his 50s with frog-like eyes and wearing a starched white shirt was holding court before some teachers who sat at the table or on cane chairs against the far wall, some of them sipping from cups of chai. The man’s neatly groomed, silvery hair gave him a dandified look.
The man was deep into his story, carrying on, arms fluttering: “And so,” he said, “seeing the accident, I got off my scooter and went down to see how I could help. The poor chap on the motorbike was absolutely
beh-bhaan
, you see, unconscious, and the vegetable wallah had broken his arm. So just then, one cop shows up, and I tell him, ‘Thank god you’ve arrived.’ Then he asks me if that’s my scooter parked just there. I tell him, ‘Yes, I stopped to see if I could help these chaps.’” The man spread his arms dramatically. “But that bloody cop, you know what he says? He says I’ve parked my scooter illegally … and he books me!” He slapped his hands together and grinned. Scattered laughs erupted from a few teachers as Frog Eyes shook his head, pleased with his story, and hitched his pants up. “That’s how it is,” he said. “Whole country has gone like that, yaar.”
I took a few steps into the room. A short, gaunt boy in short sleeves, gray slacks, and a pair of flip-flops went around with a wire basket that clinked with glasses of chai. He placed a glass next to a woman, her back to me, ina green sari. She had black hair cut short and sleek. The woman didn’t look up, just raised her palm to acknowledge the boy. She seemed engrossed in a book marked up with notes on the margins.
I approached the woman. The book she was reading—a thick paperback—was in French. The words looked dense, difficult, a thicket of unpronounceable vocabulary, conjugations, and accent marks.
“Excuse me,” I said awkwardly. “I’m looking for Madame Varma.”
She straightened, turned a stern face toward me as she took off a pair of reading glasses that hung from a chain.
“What do you want?”
“I’m a new student here. I’m signed up to take French, and they told me in the office to talk to Madame Varma.”
“Sit down,” she said.
I slid into the chair beside her, and she pushed her big French book at me.
“Translate that for me. Out loud.”
I felt something give inside me. “Um, well,” I said, “I’ve taken four years of Spanish, but never French.”
“If you can translate this, I can take you. I don’t have time for beginners.”
I stared at the scramble of words. A few I could approximate the meanings of, but it was mostly a disaster, as if English and Spanish had collided on the page, and this new language was the resulting wreck.
I began: “Field … bodies … dead … steal …”
Madame Varma closed the book. “Impossible.”
A fist closed over my heart. “But I need this class.”
After a brief pause, she told me, “Best if you signed for a preparatory class at the Alliance Française. They’ve got asix-week certificate course in starter French. You take that and come to me afterwards.”
I hauled myself up. So much for this.
“Thank you,” I said politely. “Alliance Française, I’ll do that.” I made to leave, anxious to disappear through the swinging doors and into a hole in the ground. Take refuge there, till I either died or got airlifted out of this country.
“One thing,” Madame Varma said. I spun around to face her. “I believe they’re signing up new students this week. Next session starts up in mid-July. Go straight away.”
I saw no choice but to do exactly what she said.
“Oh, um, where is the Alliance Française?”
“It’s near Ellis Bridge.”
“Ellis …?”
“You don’t know Ellis Bridge?”
“I just moved here a week ago. From the States.”
“Just tell the rickshaw wallah you want to go to Alliance Française, near Ellis Bridge.”
My folder tight in my hand, I left the lounge, took the stairs, and left the college past the echoing procession of students in
The man was deep into his story, carrying on, arms fluttering: “And so,” he said, “seeing the accident, I got off my scooter and went down to see how I could help. The poor chap on the motorbike was absolutely
beh-bhaan
, you see, unconscious, and the vegetable wallah had broken his arm. So just then, one cop shows up, and I tell him, ‘Thank god you’ve arrived.’ Then he asks me if that’s my scooter parked just there. I tell him, ‘Yes, I stopped to see if I could help these chaps.’” The man spread his arms dramatically. “But that bloody cop, you know what he says? He says I’ve parked my scooter illegally … and he books me!” He slapped his hands together and grinned. Scattered laughs erupted from a few teachers as Frog Eyes shook his head, pleased with his story, and hitched his pants up. “That’s how it is,” he said. “Whole country has gone like that, yaar.”
I took a few steps into the room. A short, gaunt boy in short sleeves, gray slacks, and a pair of flip-flops went around with a wire basket that clinked with glasses of chai. He placed a glass next to a woman, her back to me, ina green sari. She had black hair cut short and sleek. The woman didn’t look up, just raised her palm to acknowledge the boy. She seemed engrossed in a book marked up with notes on the margins.
I approached the woman. The book she was reading—a thick paperback—was in French. The words looked dense, difficult, a thicket of unpronounceable vocabulary, conjugations, and accent marks.
“Excuse me,” I said awkwardly. “I’m looking for Madame Varma.”
She straightened, turned a stern face toward me as she took off a pair of reading glasses that hung from a chain.
“What do you want?”
“I’m a new student here. I’m signed up to take French, and they told me in the office to talk to Madame Varma.”
“Sit down,” she said.
I slid into the chair beside her, and she pushed her big French book at me.
“Translate that for me. Out loud.”
I felt something give inside me. “Um, well,” I said, “I’ve taken four years of Spanish, but never French.”
“If you can translate this, I can take you. I don’t have time for beginners.”
I stared at the scramble of words. A few I could approximate the meanings of, but it was mostly a disaster, as if English and Spanish had collided on the page, and this new language was the resulting wreck.
I began: “Field … bodies … dead … steal …”
Madame Varma closed the book. “Impossible.”
A fist closed over my heart. “But I need this class.”
After a brief pause, she told me, “Best if you signed for a preparatory class at the Alliance Française. They’ve got asix-week certificate course in starter French. You take that and come to me afterwards.”
I hauled myself up. So much for this.
“Thank you,” I said politely. “Alliance Française, I’ll do that.” I made to leave, anxious to disappear through the swinging doors and into a hole in the ground. Take refuge there, till I either died or got airlifted out of this country.
“One thing,” Madame Varma said. I spun around to face her. “I believe they’re signing up new students this week. Next session starts up in mid-July. Go straight away.”
I saw no choice but to do exactly what she said.
“Oh, um, where is the Alliance Française?”
“It’s near Ellis Bridge.”
“Ellis …?”
“You don’t know Ellis Bridge?”
“I just moved here a week ago. From the States.”
“Just tell the rickshaw wallah you want to go to Alliance Française, near Ellis Bridge.”
My folder tight in my hand, I left the lounge, took the stairs, and left the college past the echoing procession of students in
Similar Books
