A HELPING HAND

lying in bed, i realized with a shudder that it was monday morning. it looked as though only a moment ago it had been the last period at school on friday; but monday was already here. i hoped that an earthquake would reduce the school building to dust, but that good building - st.mary'school - had withstood many such similar prayers for over a hundred years now. at nine o'clock i wailed ' i have a headache'. my mother said, 'why dont you go to school in a local vehicle?" 'so that i may be completely dead at the other end?? have you any idea what it means to be jolted in those cars??' ' have you many important lessons today?" 'important! that geography teacher has been teaching the same lesson for over a year now. and we have arithmetic, which means for a whole period we are going to be beaten by the teacher.... important lessons!" and mother generously suggested that i might stay at home. at nine-thirty, when i ought to have been shouting in the school prayer hall, i was laying on the bench in mother's room. father asked "have you no school today?" "headache," i replied 'nonsense, dress up and go to school,' 'headache' 'loaf about less on sundays and you will be without a headache on a monday,' i knew how stubborn my father could be and changed my tactics ,'i cant go so late to the class now,'. ' i agree, but you will have to; it is your own fault. you should have asked me before deciding to stay away.' 'what will the teacher think if i go late?' 'tell him you had a headache and so are late.' 'he will beat me if i say so.' 'will he? let us see. what is his name?' 'samuel'. ' does he beat other students?' 'he is very violent, especially with boys and girls who come late. some days ago a boy was made to stay on his knees for the whole period in a corner of the class because he came late, and that after getting six cuts from the cane and having his ears twisted. i woud'nt like to go late to samuel's class.' 'if he is so violent, why not tell your headmaster about it?' ' they say that even the headmaster is afraid of him. he is such a violent man.". and then i gave a lurid account of samuels violence; how when he started canning he would not stop till he saw blood on the boy's hand, which he made the boy press to his forehead like a vermillion marking. i hoped that with this his father would be made to see that i could'nt go to my class late. but father's behaviour took an unexpected turn. he became excited. 'what do these swines mean by beating our children? they must be driven out of service. i will see....' the result was that he proposed to send me late to my class as a kind of challenge. he was also going to send a letter with me to the headmaster. no amount of protest from my side was of any avail: i had to go to school. by the time i was ready father had composed a long letter to the headmaster, put it in an envelop and sealed it. ' what have you written father?' i asked apprehensively. ' nothing for you. give it to your headmaster and go to your class.' ' have you written anything about our teacher samuel?' ' plenty of things about him. when your headmaster reads it he will probably dismiss samuel from the school and hand him over to the police.' 'what has he done father?' 'well there is a full acount of everything he has done. give it to your headmaster and go to class. you must bring an acknowledgement from him in the evening.' i went to school feeling that i was the worst perjurer on earth. my conscience bothered me; i was'nt at all sure if i had been accurate in my description of samuel. i could not decide how much of what i had said was imagined and how much of it was real. i stopped for a moment on the roadside to makeup my mind about samuel: he was not such a bad man after all. personally he was much more genial than the rest; often he cracked a joke or two centring around my inactions, and i took it as a mark of samuel's personal regard for me. but there was no doubt that he treated people badly..... his cane skinned people's hands. i cast my mind about for an instance of this. there was none within my knowledgee. years and years ago he was reputed to have skinned the knuckles of a boy in the first standard and made him smear the blood on his face. no one had actually seen it. but year after year the story persisted among the children...... my head was dizzy with confusion in regard to samuel's character - whther he was good or bad, whether he deserved the allegations in the letter or not.... i felt an impulse to run home and beg my father to take back the letter. but my father was an obstinate man. as i approached the white building i realized that father was perjuring himself and was ruining my teacher.probabaly the headmaster would dismiss samuel and then the police would chain him and put him in jail. for all this disgrace, humiliation and suffering who would be responsible? i shuddered. the more i thaught of samuel, the more i grieved for him - the dark face, his small red streaked eyes, his thin line of moustache, his unshaven cheek and chin, his yellow coat; everything filled me with sorrow. as i felt the bulge of the letter in my pocket, i felt like an executioner. for a moment i was angry with my father and wondered why i should not fling into the gutter the letter of a man so unreasonable. and stubborn. as i entered the school gate an idea occured to me, a sort of solution. i would'nt deliver the letter to the headmaster immediately, but at the end of the day - to that extent i would disobey my father and exercise my independence. there was nothing wrong in it, and father would not know it anyway. if the letter was given at the end of the day there was a chance that samuel might do something to justify the letter. i stood at the entrance to my class. samuel was teaching arithmetic. he looked at me for a moment. i stood hoping that samuel would attack me and tear my skin off and cane me. but samuel merely asked, ' are you just coming to the class?' 