At School

“Let me see my Amma and Appa,” I say to the teacher -- and though they mostly don’t pay attention to any of us kids, I’ll keep saying it until they listen.

But I can see from the sunlight splashed across the wooden floor that it’s early in the day, so I’m where I should be, and have to be patient until school ends. Amma must be busy with my five baby brothers. What a mess they make, digging up potatoes in the garden and spreading mud everywhere. Appa is at his job, sitting at his huge, gleaming glass and metal desk with piles of paper all over it. One day I’ll have a job like that.

My stomach growls.

“I’m hungry,” I tell a passing teacher. “Can you please find my lunch?”

“Eat this, my dear.” She sets a plate in front of me with a soggy cheese sandwich on it. It’s on wheat bread. I open it and see a hasty scrawl of mustard, a bedraggled slice of tomato. I shut the sandwich and wrinkle my nose. 

“Where’s my lunch bag?” I ask. “Where are my idlis with sambar from home?”

“I have them here,” says a voice. A smiling lady sits by me. Though I’ve never seen her before, she looks kind and slightly familiar, so I smile back. I hope she’ll want to be my friend. Most of the kids around here have no time for anyone but themselves. One could sooner make spirited conversation with the squirrels in the school courtyard.

I open the stacked metal tiffin box the lady sets before me, and smell onion and tomato sambar, exactly the way Amma makes it. Yes! This is my lunch. Instantly, I am very cheered. All is right with the world after all. I take a bite and chew slowly, savoring the rich liquid as it rolls around my tongue and down my throat, warming me.

“How are you?” asks the lady. “Do you like it here?”

I shake my head and whisper, “No, but it’s okay. I’m only eight, and I have to be here at the village school until I’m twelve. Then Amma and Appa will put me in a nicer school across town. But I really hope I’m not falling behind. The classes here are terrible. One would think they were just babysitting me.” As her eyebrows draw together in a furrow, I laugh. “Does that shock you?”

The lady laughs slightly, and shakes her head. “No…I’m not shocked.”

“I don’t mind it, though.” I fidget. “I just wish my best friend were here.”

The lady tilts her head. “Who’s that?”

“My pet cow, Lakshmi!” I exclaim. “I have five brothers, and don’t get me wrong -- they’re okay, for babies. But Lakshmi is my confidante. She’s the best listener. She has the brightest eyes and purest heart. She’s milky white, except for a chocolate diamond on her forehead. She gives the yummiest, creamiest milk. Amma makes it into yogurt, butter, and buttermilk.”

“That’s wonderful.” The lady smiles. “Well…I’d better go now.”

“Okay.” I nod. “Thanks for finding my lunch.”

She turns to leave, then turns back to me. “I’ll come again, with other visitors. Would that be okay?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be impolite, but I don’t think I’ll be here for much longer. My Amma and Appa will be bringing me home soon. But there are plenty of other kids here for you to visit with.”

The lady’s face falters. “Ma,” she whispers. “It’s me, Lavanya. Your parents have been dead these past forty-some years. Your brothers, too. You’re the only one left.”

I gasp, feeling like the world is spinning, and I’m strangling. Then I realize she’s obviously kidding. I laugh. “You almost got me! That’s a…strange sort of game. I don’t mean to scold, but my Amma would say it’s not auspicious to joke about death. But I’m…sure you didn’t mean to. Well, I like your name! It’s pretty. I’ll remember it.”

“Okay.” The lady’s eyes brim with tears, but she shakes her head and smiles again. “Goodbye.”

I nod. “Bye.”

Flash Issue 12