

  “A nice man?”

  “He has three heads, sir (or is it three eyes?). One to drink tea, one to read the newspaper. One to cast upon his neighbors the evil eye.”

  “We saw a dead pigeon, sir.”

  “A dead pigeon?”

  “He lay on his stomach, sir, a twig (a small twig) on his face.”

  “We saw a green tiger, sir.”