Long multiplications: she had attempted them, then stopped. What was she to do? She took them downstairs. Slap, across the face.
“What did you
do
today?”
“Nothing, Ammi,” she said through the sting of tears.
“Nothing? Nothing! I see ‘nothing.’ Why? Why?” She wanted to reach toward Ammi, say, “Don’t, Ammi, it will be all right,” but she stood still.
Gehan said, “I saw her walking down the hill today.”
“What? I
told
you to stay here,” and slap again. Slap, and Gehan smiling. That was all she saw. Tomorrow she would go out again. Ammi put the book in her hands.
“Upstairs until you’re finished. Finish quickly. Papa is back in half an hour, and we will eat then.”
Rohan came into her room, sat on her bed, and looked over her shoulder.
“What’s two times six?”
“Twelve.”
“Carry the one. What’s four times eight?”
She shrugged. “Thirty-two. Add one. No, add the one.” He waited. “You really can’t do this, can you?” She shrugged again. He dictated the rest of the answers, telling her where to put the carried tens and cross them out. “You must have been taught this—”
“Yes, of course I have,” she said.
“Then why can’t you do it?”
“I just can’t.”
“What
do
you like?”
“Reading. And poems.”
“Yeah, I’d noticed. But apart from that stuff?” She shrugged.
When she went downstairs, Preethi heard Papa in the study. Shyly, she went and stood by the door. Watched him hang his coat and hat, take the bottle from the shelf, pour a glass of the amber liquid, and, as if administering medicine, throw it bitterly against his throat and swallow. He put the bottle and glass back, then turned to the door.
“Hmm, hmm, what are you doing? Why did you leave your sums?” But he asked kindly. She smiled, reached her hand to him. He took his hand from his pocket and, instead of holding her, slipped a pink, cellophane-wrapped boiled sweet into her fingers. He gently turned her from the shoulders and walked her into the kitchen, where Rohan had set the table and mackerel curry and rice were already waiting.
•
“This one, Neville, called me at the office: someone has daubed paint on their front door,” Papa said.
“Everywhere,” Ammi said. “Everywhere, these letters.”
“Hmm.” Papa poured himself another shot of arrack. His eyes were murky already, Preethi could see. Ammi looked at the glass, then turned away, toward Preethi.
“Tomorrow, you will write out all of the times tables. Write them out every day for the rest of the week.”
Papa nodded at Preethi. “Clear now, clear.” He waved his hand at the plates. Preethi jumped up, but the boys remained where they were. Gehan never helped. She and Papa normally cleared and did the washing up together.
“I talked to her teacher last week,” Ammi said. It was old ground, a well-rehearsed speech. “It is not that she is not bright enough.”
“Hmm, hmm,” Papa interrupted. Preethi heard the harsh punishment of the drink, the way he gulped it into him.
“Have you thought she might be dyslexic?” Rohan said. Preethi looked at him: it was very brave, this sudden thought. Unexpected and brave, particularly when Papa was like this. Papa laughed, and Ammi, looking first at Papa, laughed, too.
“What is this ‘dyslexic,’ child? You think you’re at medical school already?” Papa said.
“Ammi said her teacher said she had a ‘blockage.’ I have read about dyslexia—”
“What nonsense,” Ammi said feebly. “Nonsense.” She jutted her chin toward Preethi, to the sink and the pans. “She is a bright girl. No more nonsense,” she said. Rohan took the rest of the plates to the sink, and together theywashed and dried, as Papa unsteadily walked to the sitting room. Soon he and Gehan were laughing with the audience on the television.
•
Sometimes Danny said hello in the playground. Now and then, she sat on the cement kerb at the back of the steps up to the classroom, and
“What did you
do
today?”
“Nothing, Ammi,” she said through the sting of tears.
“Nothing? Nothing! I see ‘nothing.’ Why? Why?” She wanted to reach toward Ammi, say, “Don’t, Ammi, it will be all right,” but she stood still.
Gehan said, “I saw her walking down the hill today.”
“What? I
told
you to stay here,” and slap again. Slap, and Gehan smiling. That was all she saw. Tomorrow she would go out again. Ammi put the book in her hands.
“Upstairs until you’re finished. Finish quickly. Papa is back in half an hour, and we will eat then.”
Rohan came into her room, sat on her bed, and looked over her shoulder.
“What’s two times six?”
“Twelve.”
“Carry the one. What’s four times eight?”
She shrugged. “Thirty-two. Add one. No, add the one.” He waited. “You really can’t do this, can you?” She shrugged again. He dictated the rest of the answers, telling her where to put the carried tens and cross them out. “You must have been taught this—”
“Yes, of course I have,” she said.
“Then why can’t you do it?”
“I just can’t.”
“What
do
you like?”
“Reading. And poems.”
“Yeah, I’d noticed. But apart from that stuff?” She shrugged.
When she went downstairs, Preethi heard Papa in the study. Shyly, she went and stood by the door. Watched him hang his coat and hat, take the bottle from the shelf, pour a glass of the amber liquid, and, as if administering medicine, throw it bitterly against his throat and swallow. He put the bottle and glass back, then turned to the door.
“Hmm, hmm, what are you doing? Why did you leave your sums?” But he asked kindly. She smiled, reached her hand to him. He took his hand from his pocket and, instead of holding her, slipped a pink, cellophane-wrapped boiled sweet into her fingers. He gently turned her from the shoulders and walked her into the kitchen, where Rohan had set the table and mackerel curry and rice were already waiting.
•
“This one, Neville, called me at the office: someone has daubed paint on their front door,” Papa said.
“Everywhere,” Ammi said. “Everywhere, these letters.”
“Hmm.” Papa poured himself another shot of arrack. His eyes were murky already, Preethi could see. Ammi looked at the glass, then turned away, toward Preethi.
“Tomorrow, you will write out all of the times tables. Write them out every day for the rest of the week.”
Papa nodded at Preethi. “Clear now, clear.” He waved his hand at the plates. Preethi jumped up, but the boys remained where they were. Gehan never helped. She and Papa normally cleared and did the washing up together.
“I talked to her teacher last week,” Ammi said. It was old ground, a well-rehearsed speech. “It is not that she is not bright enough.”
“Hmm, hmm,” Papa interrupted. Preethi heard the harsh punishment of the drink, the way he gulped it into him.
“Have you thought she might be dyslexic?” Rohan said. Preethi looked at him: it was very brave, this sudden thought. Unexpected and brave, particularly when Papa was like this. Papa laughed, and Ammi, looking first at Papa, laughed, too.
“What is this ‘dyslexic,’ child? You think you’re at medical school already?” Papa said.
“Ammi said her teacher said she had a ‘blockage.’ I have read about dyslexia—”
“What nonsense,” Ammi said feebly. “Nonsense.” She jutted her chin toward Preethi, to the sink and the pans. “She is a bright girl. No more nonsense,” she said. Rohan took the rest of the plates to the sink, and together theywashed and dried, as Papa unsteadily walked to the sitting room. Soon he and Gehan were laughing with the audience on the television.
•
Sometimes Danny said hello in the playground. Now and then, she sat on the cement kerb at the back of the steps up to the classroom, and
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