The Teacher

 The sound of the key clicking in place feels strangely relieving. I push open the polished wooden door and enter my apartment, flinging my handbag on the centre table before falling onto the sofa. I try to calm myself with deep breaths, but now that solitude has broken the dam, the flood is inevitable. With each new sob, rises the hope that the frustration would be washed away, the helplessness would flow out with the tears.

But they both stay, like true friends. It is ironic how we hate the very emotions that faithfully keep us company in times of distress.

I am angry, I am hurt. This is the seventh time in a row that my business idea has been rejected. And not for its lack of potential, no. That is what maddens me.

The first two investors had been subtle, “You er… you do have excellent credentials, Miss Sharma and the idea seems good too. But… well, you are proposing a tech startup. Had it been fashion or perhaps even healthcare, we would have considered…”

Three days later, I heard that they had funded the same business idea for some “promising young man”.

The next investors had been surprisingly frank, “We don’t think a startup that is run entirely by a woman can scale much. Women are too sentimental, you see. They can’t be trusted to make the right business decisions.” 

One had even been so kind as to suggest that I promote one of my male staff members to partner, “Then I won’t have any qualms investing.”

Tonight, a venture capitalist had invited me to discuss my pitch over dinner. As I sat, he asked me if I would fancy a coffee in his room after dinner.

“No thanks, Mr. Singh.” I gave a tight smile. He let the matter go. He spoke a lot throughout the meal – about the economy, markets, movies, cricket, books. After the meal, as I put my credit card back in my clutch, he got up with a “Good night then, Miss Sharma,” and began walking away. But before I could say a word he turned, “Oh, and by the way, about your startup, Miss Sharma, we can’t fund it. I don’t find it worth the money,” and he walked away.

The ringing of my phone brings me back to the present. I reach into my handbag to pull it out and immediately wish I hadn’t. It’s Mom.

Right now, she’s the last person I want to talk to. I have never been a half-decent actor; I know I can’t keep my voice from cracking. And I don’t really want to lie. So even if I don’t delve into the details, I will certainly end up telling her that I got rejected…again. Then she will repeat the statement and how-much-ever she tries to pass it off as an exclamation, I will know that she is actually telling Dad. I always know. I can also imagine the look on Dad’s face, the one that says, “I told her to stay away from these things, she was better off with her job. She isn’t cut out for this sort of thing.” But the worst of all would be mom’s offer, “Why bother with those snobs? We’ll fund you.”

And that is the last thing I want – I want nothing to do with their money. I will never build my future on the very thing that has destroyed my past.

 

 It was their money, their work that took them away from me. My childhood was a solitary monologue, with them flitting in and out only when they could find time from their work; not when I actually needed them, but when they thought I did.

It took me time to realise my secondary status. Like every child, I craved my parents’ attention. I remember staying awake all night in wait for a bedtime story. I remember gasping with excitement when the door to my room opened and they walked in, their dulcet tones carrying to me some dry discussion about sales and revenues. But all I ever got was a perfunctory kiss on the forehead, from two strangers lost in their own world.

I remember crying and fussing over a simple scraped knee in the hope that I would get it lovingly bandaged, like I had seen my friends get. But all I got was the maid’s, “Don't worry, it’s not all that bad.”

Till I was ten, I could not carry out a decent three-minute conversation, not even with people of my own age. Because I had never had anyone to talk to at home; no ears except my Teddy’s had any time to listen. In school, I was timid and awkward; no one wanted to be friends with the fat, quiet girl.

 

Thankfully, it was books that helped me find my voice. It was in Frodo and Bilbo and Lucy and Susan that I found friends. Slowly, I opened up. But I never quite acquired the easy flowing grace of natural extroverts. I still haven't.

 As I grew up, I came to grips with the idea of being second priority. I learnt having to keep things to myself without feeling suppressed. And so it was, that my parents never noticed when I began smiling to myself, blushing for no reason, humming random tunes and dancing with thin air. Nor did they see how I curled my hair, glossed my lips, lined my eyes and looked into the mirror a thousand times a day.