'yes sir' 'you are half an hour late' 'i know it', i hoped that i would be attacked now. i almost prayed: 'oh god of thunder, lord vishnu, please make samuel beat me.' 'why are you late?' i wanted to reply,' just to see what you can do'.but i merely said.'i have a headache, sir.' 'then why did you come to the school at all?' a most unexpected question from samuel. 'my father said that i should'nt miss the class, sir.' i said this seemed to impress samuel, ' your father is quiet right; a very sensible man. we want more parents like him.' ' oh you poor worm!', i thought, ' you dont know what my father has done to you.' i was more puzzled then ever about samuel's character. ' all right, go to your seat. have you still a headache?' 'slightly, sir.' i went to my seat with a bleeding heart. i had never met a man so good as samuel. the teacher was inspecting home lessons, which usually produced (at least, according to my impression) scenes of great violence. notebooks would be flung at faces, boys would be abused, caned and made to stand up on benches. but today samuel seemed to have developed more tolerance and gentleness. he pushed away the bad books, just touched people with the cane, never made anyone stand up for more than a few minutes. my turn came. i almost thanked god for the chance. 'where is your homework?' ' i have not done my homework, sir'. i said blandly. there was a pause. 'why - headache?', asked samuel. 'yes, sir' 'all right, sit down.' i sat down, wondering what had come over samuel. the period came to an end, and i felt desolate. the last period for the day was again taken by samuel. he came this time to teach us indian history. the period began at three-forty-five and ended at four-thirty. i had sat through the previous periods thinking acutely. i could not devise any means of provoking samuel. when the clock struck four i felt desperate. half an hour more. samuel was reading the red text, the portion describing vasco da gama's arrival in india. the children listened in half languor. i suddenly asked at the top of my voice, ' why did not columbus come to india, sir?' ' he lost his way' ' i cant believe it; it is unbelievable, sir' 'why?' 'such a great man. would he have not known the way?' 'dont shout. i can hear you quiet well.' ' i am not shouting sir, this is my ordinary voice. which god ha s given to me. how can i help it?' ' shut up and sit down' i sat down, feeling alightly happy at my success. the teacher threw a puzzled, suspicious glance at me and resumed his lessons. my next chance came when suchitra of the first bench got up and asked ,'sir, was vasco da gama the very first person to come to india?' before the teacher could answer, i shouted from the back bench, 'thats whats they say.' the teacher and all the students looked at me. the teacher was puzzled by my obtrusive behaviour today. 'you are shouting again.' 'i am not shouting sir. how can i help my voice given by god?' the school clock struck a quarter hour. a quarter more. i felt that i had to do something drastic in fifteen minutes. samuel had no doubt scouled at me and snubbed me, but it was hardly adequate. i felt that with a little more effort samuel could be made to deserve dismissal and imprisonment. the teacher came to the end of a section in the text-book and stopped. he proposed to spend the remaining fifteen minutes putting questions to the children. he ordered the whole class to put away their books, and asked someone in the second row,' what is the date of vasco da gama's arrival in india?' i shot up and screeched, '1648,december20.' 'you need'nt shout,' said the teacher. he asked, ' has your headache made you mad?' ' i have no headache now,sir.' replied the thunderer brightly. 'sit down, you idiot.' i felt thrilled at being called an idiot. 'if you get up again i will cane you,' said the teacher. i sat down, feeling happy at the promise. the teacher then asked,' im going to put up a few questions on the mughal period. among the mughal emperor whom would you call the greatest, whom the strongest and whom the most religious emperor.?' i got up to answer. as soon as i was seen, the teacher said emphatically,'sit down'. ' i want to answer, sit' 'sit down' 'no sir; i want to answer'. 'what did i say i'd do if you got up again?' 'you said you would cane me and peel the skin off my knuckles and make me press it on my forehead.' ' all right; come here.' i left my seat joyfully and hopped onto the platform. the teacher took out his cane from the drawer and shouted angrily, 'open your hand, you little devil.' he whacked three wholesome cuts on each palm. i recieved them without blanching. after half a dozen the teacher asked, 'will these do, or do you want some more?' i merely held out my hand again, and recieved two more; and the bell rang. i jumped down from the platform with a light heart, though my hands were smarting. i picked up my books, took out the letter lying in my pocket and ran to the headmaster's romm. i found the door locked. i asked the peon, ' where is the headmaster?' 'why do you want him?' 'my father has sent a letter for him' ' he has taken the afternoon off and wont be coming back for a week. you can give the letter to the assistant headmaster. he will be here now.' ' who is he?' 'your teacher, samuel. he will be here in a second.' i fled from the place. as soon as i reached home with the letter, father remarked,'i knew you would'nt deliver it, your a coward.' ' i swear our headmaster is on leave', i began. father replied,'dont lie in addition to being a coward......' i held up the envelop and said ,'i will give this to the headmaster as soon as he is back...' father snatched it from my hand, tore it up and thrust it into the wastepaper basket under his table. he muttered ,'dont come to me for help even if samuel throttles you. you deserve your samuel.'