Our Marching Can Wait

                                            Our Marching Can Wait       

     “Pack your bags. The school bus is there,” Miss James tells us. She wears a colorful poncho. She has so many of them. None of the other teachers wear ponchos. She is a Sri Lankan but has studied and lived in England.

     The bell rings. We grab our bags and rise near our wooden desks, which are like little boxes on stilts. I’ve seen houses on stilts on TV. We can store our books and stationery inside.

     In unison we say, “Good evening and thank you, Miss James.”

     “Good evening and thank you, girls.” She tucks her purse under her arm and walks out.

     I pack my bag and look out. I usually take my time. The other girls run for the bus. My car has not yet come. I don’t go by school bus because I live far into the countryside where the bus can’t go. Divi’s car too has not come.

     “Let's go to the top ground. We can watch the seniors practice their march past,” I tell Divi.   

     “We aren’t allowed on the top ground. We can only play in the junior hostel play area or the basketball court when the seniors aren't practicing,” Divi tells me.

      Our junior playground is small and has swings, slides and hanging bars. The seniors can't come to our grounds either.

    “We are allowed to go after school.” I tell her.

     It’s school sports day next week, and my cousins, who are also my seniors, are practicing their march past to the band. I love to watch them practice. I can't wait to march to the band. I am still in the second grade. Only 5th standard and above march for sports day. In the evenings, I go to the top playground and sit there watching my cousins. One of them is a very good athlete, and she practices her throws as well. I want to throw like her when I am in the 8th.

     The top ground has an 800 meter oval running track. Two sides are surrounded by eucalyptus trees, and the other side looks out into Maya Gowda’s potato fields. The mud steps are a shortcut we usually use when we are late in the mornings. Some evenings, the driver picks us up there too     

      Just as we both climb the steps to the top ground, Divi and I turn around to hear a car horn.

      “It's my car. I have to go.” Divi runs towards it. I say bye, and run up the stairs.

      I can see my cousins. I am on the other side of the ground, opposite to where my cousins are. The games  teacher is talking to them. They are wearing gray shorts and different colored T-shirts according to the houses they belong to and brown canvas shoes with grey socks. One of my cousins waves to me. I am thrilled and wave back.

     I sit on a grass mound in front of the woods with huge Eucalyptus trees. I pick up a fallen leaf and squeeze it. I love the smell of the eucalyptus leaf and oil.

     Below, in Gowda’s field there is what we call an eucalyptus oil shed. The hut is made of dried eucalyptus leaves and wood, and holds simple equipment to extract oil from the leaves. The equipment is sooty and so are the pipes and roof. One part of the shed is the bedroom and the other, the kitchen. After the oil is extracted, the dried leaves are sold to locals to heat water

     Most of the bathing rooms in local homes have an Anda, huge cauldron, which is embedded in a brick and mortar frame. Below there is a large hole to stuff in the leaves and light them to heat the water.

    We rub the eucalyptus oil on our necks, or pour a teaspoon full into boiling water and inhale the steam, or during baths to relieve us when we have a cold and are congested.

   The trees are large, and the woods behind are dense. Soft, thick green moss covers the ground. I collect a little. I put it in the side pocket of my bag so I can put it into the flower pot once I get home. A narrow path leads to the cooks’ and bearers’ quarters.

    The girls line up.

     I can hear the sports teacher shout, “Girls, let's do the practice just one time, and then we can go home.”

     I sit there and watch them march past.

     I copy them and march. When the practice is done, my cousins along with all the senior girls with red, yellow, blue or green shirts gather their backpacks. My cousins gesture for me to come. I run towards them. Our car is still not there in the school parking lot.

     “The driver must be waiting below at Gowda’s fields,” says one of my cousins. We all head to the back of the school chapel to the shortcut down to the fields.  As we run across the corridor, we hear the tables being laid for supper in the dining room.

     “What's the time?” I ask.

      “It’s 5:15.”

     The boarders have supper at 6:00 p.m. I can smell the food cooking. I look at my cousin and breathe in. She smiles at me.

