“But how can I do that, Baba?” Biren cried. “I’m not tall enough. I can’t throw it over the roof. Then the sparrow won’t get me a new tooth.”
“I’ll lift you up. You’ll throw it over the roof, don’t worry.”
Nitin plucked at Shamol’s sleeve.
Shamol turned to address him. “Yes, what is it, Nitin mia?”
Nitin pulled down his lip to display his own pearly whites.
“Now, let me see. Good, good, you have all your teeth. No need to throw your tooth over the roof. You don’t need any new teeth right now.”
Shibani emerged from the kitchen with a ripe papaya on a brass plate. Next to it was a dark knife with a white sharpened edge.
“The first papaya of the season,” she announced, setting it down. “Perfectly tree ripened. Will you cut it for us, please?”
“But of course, my queen.”
The boys settled down to watch. They never got tired of watching their father cut a papaya because he did it with such ceremonial style. Shamol Roy held the papaya in both hands, turned it over and pressed down with his thumbs to examine its ripeness. He then picked up the knife, and with clean easy swipes peeled away the skin in even strips. The bright orange fruit was laid bare and the juice dripped onto the brass tray. Then came the sublime moment, the lengthwise cutting open of the papaya. The boys leaned over and gasped to see the translucent seeds nesting like shiny black pearls in the hollowed chamber. The seed and the fiber were scraped away and discarded on an old newspaper. Nitin amused himself by pressing down on the seeds and making them slip around like tadpoles. The peeled fruit was segmented into long, even slices. The boys were given a slice each and the rest disappeared into the kitchen.
No matter how wilted and crushed Shamol Roy looked at the end of the day in his foul-smelling clothes and the jute fibers trapped in his hair, he became God in the eyes of his sons when he peeled a papaya. They were convinced no other person in the world could peel a papaya as beautifully and expertly as their own father did.
Eight-year-old Samir Deb came to the Tamarind Tree Village School wearing knife-edged pleated shorts, knee-length socks and real leather shoes. If that was not impressive enough, there were two brand-new pencils, one red and the other blue, sticking out in a flashy manner from his shirt pocket.
The pencils were immediately confiscated by the young schoolmaster, who probably fancied them as much as the other boys. Pencils and paper were a luxury, after all, erasers coveted and rare and a mechanical pencil sharpener considered a technological marvel. The boys were given slates and chalks to use in class that remained in the school. To take a piece of chalk home, they had to steal it. No wonder Samir Deb with his new pencils created such a sensation.
Samir said he was born in Calcutta. He also claimed he had been to London—twice—and seen Big Ben. Since nobody in the village school knew who this Big Ben was, the boys nicknamed him Big Beng. Big Frog. He was rather froggy looking, as well, with his flabby face and thin legs; Samir Deb was odd in every way. To begin with, he arrived in a tasseled palanquin carried by four burly men instead of by boat like the other village children. During recess he tried to join the boys in their rough play and pleaded with them in a high girlish voice. When he got pushed, he fell down, scuffed his knees and cried. Sammy’s humiliation was complete when he received a sharp rap on his knuckles from the schoolmaster after he was caught passing a wooden top from one boy to another in class. By the time he had climbed into the palanquin and left for home, he was convulsing in hiccupping sobs, and his knee-length socks had collapsed around his ankles.
* * *
The next day there was pandemonium in school. A brood of belligerent women in shiny saris and oversize nose rings rushed into the schoolmaster’s tiny office and cornered him against the wall.
“Why did you beat him so?” cried a pitcher-shaped woman with gold bracelets up to her elbow. She had a pale froggy face that looked like Samir’s, and was most likely his mother. “The poor child is completely traumatized. He cried all night. He would not eat, he would not sleep. Today he was terrified of coming to school.”
“My goodness.” The schoolmaster stared from one angry face to the other. “I hardly beat him at all. I just gave him a small tap on his knuckles because he was misbehaving in class. How else is the child going to learn a lesson?”
“You hit him with a stick.” The woman pointed to Samir’s knees, which looked ghastly thanks to the red Mercurochrome that had been applied to the scrape. “Look at his knees. The poor child can hardly walk.”
“I did nothing to his knees, excuse me,” said the schoolmaster indignantly.
“In our family we believe in kindness and love,” said a gray-haired woman who was probably Samir’s grandmother. She glared at the young schoolmaster severely. “You had no business to beat the child.”
“I repeat, I did not beat the child,” said the schoolmaster in a tired voice.
“But you just admitted you took a ruler to his hands. I want to make sure this never happens again,” said the pitcher-shaped mother in a stern voice. “This darling boy has never heard a harsh word in his life. It is unthinkable that anybody should beat and punish him.”
“So how do you suppose he is going to learn what is right from wrong?” demanded the schoolmaster.
“He will learn by watching others,” said the grandmother. “By following their example. May I please make a suggestion?”
“Go ahead,” said the schoolmaster in a resigned voice. Through a gap in the wall of female forms he spied the curious faces of his students looking in through the window. He clapped his hands abruptly to disperse them, and Samir’s mother, interpreting his action as a sign of mockery, flew into a sudden rage.
“Do you know who my husband is?” she shrieked. “He is Dhiren Deb. My husband is supplier of all the goods in the Victoria Jute Mills co-op store. My husband will ask the jute mill owners to stop all funding to this school if you do not pay attention, do you understand?”
“I am listening,” said the schoolmaster, a little taken aback.
“All we are suggesting,” the grandmother said in a soothing voice, “is the next time Samir needs to be disciplined, just take the ruler and beat the child next to him. If Samir sees the other child suffering, he will be frightened and behave himself.”
The schoolmaster was incredulous. “Beat some other innocent child who has not done anything wrong instead of the real culprit? How does that even make any sense?”
“Just try it,” said the granny, nodding wisely. “We know it works. Samir gets very frightened when he sees somebody else being punished. At home we just beat the servant boy and Samir immediately behaves himself. Now, don’t get us wrong. We want the child to be disciplined and grow up to be a fine boy. Just don’t beat our little darling is all we are saying.”
* * *
Samir quickly figured out some friendships were negotiable. He could join in a game by giving the leader a pencil. But most games involved a lot of push and shove, and he was deathly afraid of getting hurt, so he just stood on the sidelines and cheered the players on in his high girlish voice. Sometimes he was generous for no reason at all. He played treasure hunt and left coveted items in secret places so that they could be “stolen.” He even left his leather shoes under the tamarind tree and watched secretly to see who would steal them.
The one person Sammy wanted most