She had really really wanted to go to some far far away foreign land, visit exciting places, have great adventures and come back to Sulur with plenty of stories to tell.
On the other hand, even if she were to fly away on a magic carpet who could she regale with, with her tall tales? Not only was she bored but she was also lonely. Not only was she lonely she was also indignant. No one understood her dreams, no one came close enough to her. Either they were scared or they were puzzled by this quiet eleven year old who gave the impression of a volcano but behaved like a tree trunk. Brown, oiled and sombre.
That was another issue she had with humankind. Her oily plaits were a source of great rage to her. Every morning she would have to sit under her Amma’s firm hands, which then did what they pleased, pulling, tugging, weaving her scalp into yet another obedient version of herself. While she did what she always did, the moment she stepped out of the house with her basta she ruffled her coconut smelling hair into defiance. She also wished, apart from wanting to travel, to some day convince her mother that she was old enough for one single bun. That is what all the heroines did in the movies. She was not a fan like other silly girls but she was an admirer of all things mature and elegant. Two plaits were not elegant, not when dipped in a can of coconut oil.
Then there was the serious matter of the bottu. Agreed that her Amma-Nanna were not as strict as other parents or some teachers who preached that girls should always wear a bottu, everyday, nevertheless she was torn among so many thoughts. She liked her culture and she was proud of being a Hindu but what was the connection between bottu and her culture? Why were the boys in her class not part of this culture? This was the most unfair part. Off late she kept noticing how boys were always allowed to do anything. NO one lectured them, no one told them right from wrong, no one expected them to be good or uphold any culture but everyone cared about their dreams. A boy’s thoughts were much more important than a girl’s. At least that is what she felt and she was very unhappy.
Hence her only solace was under her favourite Chintachattu where she would read for hours unless of course one of the senior boys threw a stone at her, to disturb her and tease her about her bookish habits. They were actually insecure with her ever increasing English vocabulary, she knew that, but they acted as if they were the bosses and she a minion in her own land under her own tree. Then she would pick up a fight and shout, losing all concentration and enjoyment. She wished she lived in a land with less people, India had too many people. She wished she could just while away time looking at pretty scenery, while life went on right before her eyes and she did not have to go to school or do up her hair for it. In her ideal world there would be no uniforms, it was a pity that even in an enlightened not very populated country like England students had uniforms. Nanna said they removed class barriers and instilled discipline.
Ha! That was it, she did not like that word - Discipline!
Who was this Discipline to decide what colour she wore today? She was feeling like Saffron and she was forced to wear Navy Blue. All the three sixty five days nothing but a dirty blue. Not SKY blue, not PEACOCK blue, not AZURE, not CERULEAN, nothing but the nothing-pretty-about-it-Blue. That was the colour of her uniform and she was confined in its prison for another seven years. How she wished she could splash paint on herself to feel brighter! How could her imagination be expected to flower with such dreary attire? Really most adults were hopeless when it came to such simple decisions. On one hand they were constantly worrying about children and on the other did everything to worry THEM. Thank God for Saturdays, she could drown into an all white gear but then Saturdays reminded her of the dreaded PT. She would never ever ever complain about Navy Blue or Coconut Oil or Discipline if she could just read quietly. Instead of having to sweat and huff and puff with unruly boys and aggressive girls on something called KHO KHO.
She really wished she could indulge in some civilized games like, I don’t know ….hmmm…croquet maybe? Alice had played it in her wonderland. It sounded non-shouter-ly, she could picture it as being very stroll friendly. Come join me for croquet! Sounded like the English high tea, come join us in the parlour, no?
Kho Kho on the other hand involved grunts and growls. Touching (how she hated that most of all) and pushing and running. No, Running is what she hated most-er than most of all. Why did she have to run between crouching figures hitting random people on the head while shouting Kho , at the same time running away from an opponent who might Kho-Kho-you-out by touching your head and ALSO shouting Kho, while you urgently looked for a place to squat? She couldn’t believe that her highness was being made to behave like a common commoner with all these non-entities who were her classmates. In her mind she was a princess of a far off land awaiting to be discovered and crowned a queen by a very grateful public.
