Ravi the Unknown Prince Read Online Free Page A
Author: Rookmin Cassim
Miss Price in the market place buying fish, she asked me what I was doing, and I told her that I was a fisherman as well as doing all sorts of jobs to survive.
My parents did not leave much money and six years on and I had spent it, although people still owed my father for tables and chairs he had made for them so I had to sell whatever the land produced and live on that income.
She told me about the Government funded Institute, which was in New Amsterdam, and if I was lucky to be admitted I would have to cross the ferry five days each week for the next two or three years, and I could not afford the ticket for that length of time.
She also said that she was giving private lessons on a few subjects. I asked her if I could join her class, doing only three subjects, which would at least enable me to get into the Army.
I told her I could not afford to pay her, but I could supply her with provision which the land produced, and fishes from the sea.
We agreed on those terms, and I joined her class in Mathematics, English, and History and I went three days to New Amsterdam.
“What grades did you get Ravi,” Maymun asked.
“Aunty, I got three A’s with Miss Price, one B and two A’s with the Institute.”
“You are clever as well as handsome,” she remarked.
“Thank you, aunty,” I answered.
“What profession would you like to take up,” Asma questioned.
“I like Mathematics and I think I would make a good teacher,” I replied.
Ismael said “InshaAllah” then he explain to me what it meant, [if Allah wills it].
“Everything we achieved in this world has been written down for us, for example like today, if all of us were to go to America, we would get that Visa without any problems,” he remarked.
“I did not know that,” I answered.
I had little knowledge of that family who had suddenly taken me under their wings.
Ismael was a tall and well-built man, around forty years old. He was a farmer and worked closely with his older brother Yunus.
They both owned their own home, a tractor and a herd of cattle, and some milking cows.
He seemed honest and trustworthy, from my limited knowledge of people. Maymun his wife was a soft spoken woman.
She told me that she was a typist for the Sugar Cane plantation export market, before she got married and that she came from the Canji district area another part of Berbice.
Their son, Harun was slim and slightly shorter than I was; he looked more like his father.
He was good with his hands, in making and assembling all sorts of things. He wants to learn Arabic and to memorise the Quran.
Asma the 15 year old, seemed bossy, liked asking questions, and to have a say in everything.
She was slightly overweight for her height and age, pretty and looked more like her mum.
I guess that if everything goes well, I would be living with this family, so I would have to get used to them.
At the end of our lunch I offered to pay my share of the meal, but Ismael said it was all right and that I was now their family.
After we left the restaurant we took our time going back to the Visa issuing office; they opened at 2pm until 4pm in the afternoon, and 9am to 12noon in the morning hours.
We missed the morning session and we were hoping to get an appointment for the afternoon.
When we arrived at the office, we sat together waiting. It was the only time Asma kept quiet.
At 2.30pm, a woman called us all into a room. Each one of us sat on a chair waiting our fate and the outcome of that meeting.
Shortly afterwards, a black woman came in and sat behind the desk, she was smartly dressed in a white shirt and navy blue skirt.
She looked neat and elite, like the bill-board advertisement everywhere along the road side approaching the capital, and free Mandela written on the sea wall.
Her hair was straightened was a hot comb. I once saw Miss Price having her hair done by another woman; what went through my mind when I first saw that bizarre hair styling.
What if she burnt her skull
My parents did not leave much money and six years on and I had spent it, although people still owed my father for tables and chairs he had made for them so I had to sell whatever the land produced and live on that income.
She told me about the Government funded Institute, which was in New Amsterdam, and if I was lucky to be admitted I would have to cross the ferry five days each week for the next two or three years, and I could not afford the ticket for that length of time.
She also said that she was giving private lessons on a few subjects. I asked her if I could join her class, doing only three subjects, which would at least enable me to get into the Army.
I told her I could not afford to pay her, but I could supply her with provision which the land produced, and fishes from the sea.
We agreed on those terms, and I joined her class in Mathematics, English, and History and I went three days to New Amsterdam.
“What grades did you get Ravi,” Maymun asked.
“Aunty, I got three A’s with Miss Price, one B and two A’s with the Institute.”
“You are clever as well as handsome,” she remarked.
“Thank you, aunty,” I answered.
“What profession would you like to take up,” Asma questioned.
“I like Mathematics and I think I would make a good teacher,” I replied.
Ismael said “InshaAllah” then he explain to me what it meant, [if Allah wills it].
“Everything we achieved in this world has been written down for us, for example like today, if all of us were to go to America, we would get that Visa without any problems,” he remarked.
“I did not know that,” I answered.
I had little knowledge of that family who had suddenly taken me under their wings.
Ismael was a tall and well-built man, around forty years old. He was a farmer and worked closely with his older brother Yunus.
They both owned their own home, a tractor and a herd of cattle, and some milking cows.
He seemed honest and trustworthy, from my limited knowledge of people. Maymun his wife was a soft spoken woman.
She told me that she was a typist for the Sugar Cane plantation export market, before she got married and that she came from the Canji district area another part of Berbice.
Their son, Harun was slim and slightly shorter than I was; he looked more like his father.
He was good with his hands, in making and assembling all sorts of things. He wants to learn Arabic and to memorise the Quran.
Asma the 15 year old, seemed bossy, liked asking questions, and to have a say in everything.
She was slightly overweight for her height and age, pretty and looked more like her mum.
I guess that if everything goes well, I would be living with this family, so I would have to get used to them.
At the end of our lunch I offered to pay my share of the meal, but Ismael said it was all right and that I was now their family.
After we left the restaurant we took our time going back to the Visa issuing office; they opened at 2pm until 4pm in the afternoon, and 9am to 12noon in the morning hours.
We missed the morning session and we were hoping to get an appointment for the afternoon.
When we arrived at the office, we sat together waiting. It was the only time Asma kept quiet.
At 2.30pm, a woman called us all into a room. Each one of us sat on a chair waiting our fate and the outcome of that meeting.
Shortly afterwards, a black woman came in and sat behind the desk, she was smartly dressed in a white shirt and navy blue skirt.
She looked neat and elite, like the bill-board advertisement everywhere along the road side approaching the capital, and free Mandela written on the sea wall.
Her hair was straightened was a hot comb. I once saw Miss Price having her hair done by another woman; what went through my mind when I first saw that bizarre hair styling.
What if she burnt her skull
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