Pinto Has An Idea

Saxena

ONE

S

hirish Agrawal and Rita Srivastava were sipping tea in the principal’s office of the Adarsha Bal Mandir school. Rita’s son, Pinto, was with them, sitting up straight in his chair—as he’d been told to—but unable to hide either his anxiety or his boredom. He was young enough to be ignored and not to be offered tea. The office had an old, dented desk, opposite the principal’s chair, and three heavy wooden visitors’ chairs facing it, covered with plain but clean cushions. The desk was stark, with only a pen-stand and a chipped paperweight to adorn it.

To the side of the room stood a large almirah, its faded paint showing its age. Even though the office was old and rundown, it had an air of strict authority about it. Adarsha Bal Mandir was the best elementary school in Atrauli, a small town in Uttar Pradesh.

Mrs Somya Arora entered.

Rita stood up and greeted her with a namaste.

The principal returned Rita’s greeting, and went forward to touch Shirish’s feet respectfully. Phoning ahead to make an appointment in small-town India in the ’70s was not a common practice, so meeting her old teacher on a surprise visit was not really a surprise for Somya. Shirish Agrawal explained to her at length that they were there to ask for Pinto’s admission to her school.

‘His formal name is Rajat Srivastava—we call him Pinto,’ continued Shirish. ‘I’d taught his mother, Rita, as I once taught you. As his father is in a transferable job, Rajat hasn’t had a chance to go to school yet, but he is extremely bright. I’d recommend that, based on his age and knowledge, he should be admitted to the 2nd grade.’

Somya called her assistant to bring the admission form. Somya was an unusually tall, fair, a somewhat buxom but beautiful lady, probably in her early thirties. Rita looked up at her warily after dutifully filling out the admission form. ‘Thank you very much, ma’am,’ she said as she handed it in. ‘Which grade do you think he should attend?’

‘I think Shirish sir has already recommended the 2nd grade. I cannot be a better judge than he is,’ said Somya.

‘If you want,’ persisted Rita meekly, ‘please feel free to give him a test, the way you give others.’

‘She’s digging a hole for her own son to fall into!’ thought Pinto. ‘What if I don’t make the grade? What kind of mother is she?’ Later, he’d know that the ‘hole’ his mother was making was really a ladder.

‘I like your honesty but the test is not needed.’ Somya responded appreciatively, to Pinto’s huge relief.

In traditional India, there was a ‘family’ concept for everything. There would be a ‘family’ servant, friend, cook, priest, maid, painter, mason, doctor, laundryman, teacher, and more. Shirish was Rita’s ‘family’ teacher. One day, he visited Rita at her house and saw Pinto playing by himself in the verandah. ‘Why are you not sending Pinto to school?’ he asked Rita sternly.

‘Pinto is a bright child and is learning pretty well at home,’ she tried to argue.

‘Nobody can teach social skills at home,’ Shirish persisted, knowing Rita would listen to the ‘family’ mentor. ‘Pinto should get a formal education in the company of other kids.’

As expected, Rita said, ‘I know you’ll make the best decision for Pinto, sir. Tell me what to do.’

That’s why Rita, Shirish and Pinto were sitting in the school office that day. Pinto found Somya’s voice extremely loud and harsh, and for his first impression of school, he found the principal as scary as the monsters he read about in comic books. Because of her weight and high heels, when she walked towards them, children imagined an earthquake coming on. Over the next days, older kids would tell Pinto horror stories about her, how cruel and how much of a control freak she was. Younger kids would not have the courage to even speak when she was around.

Overall, she ruled over students and fellow teachers equally. Her classes were held in pin-drop silence. The children said she had eyes in the back of her head because she always knew when someone was not paying attention to the lesson. Some of the teachers joked that you couldn’t look her in the eye or you would turn to stone.

But on his first day at school, things went quite well for Pinto. His mother and Shirish escorted him to his classroom, bearing sweets to share with all the children in it. Shirish even presented each child with a branded HB pencil. The sweets were made of mawa, filled with raisins and cashewnut. They were treasured candy and brought Pinto immediate popularity.

A classmate, Eshwar, couldn’t stop his expressions of glee. ‘You are really generous,’ he gushed. ‘You brought sweets and pencils. Other new students usually generally distribute a couple of lozenges. Are you from a super-rich family?’

‘Not really, my parents just love me,’ Pinto grinned cheekily.

Eshwar was not happy with Pinto’s response.

It was customary for a new kid to sit with his or her mother on the opening day of school and Pinto didn’t mind, because like any new entrant, he needed time to get used to Somya, and preferred his mother to be around while he did. When his mother came to drop him off at school the next day, he insisted she stay with him. Somya, welcoming the little ones at the door of their classroom, tried to convince Pinto, ‘Let your mom go. Good boy. We’ll give you sweets.’

