The colony looked like a socialist society; the location was filled with huts, middle-class homes and multi-level buildings.

On that day, in front of one hut, a serious wrangling was going on between the hunger of a poor man and the fierce longing of a little child.

“No, I will not go to work. I want to learn to read, ayya!” Kannadu, a twelve-year-old boy, said. His voice echoed his intense determination. His tone was firm; he was struggling desperately to get his dad on his side.

One more blow fell on the dark, smooth body of the boy. His father, Tirupati, who dealt the blow was also writhing inside at the same time.

The boy was not afraid of the stick in his dad’s hand. He kept repeating, “Ayya, please, send me to school.” He kept begging relentlessly.

“Stop asking the same question. Don’t pin me down. Schooling is not for people like us. We can’t afford it.” Tirupati was exasperated; he was being pulled in two directions—the boy’s dreams on one hand and the outstanding debt on the other; they were tearing him apart.

Kannadu noticed it; he was even more forceful in his appeal. “What do you mean it is not for us? I’m sure we can do it. I want to learn reading.”

“That’s what I’m telling you, stop hassling me. We couldn’t pay off the loan we owed Nayudayya, not even a paisa, don’t you know? He was so kind. He was willing to cancel the debt. You need to work his lobster pond,” his voice was reflecting his frustration, helplessness and anger.

But Kannadu was not worried about it. “I’ll talk to Nayudayya, don’t you worry,” he assured his dad.

Tirupati pushed him away bitterly. His obligations were pestering him; so many of them– daughter’s marriage, the little child needing medications, his seventy-year old father grappling with death, and the sick wife with no income. All these things colluded and were driving him crazy.

Kannadu’s filthy back was spanked one more time.

“You stupid, listen to me. In about four years, the loan will be paid off if you go to work now. You, stupid, get it?”

Over and again, blow after blow …

Until now, Kannadu took all the blows silently; he wanted to go to school so badly. Finally, he gave in and screamed, abbha.

Tirupati dropped the stick.

“Orey, Tirupati, stop beating him; he is not a beast,” a feeble voice was heard from inside the hut. That was the intense pull of a protest from the blood relationship; a desperate cry for not being able to fulfill the littlest wish of their child.

“You had your broth, nearly bursting your stomach. Why bother about anything else? Why don’t you just lie down and shut up?”

Tirupati was well aware that he hurt the little boy he had brought into this world; it was only because of his own frustration. He was in no position to fulfill his son’s hope, and so he acted irrationally. At heart, he knew that he was bartering his son’s infinite hope for a few morsels to fill his little stomach. It was killing him—his life was like a grinding stone, going in circles at the same place; there was no future for him.

“Ayya, don’t beat me, please, don’t. We are BCs[1], aren’t we? The government will pay for my schooling.”

Tirupati bent down to pick up the stick and throw it away. He twitched as he heard his son’s words. Poor boy! After all, what was he asking for? It was not all that absurd! How could a desire to learn be wrong? Tirupati was melting away like a wax candlestick. But the debt was like a zodiac sign, permanently glued to him, and frightening him. The melted wax was hardening again. He was rearranging his hardened feelings, hardened at his will. A demonic cloak shrouded his human side. He pretended to be sarcasatic and said, “Let’s say they would pay for schooling. Who’s going to feed you? You think you can live off of me?”

The boy tried to find signs of hope in dad’s words.

A few yards away, an old Brahmin was spinning thread for making yajnapoveetam[2]. He heard their conversation and sighed. He wished he was born a B.C. He could not obtain admission in schools because he was born a Brahmin; and he, like all others of his caste,. Had no money to pay the fees. Brahmins also, like Tirupati, would go around chanting mantras for birth and death, and showering blessings, but could make nothing for themselves. They end up earning their livelihood by selling the yajnapoveetam threads in their spare time.

Kannadu fell on his dad’s feet and begged, “No, dad, you don’t have to feed me. I will beg for my food and go to school.” He wound around his father’s legs.

Tirupati was exhausted physically and emotionally. He collapsed on the ground.

From inside the hut, his mother yelled, “Kanna, all that stuff—education and such—is not going to help us. I put the water ready for dad. Tell him to come in and take bath.”

Kannadu’s little brain understood even before he asked for it that he was not going to get support from her

A few people gathered and were watching the show. A young man’s voice from the crowd resounded, “Probably, these people don’t know that child labor is against law. I can go to the police station and file a complaint that this father was sending a little child to work; they would throw him in jail.”

Kannadu looked at the crowd and lowered his head. He would not like to send his father to jail, but he was also very keen on learning.

Appalasamy just finished his work for the day and was returning home. He understood Kannadu’s unspoken thoughts and wish. His mind traveled back to a similar situation, which had happened thirty-years ago—the same scene, the same reprimand, and the same sentence. If anything different, it was his father then in place of Tirupati now; and he [Appalasamy] in place of Kannadu. His own father also like Tirupati had conceded his life to day labor. Appalasamy’s heart growled. Wouldn’t it be great if he were born now? He would have sent his father to jail and himself gone to school. But, what is the point of mulling over it now? Half of his life was over.

