Roses of Gratitude Ajay Prasad flushed. Why was his teacher looking at him, her lips pursed in dissatisfaction? Ajay who was ten, worshipped Mrs. Kumar—a tall, slender woman whose face normally wore a serene smile. He had felt this way ever since, in front of the whole class, she had tousled his hair and told him he knew the answer, he must simply think. Beet red but grinning, Ajay had thought hard—and solved the problem. From then on, pleasing her was the most important thing in his life. Now, what had happened? Where had he gone wrong? At home after school, Ajay studied his reflection in the mirror for a clue to Mrs. Kumar’s disapproval. His ragged clothes and worn out tennis shoes—hardly sufficient to shield him from the cold---were not his fault. It was the winter of 1953 at Lucknow. Ajay Prasad’s father worked as a foreman in an iron foundry until 1950 when the factory closed and he was laid off. While his father searched for work, his mother worked as a part-time domestic servant. The family, then with four children, lived in an old three-room house. The rats that scrabbled in the dark, decaying floors terrified Ajay. Mrs. Kumar couldn’t know about the rats, could she? Ajay was mystified. He was a good student, and had done well for someone who spoke no English until he started going to school. That night, as he huddled under his covers, Ajay decided he would ask his teacher what was wrong. But the next morning, Ajay’s resolve melted life an icicle in sunshine. At noon, as he was about to go home, Mrs. Kumar suddenly appeared beside him in the verandah of the school. “Come with me, Ajay.” Ajay followed, thinking they were going to the Principal’s office. Mrs. Kumar walked briskly out of the school, and strode into a shoe shop with Ajay right behind her. “Sit down,” she told him. “Have you got a pair of shoes to fit this little boy?” she asked. The salesman took off his tattered tennis shoes and measured his feed. He found a pair of shoes that fitted Ajay perfectly. Outside, their purchase in a cardboard box, Ajay started back towards school. Without a word, Mrs. Kumar turned around in the other direction, again leaving him no choice but to follow. They entered a clothing store. Now Mr4s Kumar bought him a shirt and shorts. Ajay gaped at the notes she used to pay for them---it was more money than he had ever seen. They took the purchases and went back to school where Mrs. Kumar got two cups of tea for Ajay and herself. As they sat in the staff room, Ajay tried to find words to express his thanks. But Mrs Kumar’s quick gulps and hurried manner told him there was little time for talk. “We must go, Ajay,” she said. In her smile he again saw the serenity he treasured. I will never forget this, Ajay Prasad said to himself as he watched her saree flutter as she left. Soon after, the school was closed; its pupils and teachers were scattered. Ajay lost track of his beloved teacher before he had ever found the right moment to thank her. In time Ajay Prasad finished school and became an engineer. He married and fathered two boys. Then, in early 1991, Ajay suffered a massive heart attack. Lying in a hospital bed, he recalled his teacher of long ago. He wondered if she was still alive, and if so, where she lived. He thought of his promise, and knew he had some unfinished business to tend. In August 1991, Ajay Prasad wrote to his old school. A few days later he got a letter from Mrs. Kumar’s son. His mother and father had retired fifteen years ago and moved to Dehradun. He gave Ajay their telephone number. “Hello?” He recognized lilting voice of his former teacher. “Mrs. Kumar, this is Ajay.” He found he had trouble speaking. “Ajay Prasad.” After he told her why he was calling, Sheila Kumar said, “Ajay, I am sorry, I don’t remember you. There were so many hungry, ill-clothed children….” “That’s okay,” he assured her. He told her he was coming to Dehradun to meet her. “Oh Ajay,” Mrs. Kumar said. “That’s too much trouble.” “I don’t care,” Ajay said. “I want to do it.” She was silent for a moment. “You visualize me the way I looked then. I’m old and wrinkled now.” “I’m not young either,” he said. “Are you absolutely certain you want to come?” “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” On September twenty three, Ajay Prasad took a train to Dehradun. There he hired a taxi, bought a bouquet of long-stemmed roses and drove straight to the Kumar’s residence. Sheila Kumar met him at the door in her best saree, her grey hair freshly curled, her eyes sparkling. Ajay swept her up in his arms and hugged her. “Oh my Ajay,” Mrs. Kumar exclaimed. They sat in the Kumar’s drawing-room to catch up on forty years. Ajay told them about his life as an engineer, where all he worked, his wife and two children. “I often thought about you, those shoes and the clothes,” he said to Mrs. Kumar. As he was leaving Sheila Kumar said, “How can I ever thank you for all the trouble you’ve taken?” “Just think how much interest I owe you for the shoes and clothes,” Ajay squeezed her hand. Mrs. Kumar, eyes misty, stood a long time looking at the long stemmed roses in the flower vase. Their fragrance lingered for a long time in the room. ####################################### 1. Verandah: a covered portion with the roof projecting beyond the main building.
Posted on: Mon, 04 Aug 2014 03:30:53 +0000
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