       “Meatloaf, I think. I’m hungry,” my cousin says. We all are hungry. We had bread and peanut butter and lime juice at 3:00.

     We see our maroon Ambassador down below Gowda’s potato fields, where there are also patches of cabbage and plots of carrots.

    “Why can't Raju just come here instead of making us walk through the slushy shortcut?” my cousin  pouts and mumbles. I can see her bag is heavy. She must have lots of homework.

     I jump down the steps and wave to Mala, the oil maker’s little girl, playing in front of the eucalyptus oil shed.

     She floats dried leaves in the little stream and then runs alongside them.  She waves back.

     It has not rained today, but the soil is still wet from last night.

     “Are you done with school?” my cousin asks her.

     “I didn't go to school,” she stops and answers

     “Why? Is it a holiday?”

     “I am done with the village school. I am not going to school for the 6th standard.”

     “How lucky she is to be playing the whole day. Her parents don't think it important for her to go to school. Wonder why our parents are so particular?” I tell my cousin. My cousin shrugs her shoulder.

     “I saw you all marching,” the little girl says.

      She points to me, “You were not marching. You don’t know how to?”

     “No, I’m not old enough to march to the band on sports day. Do you know how to?” I ask.

     “No, but I can learn.” She smiles.

     “I can teach you. You can come home during the weekends.”

      I march, swinging my arms and feet while she stands twirling a twig looking at me.

     I walk up to my car, get in, and ask the driver, “Can you get that girl home on Saturday? She wants to learn to march.”

     “I’ll ask Mummy. If it's ok with her, I will. Her mom doesn't send her to school, and you think she is going to send her to learn to march, little one?” he asks, indicating he was listening to our conversation. He has a twirly moustache and wears glasses with thick rims. He wears black pants, a black coat and a checked muffler.

     “Maybe that’s because her village school is far off, and her mom won’t send her that far. But our house isn't that far.”

     I shout out to the girl, “Ask your mom if you can come on Saturday to learn to march.”

    “My mom is out collecting leaves. I’ll ask her and let you know tomorrow.”

     I wave goodbye.

     My cousins are all older than me by several years, and they don’t always let me play with them. They discuss their practice and sports day. We drive away from the fields to the main road. I stick my head out and watch the huge stone walls alternate with mud walls, dogs and children playing on the road side, the buses crammed with people, the priest ringing the bell and the people praying as they go around the temple, and enjoy the cool breeze.

      When I get home, I ask my mom if I can have our driver bring Mala home on Saturday.  There are only two eucalyptus oil sheds in the area so my mom knows the ones who collect leaves.

      “Her mom comes to our top fields to collect leaves for their shed. She usually brings her daughter along. You can tell her to come home.”

      It’s Saturday morning, and I sit on the garden parapet, eating sugarcane with my cousin, Suja.  She asks me my multiplication tables. I recite to her up to the eleventh. Just as I finish reciting the twelves I hear our dog barking and turn to see Mala walking down with her mom.

    Mala is wearing a red and cream floral skirt with a red sweater. I can see she has washed her long hair.

    “The driver asked that I bring Mala. He says you wanted to play with her,” Mala’s mother tells me.

     “Yes.” I nod.

      “I will go see Amma,” she tells me, referring to my mom and turns towards Mala. “Be good. Listen to Papa.”

     She calls me papa that means baby. That is how most people address little children.

     My cousin who is sitting with me says, “Mala, before you march, tell me your tables. Your five times table.” She is enjoying her sugarcane.

     Mala is hardly able to say them.

     “Ok, recite the threes.”

     Mala struggles.

     “What do they teach you in school, or don’t you study?” Suja looks shocked. She is looking at Mala.

     Mala’s mother comes by and Suja asks her, “She’s in the 5th grade? What’s happening? Mala doesn't know her times tables.”

    “Oh! And neither her dad nor I know how to help her.”

    “Do you like to study, Mala?” I ask her.

    “I love to, but I need help. My teacher says I need to practice more.”

     I feel lucky I have my parents and cousins to help me. I feel sorry for Mala.

    “Shall we study the tables for fifteen minutes? After that I can teach you to march.”