She was glad that she was not a boy just for this reason that she was not forced to play Kabbaddi. That would have been disastrous, forcing Uma to say Kabbaddi Kabbaddi all the while trying to enter enemy territory and ‘kill’ a person and re-enter her own without being caught or losing breath.
Uma could not believe that Gautam Buddha or Mahavira were Indian. We are so war like and violent she thought, even in our games. Chess, which she had initially enjoyed playing with her Tathayya was another murderous board game designed for Kings and Viziers. She had given it up on a matter of principle. She would not participate in this competitive game nor anything reeking of such intent. Oh! Where was she to go? What was she to do? She was a helpless eleven year old, a victim of her age and sex, with no outlet or help in sight. Except her books. Plus she did not want a Prince to rescue her if the Prince happened to be a boy.
Everyone was living a fantastic life in a wonderful story while she went to school and came home, went to school again and came home again and then again and again. “If only my life could be like ……” she thought. Like who? Anyone whose story appeared in a book seemed to her as worthy and lofty. One day it was Tom Sawyer another day it was Oliver Twist, yet another day it was the Little Women (she couldn’t decide on just one among the four) and for many many days the girls of St Clare’s and Malory Towers seemed to her to be having the best lives among all living creatures.
Far away in the United Kingdom there were chirpy girls in uniforms, carrying trunks, giggling on their way to their boarding schools, making best friends and gossiping about their French teacher while Uma, stuck here, in this nowhere land in the south south southern most part of India, (probably no one even knew of her land? Did they read about India like she read about them?) while she walked to and fro from a day school with absolutely unexciting classmates and boring teachers. Of course there were no terrible French verbs to memorize to make life exciting the way life happened in England. All she had by way of a foreign language was Sanskrit, Samskrutam is how her Nanna called it, (“it means ‘ civilized’, ‘cultured’ ”), which not only was not foreign, it was dead. What a terrible situation, my poor Uma!
On the other hand, even if she were to fly away on a magic carpet who could she regale with, with her tall tales? Not only was she bored but she was also lonely. Not only was she lonely she was also indignant. No one understood her dreams, no one came close enough to her. Either they were scared or they were puzzled by this quiet eleven year old who gave the impression of a volcano but behaved like a tree trunk. Brown, oiled and sombre.
That was another issue she had with humankind. Her oily plaits were a source of great rage to her. Every morning she would have to sit under her Amma’s firm hands, which then did what they pleased, pulling, tugging, weaving her scalp into yet another obedient version of herself. While she did what she always did, the moment she stepped out of the house with her basta she ruffled her coconut smelling hair into defiance. She also wished, apart from wanting to travel, to some day convince her mother that she was old enough for one single bun. That is what all the heroines did in the movies. She was not a fan like other silly girls but she was an admirer of all things mature and elegant. Two plaits were not elegant, not when dipped in a can of coconut oil.
Then there was the serious matter of the bottu. Agreed that her Amma-Nanna were not as strict as other parents or some teachers who preached that girls should always wear a bottu, everyday, nevertheless she was torn among so many thoughts. She liked her culture and she was proud of being a Hindu but what was the connection between bottu and her culture? Why were the boys in her class not part of this culture? This was the most unfair part. Off late she kept noticing how boys were always allowed to do anything. NO one lectured them, no one told them right from wrong, no one expected them to be good or uphold any culture but everyone cared about their dreams. A boy’s thoughts were much more important than a girl’s. At least that is what she felt and she was very unhappy.
Hence her only solace was under her favourite Chintachattu where she would read for hours unless of course one of the senior boys threw a stone at her, to disturb her and tease her about her bookish habits. They were actually insecure with her ever increasing English vocabulary, she knew that, but they acted as if they were the bosses and she a minion in her own land under her own tree. Then she would pick up a fight and shout, losing all concentration and enjoyment. She wished she lived in a land with less people, India had too many people. She wished she could just while away time looking at pretty scenery, while life went on right before her eyes and she did not have to go to school or do up her hair for it. In her ideal world there would be no uniforms, it was a pity that even in an enlightened not very populated country like England students had uniforms. Nanna said they removed class barriers and instilled discipline.
