Read Online Nothing Like Love by Sabrina Ramnanan - Free Book Online
Authors: Sabrina Ramnanan
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face.
Chandani sprang to her feet. “Who is ‘the school,’ Roopy? Cut the bullshit, nuh, man!” She leaned over the desk so that her face was inches from the headmaster’s. “Ain’t you mean Pundit Anand decide to withdraw the offer?”
Headmaster pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up on his nose and looked away. “Chand,” he said, rolling his chair back a few inches.
Vimla’s eyes grew wide.
Chand
?
“People talking about Vimla all over the district. How can we—the school—let she teach here? The parents go get vexed. Think of Saraswati Hindu School’s reputation.”
Vimla was startled by the imploring quake in Headmaster Roop G. Kapil’s voice. Chandani pointed a finger at Vimla. “Is people talking about she alone?”
Headmaster lowered his eyes and fiddled with the pen lying across his notebook.
“Ain’t people saying that Vimla get catch with Krishna, Pundit Anand Govind’s son? And Pundit Anand Govind have plenty influence at Saraswati Hindu School, ain’t so?”
Headmaster started to stammer a response, but Chandani wouldn’t hear it. “How a man like you become a headmaster?” she demanded.
Vimla gasped. “Ma!” She grabbed her mother’s reedy arm.
Chandani shook Vimla’s grasp off. “You could never make up your own mind, Roopy,” she said. The veins in her neck throbbed. “You did always rely on the opinions in books, the advice of other people and that damn, stupid notebook of yours for everything.” She picked up the notebook and hurled it at the lattice windows.
Vimla covered her mouth, horrified. She felt faint in the suffocating office.
Headmaster whisked his notebook off the floor and buttoned his blazer over the perspiration seeping through his shirt in patches. “Mrs. Narine, I am sorry you are upset. Perhaps Vimla could find a next opportunity elsewhere. Plenty universities go want she. Perhaps something abroad? Canada? England? We wish you luck, Vimla.” He looked directly into her eyes for the first time and she saw sadness not unlike her own flicker behind his gold-rimmed glasses.
Rum Shop Blues
Monday August 5, 1974
CHANCE, TRINIDAD
O m trundled up the side of the road with his head lowered and his fleshy arms swinging through the humidity. He puffed as he went, mopping the perspiration from his sideburns with his hands. He had been walking only a few minutes and already the off-white T-shirt he wore was damp and turning ochre under his armpits. Om could see, out of the corners of his eyes, people watching him as he went. He pretended he didn’t notice his neighbours, resisted the natural urge to raise his hand and call out to them. Instead he thought of Chandani sprawled in resolute defeat across their bed, and Vimla attending to her numerous chores with forlorn eyes. He couldn’t take it anymore; he’d had to leave. They had driven him away with their misery and their scandal, and it was their fault he was here. Om turned off the road and lumbered into Lal’s Rum Shop.
It was a small bar, with seating for no more than twelve men at a time. Plastered against the Caribbean-blue walls were Carib and Stag Lager posters, and just behind the bar Lal had tacked dozens of bikini-clad beauties and a miniature photo of Lord Shiva offering blessings to Lal’s drinkers. A silver radio—Lal’s most prized possession—played the latest chutney song and drowned out the incessant drone of circling flies.
“Om!” Puncheon slid off his rickety brown stool and wobbled to his friend. “
Hari Om!
Fatty-Om!” he sang. His shirt was crumpled and buttoned askew, the front tucked neatly in his pants and the back hanging, pathetic pink coattails, over his rear.
Om offered Puncheon a weak smile and heaved himself onto a stool. “A bottle of Old Oak and two glasses, Lal.”
Lal nodded, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. He plucked a bottle of rum off a shelf and slid it across the bar toward Om. “Enjoy, Boss,” he said.
“Eh, Om, that extra glass for me, boy?”
Chandani sprang to her feet. “Who is ‘the school,’ Roopy? Cut the bullshit, nuh, man!” She leaned over the desk so that her face was inches from the headmaster’s. “Ain’t you mean Pundit Anand decide to withdraw the offer?”
Headmaster pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up on his nose and looked away. “Chand,” he said, rolling his chair back a few inches.
Vimla’s eyes grew wide.
Chand
?
“People talking about Vimla all over the district. How can we—the school—let she teach here? The parents go get vexed. Think of Saraswati Hindu School’s reputation.”
Vimla was startled by the imploring quake in Headmaster Roop G. Kapil’s voice. Chandani pointed a finger at Vimla. “Is people talking about she alone?”
Headmaster lowered his eyes and fiddled with the pen lying across his notebook.
“Ain’t people saying that Vimla get catch with Krishna, Pundit Anand Govind’s son? And Pundit Anand Govind have plenty influence at Saraswati Hindu School, ain’t so?”
Headmaster started to stammer a response, but Chandani wouldn’t hear it. “How a man like you become a headmaster?” she demanded.
Vimla gasped. “Ma!” She grabbed her mother’s reedy arm.
Chandani shook Vimla’s grasp off. “You could never make up your own mind, Roopy,” she said. The veins in her neck throbbed. “You did always rely on the opinions in books, the advice of other people and that damn, stupid notebook of yours for everything.” She picked up the notebook and hurled it at the lattice windows.
Vimla covered her mouth, horrified. She felt faint in the suffocating office.
Headmaster whisked his notebook off the floor and buttoned his blazer over the perspiration seeping through his shirt in patches. “Mrs. Narine, I am sorry you are upset. Perhaps Vimla could find a next opportunity elsewhere. Plenty universities go want she. Perhaps something abroad? Canada? England? We wish you luck, Vimla.” He looked directly into her eyes for the first time and she saw sadness not unlike her own flicker behind his gold-rimmed glasses.
Rum Shop Blues
Monday August 5, 1974
CHANCE, TRINIDAD
O m trundled up the side of the road with his head lowered and his fleshy arms swinging through the humidity. He puffed as he went, mopping the perspiration from his sideburns with his hands. He had been walking only a few minutes and already the off-white T-shirt he wore was damp and turning ochre under his armpits. Om could see, out of the corners of his eyes, people watching him as he went. He pretended he didn’t notice his neighbours, resisted the natural urge to raise his hand and call out to them. Instead he thought of Chandani sprawled in resolute defeat across their bed, and Vimla attending to her numerous chores with forlorn eyes. He couldn’t take it anymore; he’d had to leave. They had driven him away with their misery and their scandal, and it was their fault he was here. Om turned off the road and lumbered into Lal’s Rum Shop.
It was a small bar, with seating for no more than twelve men at a time. Plastered against the Caribbean-blue walls were Carib and Stag Lager posters, and just behind the bar Lal had tacked dozens of bikini-clad beauties and a miniature photo of Lord Shiva offering blessings to Lal’s drinkers. A silver radio—Lal’s most prized possession—played the latest chutney song and drowned out the incessant drone of circling flies.
“Om!” Puncheon slid off his rickety brown stool and wobbled to his friend. “
Hari Om!
Fatty-Om!” he sang. His shirt was crumpled and buttoned askew, the front tucked neatly in his pants and the back hanging, pathetic pink coattails, over his rear.
Om offered Puncheon a weak smile and heaved himself onto a stool. “A bottle of Old Oak and two glasses, Lal.”
Lal nodded, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. He plucked a bottle of rum off a shelf and slid it across the bar toward Om. “Enjoy, Boss,” he said.
“Eh, Om, that extra glass for me, boy?”
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