A Mathematical solution to a Life problem - Chapter 17 - The Chronicles of the Youngest Child
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I was now in the 5th Standard, and everything was kind of different this year. Mary Immaculate Girls' High School, my alma mater, had a different campus for its secondary school students, in a different location from the primary section. I was now with the big kids, and we went to a huge school that was constructed in layers around a local hill.
The school was built on several levels. The main school, with the offices, hall and stage, was in front of a large flat assembly area right at the top. This upper area also had a children's park and a garden in one corner, along with a basket ball court. Behind the main buildings were some smaller structures and play areas.
There were two ways to go up and down the hill. One was a huge driveway that wound its way down the slope, passing other play areas and open grounds. The entire school was surrounded by trees, and when one finally reached the bottom of the slope, there stood the main gate.
To the left of the main gate was a slightly elevated plateau where our one lone canteen shop stood. The canteen was popular with everyone who had some cash to spend. Since that was never the case with me, my memory leaps over the happy children who received their treats at lunchtime and those who stood patiently waiting to be served.
Being in the 5th Standard meant that my classroom was just one level above the canteen area. We had plenty of shade because the trees around this part of the school were old and grand. Their green canopies blocked out much of the sun that would otherwise have been scorching by midday.
From this year onwards, we had a class teacher assigned to us, but we also had different teachers for each subject. I had generally been good at my studies until then and had got a good rank the year before. Maths, however, was becoming a subject that I simply could not understand. I have no idea why I suddenly struggled with the concepts. Perhaps I had missed classes, or perhaps I was just getting things mixed up. I really don't know.
Then came a unit test. I stood in front of the teacher to find out my score. I had got 14 out of 40. It was just enough to pass. I had only just scraped through.
Coming from a Malayali family, with parents who hailed from Kerala, I had grown up with the general idea that Malayalis were supposed to be very good at Maths. Many people from South India carry the same stereotype, and to a large extent, it is even true. So, there I stood in front of my Malayali Maths teacher, who, even worse for me, actually knew my parents, to receive my score. I remember the expression on her face when she saw the marks, then my name, and finally looked at me.
I was very embarrassed.
Worse still, I knew I would have to tell my father about my marks. I nervously sat through the rest of the school day, trying to make time stand still. I didn't want to go home and reveal such a terrible score.
I tried everything I could, but eventually I dragged myself home. I still had some time; I told myself as I sat down to eat. I quickly switched on the TV and put on one of my favourite video cassette movies. At least Amma was usually so occupied with the housework that she didn't directly ask me about my exams or test results.
I sat watching TV, whiling away the afternoon. Every now and then, I glanced nervously at the clock on the wall of our tiny living room. It was almost 5.15 pm when I heard my father's key turning the lock of the auto locking door.
Yes, it took him exactly 15 minutes to cycle home from his office at St. Francis D'Assisi Technical Institute. He smiled as I opened the door for him. I thought about the dreaded moment once again. I didn't dare tell him. Not yet, anyway. So I simply watched as he went into the kitchen and got busy talking to Amma.
He freshened up and came back to the living room. To my utter shock, he immediately asked me about my exam scores. Had he somehow heard the very thought I had been trying so desperately to hide from him?
I showed him my Maths book and the note the teacher had written, saying that if I didn't work harder, I would probably fail in the next examination. I snivelled, looking down at the floor and wondering if my father would explode. I looked at his face.
There was no anger, no irritation and no judgement.
He simply said, "Yes, if you don't work hard, I think there are many people who would like a maid in their homes. Maybe you're not cut out for school after all. »
I was only ten, but I knew my parents would never spend money on things they considered useless. If I didn't pass, they would have to pay my fees all over again for me to repeat the year. At the time, I understood that education for girls was free as long as they were one of two children in the family. This was the Government's way of encouraging people to have small families. Being the fourth child, I was not eligible for free education, and I knew that my father was paying the full fees for my education.
I juggled all these thoughts in my head and looked at him again.
One thing I knew for sure. My father would never say one thing and do another. Over the years, he had shown me that he meant everything he said. So, holding back my tears but with a wailing voice, I asked him to help me understand the Maths that I was having such a hard time grasping.
He immediately agreed, and we decided on a time when we would work together.
And that is the story of how I didn't become a cleaning lady at the age of ten.
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