Ha! That was it, she did not like that word - Discipline!
Who was this Discipline to decide what colour she wore today? She was feeling like Saffron and she was forced to wear Navy Blue. All the three sixty five days nothing but a dirty blue. Not SKY blue, not PEACOCK blue, not AZURE, not CERULEAN, nothing but the nothing-pretty-about-it-Blue. That was the colour of her uniform and she was confined in its prison for another seven years. How she wished she could splash paint on herself to feel brighter! How could her imagination be expected to flower with such dreary attire? Really most adults were hopeless when it came to such simple decisions. On one hand they were constantly worrying about children and on the other did everything to worry THEM. Thank God for Saturdays, she could drown into an all white gear but then Saturdays reminded her of the dreaded PT. She would never ever ever complain about Navy Blue or Coconut Oil or Discipline if she could just read quietly. Instead of having to sweat and huff and puff with unruly boys and aggressive girls on something called KHO KHO.
She really wished she could indulge in some civilized games like, I don’t know ….hmmm…croquet maybe? Alice had played it in her wonderland. It sounded non-shouter-ly, she could picture it as being very stroll friendly. Come join me for croquet! Sounded like the English high tea, come join us in the parlour, no?
Kho Kho on the other hand involved grunts and growls. Touching (how she hated that most of all) and pushing and running. No, Running is what she hated most-er than most of all. Why did she have to run between crouching figures hitting random people on the head while shouting Kho , at the same time running away from an opponent who might Kho-Kho-you-out by touching your head and ALSO shouting Kho, while you urgently looked for a place to squat? She couldn’t believe that her highness was being made to behave like a common commoner with all these non-entities who were her classmates. In her mind she was a princess of a far off land awaiting to be discovered and crowned a queen by a very grateful public.
She was glad that she was not a boy just for this reason that she was not forced to play Kabbaddi. That would have been disastrous, forcing Uma to say Kabbaddi Kabbaddi all the while trying to enter enemy territory and ‘kill’ a person and re-enter her own without being caught or losing breath.
Uma could not believe that Gautam Buddha or Mahavira were Indian. We are so war like and violent she thought, even in our games. Chess, which she had initially enjoyed playing with her Tathayya was another murderous board game designed for Kings and Viziers. She had given it up on a matter of principle. She would not participate in this competitive game nor anything reeking of such intent. Oh! Where was she to go? What was she to do? She was a helpless eleven year old, a victim of her age and sex, with no outlet or help in sight. Except her books. Plus she did not want a Prince to rescue her if the Prince happened to be a boy.
Everyone was living a fantastic life in a wonderful story while she went to school and came home, went to school again and came home again and then again and again. “If only my life could be like ……” she thought. Like who? Anyone whose story appeared in a book seemed to her as worthy and lofty. One day it was Tom Sawyer another day it was Oliver Twist, yet another day it was the Little Women (she couldn’t decide on just one among the four) and for many many days the girls of St Clare’s and Malory Towers seemed to her to be having the best lives among all living creatures.
Far away in the United Kingdom there were chirpy girls in uniforms, carrying trunks, giggling on their way to their boarding schools, making best friends and gossiping about their French teacher while Uma, stuck here, in this nowhere land in the south south southern most part of India, (probably no one even knew of her land? Did they read about India like she read about them?) while she walked to and fro from a day school with absolutely unexciting classmates and boring teachers. Of course there were no terrible French verbs to memorize to make life exciting the way life happened in England. All she had by way of a foreign language was Sanskrit, Samskrutam is how her Nanna called it, (“it means ‘ civilized’, ‘cultured’ ”), which not only was not foreign, it was dead. What a terrible situation, my poor Uma!
What a delightful misfit, pint sized philosopher, this one is! I loved the way you weave Uma's thoughts and reflections into a smooth storyline. Uma comes across as Self possessed without looking like a drama queen, opinionated yet invites empathy, defiant but endearing. The best of the series.
ReplyDeleteI totally second Suja's comments. It was an absolute marvel Kavita. And I feel that I know Uma, and I know why I feel that way. Uma is so much like you... in so many delightful ways.
ReplyDelete