    Mala looks at her mom.

     “I will be back in an hour,” her mom says and carries the gunny bag on her shoulder and leaves.The bag is made of jute.

     I go inside, get a notebook and pencil and give it to Mala.

     Suja looks at Mala and says, “Write the three times table.”

     Mala uses her fingers and starts writing. I see she is struggling though she is in the fifth grade. She holds the pencil and presses down hard on the paper and writes.

     My cousin takes the notebook from her. Our labrador, Bodie, comes over and stands next to us wagging his tail. The gardener is hums as he trims the rose bushes. The sun is warm.

     “Your teacher never taught you the tables?”

      Mala shakes her head.

      My cousin and I teach her and help her learn.

      Within some time, she seems to understand how it works.

      “Let’s start with two and three times?” My cousin has finished her sugarcane.

       Mala nods her head. She seems excited.  She writes 3x1 until she gets to 3x12 and leaves the answers blank. She uses her hands, keeps adding, and writes down the answers.

      My cousin and I help her and ask her to work on learning it.

      She squints her eyes, pauses very often and keeps her hands under the numerals.

      “Do you wear glasses?” My cousin asks her.

      “No.”

      “Can you see well? Or do you find reading difficult.”

      “I can't see well. But my teacher makes me sit in the front row. I can see the board well, then.”

       “Have you seen a doctor?” Suja continues.

       “No”

       “I think you should see a doctor.”

       “Do you want to study more?”

       “Yes. I really want to get better.  For the exams I could not read the paper properly and also math was hard. I failed math and English. Only if I pass can I go to 6th standard. I can retake the exams next month.” Mala looks down. I see tears in her eyes.

         Clouds have moved in. We feel rain drops on our hands. A thick mist spreads over the hills. Even before we realize it, the rain pours down. Mala grabs her books, and we three run into the verandah. The gardener and Bodie run in with us.

       “My mom says since I can’t study it is no point in taking the exam again.”

        We hear the other dogs bark. It’s Maya’s mom. She runs down with her huge load of leaves on her head. She places the sacksful of leaves on the side of the road and joins us in the verandah. She has covered herself with a transparent plastic sheet that serves as a raincoat.

      Just then, the maid brings us some bananas and bakery varkeys, a kind of crispy biscuit, famous in Ooty.

     She asks if Mala will drink tea.

     Mala nods.

     My mom walks in, and I tell her about Mala.

     The maid brings tea.

     “It is important Mala studies. You want her to have a better life than you, don’t you Jaya?” Mom asks Mala’s mom.

       “She has failed the exams. What is the point of sending her that far to study if she doesn't like to study?”

       “I like to study,” Mala adds.

        “Mala says she cannot see.” I tell her mom.

        Jaya looks concerned.

       “On Tuesday, I am taking my daughter to the doctor. I can take Mala as well and get her checked out.”

        “Thank you, Amma” Jaya says.

       “Akka,” I point to my cousin, “I can help Mala learn her math.  She should go to the 6th grade and study. She’ll do well I’m sure.”

       Jaya smiles and looks at Mala. The rain has stopped and the sun is peeps out from the clouds.  A crow caws loudly atop the concrete telephone pole.

      “You should study, pass your exams, and go to high school,” my mom says, placing her hand on Mala’s head.  “You need to study to do well for yourself and make your mom proud of you. She works hard and carries those leaves and lives in the hut. Make life better for her. ”

      I realize why Mala has to go to school. And why my family insists on education.

      “Mala, are you willing to come every day for an hour and study with us?” Suja asks.

      I’m excited to teach Mala with my cousin.

     Several crows have gathered on the pole. Bodie barks at them. The crows fly away to a tree nearby.

      Mala nods.

     “Then when can I teach her to march?” I look at Suja who hugs me and smiles.

     “Let’s focus on Mala. She needs to pass the tests. You can march with Mala after her tests.”

      Bodie wags his tail, and the sun shines bright in the sky.

     “Good idea. Our marching can wait.” I wrap my cousin in a tight bear hug. Mom, Jaya, and Mala smile at us.