Pinto responded sharply, ‘Eshwar and Priti told me yesterday that they never get sweets here.’

‘Who will cook if your mother stays at school?’ Somya went on persuasively.

‘My grandma cooks—not my mom,’ Pinto said promptly. Tough lady though she was, Somya burst out laughing. Needless to say, it took Pinto a while to get adjusted.

Pinto continued to be nervous but also excited about school. Being a curious and observant child, he noticed something weird and asked Eshwar, ‘Why do these two seats remain empty all the time in our classroom?’

Eshwar took him aside and told him secretively, ‘Shhh! One day, Somya ma’am was asking about the assignment in her typical loud voice. Deepak and Priti peed in their seats, they were so nervous. The seats have been cleaned, but I wouldn’t trust the cleaning lady!’

Somya was a very nice lady at heart, as everyone learnt by and by. One day, she asked Pinto to bring his mother to the school. Pinto was scared to death, wondering what he’d done wrong to deserve a parental summons.

Rita was surprised too. ‘What happened, ma’am?’ she asked the principal as soon she saw her. ‘Is Pinto doing all right?’

Somya decided to prolong the dramatic mystery for fun. ‘Please take Pinto out of my school,’ she said with a grim face.

Shocked and mystified, Rita said, ‘I apologize on Pinto’s behalf if he did something wrong. I’ll make sure that he doesn’t repeat it.’

Somya laughed finally. ‘It’s not what you’re are thinking,’ she reassured Rita. ‘Pinto is an extremely brilliant pupil for his age. I feel my school is not the right place for him. I’d suggest you admit him to a missionary school in Aligarh.’

The pride in Rita’s eyes was unmistakeable. She came out of Somya’s office, breathing a sigh of relief.

But she was also anxious. ‘Can we afford to send Pinto to a missionary school?’ she worried quietly.

TWO

O

n a lovely sunny day in India eight years ago, April 1970, a baby boy was born into a northern Indian Kayastha family. Ram and Rita Srivastava named their son, Rajat. People started calling him by the nickname ‘Pintoo’. Somehow, one ‘o’ from the name disappeared and it became ‘Pinto’. Ram originally belonged to Agra, in Uttar Pradesh. Rita came from a small town called Atrauli near Aligarh, in the same state. After doing some odd teaching jobs here and there, Ram finally landed a government assignment. His first posting was in Nainital, a popular hill station in north India.

Nainital is a wonderful city dotted with lakes and hills. During the summer it is full of tourists, primarily consisting of college kids and honeymooners. Cool Nainital used to be once a favourite station for the British to escape to from the hot summers in the plains, so it had many remnants of colonialism. Later, it became a place of retirement for many army and government officers and, because of its accessibility from the plains, it also developed as a boarding-school hub.

There was a certain English-medium boarding school which was struggling with some teaching issues. One day Mr Edwin Brown, the principal of that institution, called on his counterpart in the Government School, Mr Ramesh Gupta.

Mr Brown seemed worried. ‘Yaar!’ he exclaimed the moment they met. ‘I need at least three more English teachers in my school. And urgently! There is so much competition here, it’s hard to find good recruits for any subject.’

Mr Gupta sympathized, ‘Yes, it’s a crazy place. Your students are coming to my teachers for tuitions! Tutorial classes are not allowed to government school teachers but I let them carry on. They don’t make much money anyway.’

Mr Brown’s eyes lit up. ‘Why don’t you recommend a teacher from your school?’

Mr Gupta shook his head. ‘Oh no!’ he said. ‘That’s not possible. Small tuitions in private homes are okay. But my teachers can’t teach in your school openly. We’ll need special permission.’

Mr Brown didn’t give up. ‘I’ll get permission using my contacts. Who doesn’t like a bribe here? You just tell me the name of the person most appropriate for this job. He’s got to be good, huh? You know, kids at convent schools are smart… not like your government school type... ’

Mr Gupta laughed at his friend’s habitual teasing. ‘At a government school, our job is more difficult,’ he retorted. We don’t give any tests. We have to admit any kid. Still, by district level, our students are toppers. You know, whenever we have this discussion, it ends nowhere. So shut up and do what you have to do. Between you and me, Ram Srivastava is the right person for this job. He is not only knowledgeable but also very hardworking. Just be careful, though. Moral values are very important to him. He’d call a spade a spade. In fact, he has had some heated arguments with even me, but I never felt bad as he was always right.’

And Ram got the part-time job in the boarding school. Rita was happy they’d have some extra income. Ram was happy that he was teaching a more advanced subject.