And then one evening, when I arrived home and rushed to my room, saying I wasn't hungry because I had dined at a friend's, they never caught my lie. They never heard me sob into my pillow, playing Neal’s words over in my mind.

 “Priya, you are er...rather healthy,” my boyfriend had said. I had nodded, missing the euphemism.

 “I...Well, I find it rather embarrassing. You are a really nice person, but I’m sorry I can't be with you,” and he had all but bolted, leaving behind a stricken me.

The next day, I announced that I was going to the gym.

 “You are trying to be fit. Good, very good,” Dad absently remarked from behind his newspaper.

 “You want to lose weight? Go for it, Piyu,” said Mom. “Then you can flaunt beauty as well as brains,” and although she meant it as encouragement, it left me feeling infinitely worse.

 My thoughts now begin to drift randomly and I lose track of everything.

I am back outside high school, waiting for our driver to pick me up. People are giving me odd looks; a few girls even point me out to each other and giggle. Just then Mr. Singh comes up to me and says, “I can't fund your startup because you are embarrassingly fat.”

He pushes me and I fall on the road. No matter how hard I try, I simply can’t get up. Neal sniggers at me from the pavement and gives Mr. Singh a high five. Suddenly, a car comes zooming towards me. Out of nowhere, I see Mom and Dad eating ice cream across the road. I want one too, but I mustn’t. I see the car coming closer. I call out to Mom and Dad, but they can't hear. The car is now inches from me, I can see the mud on its number plate. Now two inches...one…

I jolt awake to the ringing of the doorbell. I look around; it’s morning.  Warm, golden sunlight is pouring in through the French windows. My handbag is still lying on the centre table and my cell phone is right beside me on the sofa.

As the bell rings again, I get up and walk groggily towards the door. It’s Rashmi, my help.

 “Oh my God, didi!” she exclaims, having taken a single look at me, “What happened? You look terrible.”

 “It’s nothing,” I answer as she walks in. “I came back late from work last night and dozed off.”

“Right here? On the sofa?”

“Yes,” I nod. “I was very tired.”

“You slept without any dinner?” she asks, eyebrows rising in concern as she notices the lack of utensils on the kitchen platform.

 “No, no. I ate out last night.”

 “That's alright then. But don't ever skip your meals, didi. It's not good for your health.”

 “Alright, doctor!” I call out from the wash basin as I finish brushing my teeth.

 She hands me a steaming cup of green tea as I pick up the newspaper.

 “Looks awful. What do you drink that for?”

 “Keeps me in good shape,” I smile. As she shrugs and walks back to the kitchen, I can't help but notice her small frame. She hardly looks the mother of two.

 “By the way,” I ask, “how come you showed up so early today?”

“Actually didi, there’s a parent - teacher meeting at my daughters’ school later today.”

With a guilty pang, her words remind me of a similar conversation that we had a couple of months ago.

It had been only a few days since she had joined. As I was getting ready for work, the doorbell rang.

 “Rashmi! What are you doing here so early?”

 “Didi, there’s a parent - teacher meeting at my daughters’ school. I have to go there in the evening.”

 “But you can't work here right now! I’m in a hurry. I need to leave for my office in an hour.”

 “That's a lot of time, didi. I’ll be done in half that time.”

 I knew she would have been quick, but I really didn't want to take the chance that she might delay me. Moreover, I was the one taking the calls, here. She could at least have asked me before just showing up like that. I didn't want to be taken for granted by help who hadn’t even been with me for a week. Plus, if the meeting was so important, she could always ask her husband to go.

“No,” I said firmly. “I can't let you work right now. Come back when you usually do.”

“Alright.” Her face fell as she turned and walked away.

That evening, she came back. But unlike usual, there was no soft humming, no cheerful chatter, no unasked health advice. Her silence was slightly unnerving.

“So,” I began a little awkwardly, “how old are your daughters?”

“One is in the fifth standard; the other is in the third.”

“Oh. Do they like going to school?”

“Yes. The older one stood first in her class this year.”

“Really? That's wonderful! Congratulations!”

“They are having a big ceremony,” she tells me. She’ll get a prize.”

