Read Online Miss Timmins' School for Girls by Nayana Currimbhoy - Free Book Online Page B

silhouetted in the window, her hands over her ears.
    The inspector came scowling to the door, but smoothed his features into a smile. The wife scurried into the bedroom, and I collected my purse and left.
    Were deep dark secrets lodged in the laps of all middle-class Maharashtrian families? Was there no soft, smooth place on this earth? I glanced at the hawaldar, wondering if I should try to get some information from him, but decided against it.
    The lights-off bell rang as I walked into school through the back gate, and the dorms snapped dark as I went back to my room.
    â€œC an I have a word with you, Miss Apte?” called Miss Nelson as I walked past her office the next morning after prayers. The room was cool and quiet. It had a hushed and dignified air.
    â€œDo sit down, Miss Apte. So how are you adjusting to your new life?” she asked, her grave eyes large.
    â€œPlease, call me Charu,” I said.
    She seemed not to have heard, and continued, “You are barely older than the girls, and away from home for the first time. Hmm, that can take some time. But you must remember, now, that in the school you are not Charulata, you are Miss Apte. The girls need to look up to you, to respect you and to obey you. These young and impressionable minds have been given to us for safekeeping. We do the Lord’s work. We lead by example. Now, of course it is fun to get wet in the rain”—she paused, and smiled briefly—“but I cannot afford to have two hundred wet girls on my hands, now, can I?”
    I agreed and was duly chastised.
    â€œDon’t worry, my dear,” said Miss Nelson, rubbing her hands. “You will soon get used to it.” She smiled, and her eyes softened. “At first, this change can be a bit puzzling. But we are all here to help you.”
    She said she had heard I was having some trouble with Shobha Rajbans. “She is going through a difficult phase,” she explained. “Her father has warned me to expect some trouble this term. You see, he is planning to marry again, and she is not happy about it at all.”
    â€œSo what should I do?” I asked. “I am finding her very hard to control.”
    â€œYou must create a bit of steel inside yourself,” she said. “Only then will they see it, and learn to respect you.
    â€œAnd, er, Miss Apte,” she added, flushing a deep shade of red. “I hear you had dinner in the bazaar last night, with a policeman. Now, of course I want you to go out and have a good time. You will soon get to know the nice young teachers from Sunbeam.” She was trying, I suppose, to find a subtle way of explaining the not so subtle superiority of the white school.
    â€œWe call it the memsahib school,” the Woggle had said at dinner. “Those mames are so stiff. Your father should have put you into Sanjeevan; it is a nice Maharashtrian school.”
    I was about to roll over and say, “Yes, Miss Nelson, it will not happen again,” when I was interrupted by an inspiration. “I had dinner with the inspector and his family,” I said, meekly. “Inspector Wagle is a childhood friend of my uncle’s, and my father has asked him to be my local guardian.”
    â€œWell, then, I suppose you must go,” said Miss Nelson, grudgingly. “But don’t let it interfere with your other activities,” she said. “But don’t let them contaminate you” is what I really think she was trying to say. Perhaps she was regretting—despite the Chitnis connection—opening her doors to a Hindu teacher.
    I turned smartly on my heels and left, almost bumping into an earnest bunch of girls as I turned. “So sorry , Miss Apte,” they chorused. Miss Nelson’s office opened at a slant to the wide corridor that led through the prayer hall to the classrooms, so you could never tell if someone was waiting outside.
    It was some girls from standard ten, the senior-most class