Ram used to engage in protracted debates with other colleagues about subject concepts, and then come home to research the most recent topic, to prove his point the next day. The internet, as we know it, was not known even to Bill Gates back in those days.

Rita would often complain about it. ‘What are you getting out of all that bukbuk? I’d rather you spend that time to take some extra tuitions and make some money.’

Ram would ignore her.

Rita had been a good student as well, but victim of an early marriage, which was very common those days. Parents wanted to see off their daughters in the traditional way as soon as they came of age. It didn’t mean that they didn’t love them. Parents felt the social pressure that made them duty-bound to get their girls to ‘settle down’ as soon as possible through marriage. So their girls learnt to put practicality first.

Ram would argue, ‘We are lucky that I have got this part-time job. I don’t want any extra tuitions. Don’t you want me to be respected as the best teacher in Nainital?’

Rita would snap back, ‘Yes, yes, I’m proud of you. But unfortunately teachers don’t make a lot of money. But do you think I want more money for myself? I want to save for my kids. Our parents never saved for us and you have seen how hard we’ve had to struggle. I don’t want my kids to be in the same situation.’

Ram would ask, ‘What will you do with so much money?’

Rita would taunt, pointing upwards, ‘You are talking like you are some Tata or Birla! Their children won’t need to work or worry for generations. Your parents spent all their money on their niece’s and nephew’s weddings, for bhaat and God knows what other family customs, and never saved anything for you.’

And then the discussion would grow into a mean-spirited family fight, both digging up incidents they never meant to bring up. Ram would ignite a squabble with something like, ‘So, your parents were also not great. They borrowed the jewellery you wore for public display at our wedding.’

Expectedly, his wife would flare-up. ‘Was it not common those days to do that? Your family already knew what was being gifted to me and what was there only for show. Did you want dowry?’

‘Of course not. All I’m saying is that it was the height of irresponsible behaviour. Think about it—if somebody had looted the jewellery, what would have happened! Your father could not have paid it off in his entire life!’

‘Your father borrowed money for groceries. What about that?’

‘It was not an exorbitant amount.’

‘But it was money mismanagement. Why would they borrow money for food and clothing if they were earning enough?’

‘See, they borrowed money but none of our neighbours knew about it. What else are we doing now? You wanted to buy a sofa set on instalments. Is that not borrowing? And when the application goes to my office for verification, the whole world gets to know that I’m buying a sofa set on instalments.’

‘That means you approve of the culture of borrowing money as long as others don’t come to know. Then leave this part-time job also. Let’s take a loan and enjoy ourselves on it.’

‘What’s wrong in it? Even the worldly philosopher Charvak agreed with that: Borrow money and drink ghee,’ he has said. ‘By the way, every American borrows a lot of money.’

‘Don’t worry. Your dream will come true soon when you have to take a loan from the provident fund we intended to save for Pinto’s higher studies.’

‘I’m earning enough to take care of my family. I don’t have to borrow anything.’

‘We never go anywhere on holiday,’ she went off on another tangent. ‘Pinto isn’t having any fun. The only enjoyment he has is Ramlila.’

‘Whatever I do, it’s never enough,’ he said tiredly. I take you and Pinto to your parents’ place every summer. Isn’t that enough?’

Both of them knew, Ram would neither leave the part-time job nor would he take up tuitions. He was happy with what he was earning.

Pinto grew up in Nainital as an often naughty, but curious kid. He was blessed with an academic atmosphere at home. In those times, early education was provided at home as formal learning before the age of five was uncommon. Pinto was about to attend a local school in Nainital at the age of five.

One day Ram came in looking very happy. ‘Rita,’ he said excitedly, ‘I’ve got an offer to go for training to England. Only two candidates from the entire state of Uttar Pradesh have been selected!’

Rita exclaimed with joy, ‘My husband is going to be called England-returned!’

And then Ram looked worried, ‘Where would you folks live? The government is not paying for you and Pinto.’

Rita was relaxed, ‘I knew the government cannot be that generous. Of course, I’ll go to my parents in Atrauli. This is not even a question to be asked.’

Pinto really liked his grandparents, he knew they loved him unconditionally. His grandfather Prakash used to keep a buffalo for milk and also had a sizeable piece of land in his native village which he gave on contract to a person named Dauja. The contract used to be simple. They’d divide the expense as well as earnings half and half. Dauja, who was about forty years old, was an uneducated person who never worried about bringing any efficiency to agriculture.

Atrauli had a village-like feel, but was a small town with some urban facilities and a market. This proximity to village life kept Pinto close to his family roots. This was when Dauja and Pinto became friends—and the main reason behind that was the bullock-cart.

