The Blue Bedspread Read Online Free Page B

of her sari against my eyes through which I can see Father restless on the sofa looking the other way.
    I write down what I see and she reads it, she tells me to fold the piece of paper and put it in my pocket and take it home.
    When we step out, the rain has stopped, the streets are flooded. Father rolls up his trousers, I remove my shoes and we walk, the city’s grime lapping against us, my wet shoes like two little black kittens I am holding by their necks.
    ‘Careful,’ says Father. ‘Give me the paper on which you wrote. I don’t want it to get wet.’
    I give it to him and he puts it in his shirt pocket, high up, more than five feet above the street. ‘Water can’t reach here,’ he says and he smiles. ‘Let’s go, we don’t have to come here again.’
    ‘Why?’ I ask.
    He doesn’t answer, just walks ahead, and I follow him, looking down, looking at the deep brown water mixed with gasoline cut itself in V-shaped wakes whenever a vehicle passes us by, Father’s calves are wet, the hair all neatly lined up.
    And perhaps it was on that rain-flooded afternoon, when I turned back to look at the white building on Russell Street for the last time that I understood what seems to be the most important lesson my Father taught me: when you find it difficult to say something, when the words get trapped in your chest, your lips quiver, as in winter, you can always write it down. That’s why, my child, I have nothing to worry about tonight, I am prepared.

 
O NE R UPEE
     
    Bhabani, the maid, and I are standing outside the door which Father has locked from the inside and we can hear him beating my sister. Someone is on the bed, someone is on the floor. The person on the bed is running, I think it’s Sister because the creaks are gentle. The bed is very old, my sister says Mother got it from her father when she got married.
    My sister is four years elder to me, we go to the same school, she is in Class VIII A, I am in Class V B. Her teacher is Mr Peter D’Souza, mine is Miss Constance Lopez. Mr D’Souza wears a very nice cologne, Miss Lopez’s son died in a shipwreck near Australia. He had gone there on a vacation with his friends and the ship sank. I have read about Australia, the Great Barrier Reef, the Flying Doctor, I like Miss Lopez a lot.
    Why is Father beating my sister? To tell you the answer, I have to tell you about what happened in school today.
    I am a very good student, I come first in my class, the boy who comes second is very good in Mathematics and Science but I always beat him in Second Language. I do very well in Hindi and get at least eighty-five. He is not so good in Bengali, which is his Second Language, and gets at the most seventy. So that means I get fifteen marks extra there, he beats me in Mathematics by seven to eight marks and Science by two to three which doesn’t add up and this is how I come first.
    Once, he beat me in Science by twenty marks and he came first. Father got very angry. My sister is a good student too, she comes sixth or seventh in her class, she doesn’t like to study. She doesn’t need to study, she’s very intelligent, she remembers everything by heart.
    Every day, Father gives my sister two rupees. I am very young and that is why I am not allowed to keep any money with me. The bus ticket is forty paise. So every day, we spend forty into four, one rupee sixty paise. We save forty paise. Father doesn’t ask for this. After five days, we save two rupees and then my sister and I have a vanilla ice cream each.
    There are students in my class who don’t have to wait for five days, who eat ice cream every day, expensive ice creams, the kind which comes in biscuit cones or plastic cups. They are rich students but because I come first in my class and because my sister is very beautiful they all come to me for help before the exams. Maybe that’s why I don’t feel so bad.
    Today, while going to school, Father didn’t have change so he gave my sister a five-rupee note.