“Great! When is it?”

“It’s going on right now, was after the meeting.”

For a fleeting moment I was reminded of all the times when I was felicitated in school and how I eagerly searched for my parents in the audience, except I never found them. Because they could never make it.

I mentally kicked myself for being so conceited as to put another girl through the same disappointment.

“At least,” I spoke more to myself than her, “she has her father applauding for her.”

At that, Rashmi looked up at me.

“No, she doesn’t,” she said. “She doesn't have one. He ran away three days after my younger daughter was born.”

Now, I felt guilty beyond redemption.

“God, Rashmi!” I went to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I am so terribly sorry. I didn't know...I...I am truly sorry.”

“It’s alright, didi,” she smiled briefly, before going back to her cleaning.

“Didi?” her voice snaps me out of my trance.

“Right… er… parent - teacher meeting. Is that it or is there more?”

“My younger one is getting an award,” she beams with pride. “She won the singing competition.”

“Oh, wow! Congratulations!” I open the fridge and hand her a Dairy Milk Silk. “That’s a little something from me. She does eat chocolates, doesn’t she? Singers can be quite fussy about these things,” I wink.

“Yes, she loves them. Thank you,” she smiles.

“By the way, didi,” she begins after a while. “I needed a favour.”

“Yes?”

“I plan to create a fixed deposit account for my daughters’ education. I’ve brought the bank forms, but I don’t really understand them. Would you fill them out for me?”

“Of course.”

She walks to her faded, dusty cloth bag and returns with a few papers. I quickly skim through them and then sit with a pen in hand.

“Right,” I begin. “Name, I know. Occupation, I know. Age?”

“Twenty six.”

I look up, stunned.

“Twenty six?” I repeat.

She nods.

I am dumbfounded. This skeletal woman, with her extra-loose second hand clothes, gaunt face, calloused hands, two children, no husband and tonnes of responsibilities, is as old as me! I never really remember having thought about her age, but I had naturally assumed that someone with a ten year old daughter would certainly be older than me. Now, as I stare at her, I feel like having met an entirely different person.

“What is it, didi?”

“No...nothing,” I mutter as I continue with my questions and fill out her form.

But my mind is still numbed by her revelation. It’s no big news, actually, but the effect it has on me is huge. Here is a woman, who has seen just as many warm summers as I have, but perhaps countless more chilling winters. As I lay sobbing in my pillow over my breakup, she was probably nursing her baby, keeping it away from the abusive drunkard she had for a husband. While I worried over my weight, she was striving all alone to make two ends meet. Suddenly, she seems so much more to me than just the sweet, chirpy help.

“You must hate him,” I blurt out.

“Huh?”

“Your husband. He put you through so much. You must hate him.”

“Well,” she shrugs. “I don’t really think of him. He’s like an old nightmare – it scared me terribly for a night, but come sunrise and it was forgotten, forever.”

“But the fear that it evoked remains behind, doesn’t it? Sometimes, it’s not the dream itself you want to forget, it’s the fear. It’s the effect that the past has on your present. The fear of that nightmare stays back to haunt you.”

“Only if I keep the curtains drawn. But I always open them and let the sunshine pour in. Nothing can haunt me if I don’t choose to let it.”

And in one simple sentence, the most unlikely teacher has taught me the most enlightening lesson I have ever learnt- no one and nothing, can affect me without my permission. I always have a choice – fate gets to decide what to throw at me, I get to decide what to catch. I can mourn over dead woes, or I can bury them and move on with a smile. The choice is mine, and I make it.

I pick up my phone lying on the sofa and dial a number that I hadn’t bothered storing because I never believed I would call that old telephone of ours. As a child, I remember using it to call Mum and Dad when they were away on business trips.

 I would begin with, “It’s been a thousand years! I miss you” and surprisingly, those would be some of the nicest and warmest conversations we had. That snug corner with the old telephone was the one place where I was never disappointed. It would be ringing after ages today, I mused. After six long rings, I heard a surprised, “Hello?”

Unmindful of the tears rolling down my cheeks, I spoke.

“It’s been a thousand years! I miss you.”