A few others in the crowd were entertaining a different kind of thoughts. Who could tell what happens if these kids went to school? The educated kid would not care about anything else except his income, his wife, his children and himself. He would not think of the loans; life in the huts would become disgusting.

Kannadu’s little sister, Sita, just came back from school. She remembered that Kannadu would have started work today. Then, a new wish entered her brain. She was not mature enough to know that it was not the right place to express her wish there. “Anna![3] You got a job now. Won’t you buy me a frock?” she spoke up, gleefully.

Kannadu noticed the sparkle in her eyes; his determination slackened slightly. He wanted to report to work right away, take twenty-five rupees in advance from Nayudayya and buy a frock for his little sister. But, in the next second, he thought of something else. He could get education first, get a job, and then send her also to school; that way, she would be able to buy her own clothes.

Kannadu was standing there depressed. Sita was looking at him zealously; she understood that he was in no position to buy a frock for her. She was thinking—if she were in his position, she would have taken the job–washing dishes in somebody’s house—right away, earned the money, bought one silk skirt—just one—for herself, and given rest of the money to their mother.

There was one thing Kannadu did not realize however. The lady from across the street, Yasoda, has been watching them from her room upstairs ever since the squabble started.

When her husband bought this little building, she was upset about the location. “What kind of peace we can have in this neighborhood?” she asked. Yet, there was another side to it. After her husband left for work, and the children for school, she would sit on the second-floor balcony and watch the daily activities of the people in the huts across from her house—the population in those narrow hutments, their bickering resulting from their dire poverty, their hunger, which pushed them away from normal civilities—all these things were upsetting her. Amidst all this, what was happening today was the height of their poor economic condition. She was shaken.

She had seen a lot of people, and heard about even more people: Her children have everything and yet refuse stubbornly to study; there are poor children who would duck the teachers who came to escort them to school per government regulation; little kids who are caught playing games and end up babysitting other kids; some fooling enough to be happy that their fathers allowed them to drop out; there are people who would argue that, if everybody was educated who would bear the palanquin, and so many others with similar views. But this was the first time, she has come across a child who would rebel against his father and insist on going to school. She was taken by Kannadu’s attitude.

On the street, the shameless incident came to an end. The crowd started dispersing slowly. Suddenly, Yasoda came to her senses. She quickly ran down the staircase, went to the gate and called out for Kannadu and Tirupati.

The crowd was disappointed that the assembly had come to an end without any tangible solution. Yasoda’s call gave them a new incentive. They all stopped and turned around.

Yasoda was not embarrassed; did not hold back. She walked straight to Kannadu, and ran her fingers fondly through his disheveled hair. She said, “Kanna, I will help you. Will you go to school?”

Tirupati steppec closer and said, “Amma, you’re saying you can send him to school. I praise you for that. But, amma, how can we pay off our debt? What is the point of having children if not to help the family at a time like this?”

She heaved a sigh. “How much can he bring you a year?”

“Whichever way you count it, no less than six thousand per year.”

“All right. I will pay you that amount and also for his education. Let him go to school.”

Kannadu felt like he had conquered the vast sky. Yasoda noticed for the first time the real meaning of the word happiness in his eyes clearly.

We may forget for the moment the thousands of poor children who could not or would not learn and consequently turn into day laborers. Think about the hundreds and thousands of poor children who were not given a chance, not even allowed to try to check whether which one of them could reach the stars. Isn’t it a crime to bury their hopes while they were still in a nascent stage?

“So, amma garu, could you also buy a frock for my little sister?” Kannadu started out the sentence boldly but froze by the time he uttered the last word.

Yasoda was rearranging her thoughts. She came out of her reverie and smiled gently. “Yes, I will buy a frock for your sister.”

 

Kannadu looked at his father, longingly, joyously, timidly, and nervously.

Now, not only the eyes of Kannadu but Tirupati’s also were glittering; he was ecstatic that his son’s wish was going to materialize.

Kannadu’s mother watched the entire incident and felt sorry for Yasoda. She remembered something she had said to her neighbor earlier, “Look at her [Yasoda], such a stingy woman! So rich and yet did not go to pushkaraalu.[4] If I were she, I would have jumped on the next bus.”

Now she has understood. “Why go to pushkaraalu to earn God’s blessings?” she told herself, folding her hands reverently to the woman who was going to give the gift of education to her son.

[End]

Published on thulika.net, January 2005.

 (The Telugu original, nakshatram [star] was published in Andhrajyoti, 10 October 2004.)

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[1] Short for Backward Class; some of the lower classes are labeled B.C.s and S.C.s and offered reservations in schools.

[2] Sacred thread male Brahmins wear; a sign of young men being initiated into Brahminic rituals.

[3] Older brother.

[4] A festival celebrated once every twelve years on the banks of a famous river.