Dauja would come to meet Pinto’s grandfather on that slow and reliable vehicle so that he could bring him various agro-products from the village. It was Pinto’s favourite past-time to ride in the bullock cart. It tickled him to see how, in addition to using the stick, Dauja’d communicate with the bullocks just as if he was talking to his kids—now scolding, now regretting it, and now heaping them with praise and affection in turn.

And then there was Pinto’s cousin, Raju, his best buddy in his acts of mischief.

Raju would declare his programme for the day, ‘We’ll go to Hanuman Garhi, have a bath in that tubewell tank and steal vegetables from some farm on the way back.’

Pinto’d ask, ‘Why vegetables?’

Raju wouldn’t hide his excitement, ‘Because they are fresher than in the market, and—you know—there cannot be more fun than when the farmer sees and chases you!’

Prakash, his grandfather, would often take Pinto with him to the market. ‘See the potter. He is making terracotta cups and bowls on a wheel.’

Pinto would look on and then demand to know, ‘Why do we need kulhar and sakora when we have steel utensils that don’t break?’

‘Nothing can beat the fragrance of terracotta. We use them even at wedding parties.’

‘Who is that guy?’ Pinto once pointed to the person forging metal out of his coal-burning furnace.

‘He is a lohpita, our blacksmith. He made me my chisel.’

‘What else can you buy from this market?’

‘You get everything here. Let me introduce you to my cobbler, who changed the sole of my shoe after the last rains.’

Pinto was not in a mood to meet the cobbler. He preferred to stand and watch the potter at work. It was amazing to see how fast he could convert a lump of kneaded mud into shapely pieces of pottery.

‘Nana,’ he pulled at his grandfather’s sleeve, ‘what is that guy doing with that large bow?’

‘He is a dhunna. Winter is coming. He is carding cotton. We use it in making warm quilts.’

‘But my papa said that you use machines for carding cotton.’

‘Yes, that’s more common. But we should not depend on machines so much when we can make things with our own hands.’

The child Pinto neither tried to understand the logic behind machine vs man nor did he want to. He was busy enjoying the marketplace. He was also impressed that his grandfather Prakash treated all those folks in the market like extended family.

Pinto made a lot of friends at school. People in Atrauli were a diverse lot, coming from different religious, caste and economic backgrounds. He had two Muslim friends, a Sikh friend and a couple of Hindu friends. He always wondered why he was not allowed to go to a Muslim friend’s house even if their parents met very warmly in school.

Gulam was the son of a school teacher and Ayaz’s father was a vegetable vendor. Vicky’s father had a big business in Atrauli and Sambarjit’s father was a wealthy cloth merchant. Hari and Anil came from poor families. Hari’s father was a peon in a school, and Anil had lost his, so his mother had to make do with small jobs.

There was a class feeling for sure, based on their economic status, but still they were friends and were ready to help each other out when required. Friendship in childhood is pure, like the Gangotri; with age it starts getting contaminated, like the Ganga. Vicky and Pinto were really good at studies. Hari was the macho guy in their group who would always take the lead to settle any dispute with other groups.

Girls made up Pinto’s circle of friends as well. One of his friends—as well as a rival—was his own cousin, Shamli. Kirti was another one who used to live in the neighbourhood. Her father was a devotee of Lord Krishna. He’d use up an entire pack of incense sticks during his prayers every day. So Kirti used to have a collection of packets emptied of those sticks, which would have some scent left in them. She’d often give one to Pinto or Shamli as a gift. They’d cut that into small pieces and put them in their books. After some time the scent would transfer to the pages, which was a big draw for these kids.

‘My book smells like roses, yours is like jasmine.’

As this was not a permanent scent, Pinto would continuously need to replenish his supplies. Kirti was a good source of that. Both Shamli and Pinto competed for their friendship with her for that reason.

THREE

P

into was very happy with his school in Atrauli. Most of the teachers there were friends of his family, and the principal Somya Arora kept a benign but objective eye on all. At that age, boys and girls feel pretty much the same to each other and are yet to recognize difference in gender. All the girls in his class used to have naturally long hair; they never visited a hairdresser. In such a small town, beauty parlours were unheard of.

When Pinto went into third grade, a new girl, Sakshi, was admitted to his school. Sakshi looked very different from the other girls in his class: self-possessed, sophisticated, very modern, always well dressed, pretty and overall very cute, with short, nicely styled hair. Pinto was quick to introduce himself, and then asked her curiously, ‘Why have you cut your hair?’

Sakshi was confused, ‘What do you mean?’

‘I meant to ask if you were a boy