“Here you go,” he said, as he sprinkled seeds in the corner of the garden. “Here you go.” He bent down, his back feeling stiff, emptied the stale water from the bird bath, and filled it afresh. The birds were used to him, and they didn’t need to wait for him to retreat to a safe distance before they descended on their lunch spread. They had been coming here for almost a decade. Well, not just them, but their forebears too. How long do birds live?
Paresh Mitra, or Percy, as he was better known, had retired from teaching and lived in a rented set on the upper floor of a cosy cottage. The cottage belonged to the family of a former student and was quite near the school, so he could attend the functions there. The school was an elite boarding institution for boys, tucked away among the hills of northern India, practically indistinguishable from Eton or Harrow. Tradition was the central tenet here, followed by education, and finally, social responsibility. It was a high standard for students, and even higher for the teachers. Percy had given himself entirely in service to the school, and lived among the boys as their shepherd. Even after retirement, it was the school’s calendar of events that marked his days.
That, and following the news on one of his most famous students.
Percy had learnt to use a smartphone after retirement, mainly because he was told that invitations for school functions were more likely to reach him through instant messaging, and not through the kind of phone calls he used to make to alumni once upon a time. With the help of some of the current batch of students he had learnt to read the world’s news online. Imagine his wonder when news of Uday’s blockbuster status had popped up on his screen.
Nearly every month for the past two years there was something new written about Uday Sharma, the sensational writer who had reached unheard of literary heights with his popular mystery novels. Every time a new one came up, Percy would sit down on a cane chair covered with durries, and slowly and deliberately make his way through the article. The majority of them were infantile investigations into Uday’s favourite cities, favourite cuisines, and once, even his favourite shaving cream. What Percy really looked forward to were pictures of Uday, of how he looked now, crowned with success and exuding confidence in his smile.
This was very different from the face he remembered – the face of a nervous young lad, sent to boarding school after his parents divorced. Admitted in a senior class, when all the others had been at the school for many years already, meant he struggled to find ways to enter the cliques and clubs that the other boys had already formed. Of course, institutional discipline meant that every student here was a gentleman, ready to help when asked. But, a shy new boy couldn’t speak up and ask for much, could he?
“How are you getting along, son?” Percy had asked him one day.
“Fine, sir.” he had replied, keeping to the point.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, sir. Professor Mitra.”
“Professor? There are no professors here, son. I’m a teacher.”
“Sorry, sir.” It was typical of a new boy to be afraid of making mistakes here. Standards, you see.
But, this teacher was more accepting of mistakes than the others. In fact, he liked a bit of irreverence now and then. Hoping to bring the boy out of his shell, he continued. “Do you know what the other boys call me?”
Uday hesitated, and then said “No, sir.”
“Come now. I know you do. What is it?”
“Percy.”
“There you go. You don’t have to be afraid, it’s not a slur. Now, do you know why?”
“After Percy Shelley? The poet?”
This was impressive. Percy hadn’t met anyone before who had answered correctly. “Why, that’s right son. Well done. I used to teach Shelley, before the new curriculum ejected everything complex in favour of the commonplace. It’s a name that stuck with me then. But you know what?”
“What, sir?”
“I never understood Shelley, not even when I taught him. I just liked the name.” Percy chuckled, almost like it was a juvenile secret between him and the new boy. And Uday chuckled with him, opening up for the first time since he joined, feeling for the first time that things weren’t impossibly out of his capacity here.
Percy never let on that he knew Shelley by heart and went through his work almost annually to keep them ripe in his mind, especially after he stopped teaching him. But, he knew that a student like Uday would be better encouraged by injecting a little irreverence, rather than any stiff tradition.
And it seemed to have worked, if he were to believe the handsome face in all the papers. He had really taken to writing after joining Percy’s summer classes. The first vacation after joining, Uday had somehow convinced his parents that he wanted to stay on at school to study. In truth, he wasn’t ready to return to two separate parents in two separate homes. When he found out that Percy conducted storytelling and writing classes for the children of the town while the school was empty, he asked and joined. What started as an excuse to stay away from home, became one of the most transformative experiences of his youth.
As a conscientious man, Percy didn’t want to favour one of his students when the classes were actually meant for the children who couldn’t attend schools like this. But there was something about the boy, an unending hunger to win approval, and an uncanny gift for producing lines and passages of such high maturity, that he couldn’t deny his talent.
Having fed the birds, Percy got ready to go to the market in town. He had called Madhav, the shop-owner, last week, and ordered a copy of Uday’s newest book. The first time one of his books was published, he had personally sent a copy by post to Percy, along with a letter about how difficult the incubation period had been for him. “PS: Go through page 342,” it said at the end. That was the Acknowledgements page. Right after thanking his parents, it read, “Writing and I found each other a little late in life, but we were introduced by the best teacher and guide one could ever wish for, Professor Percy, from school.”
Percy’s eyes had turned moist, and he spoke as if his student was in the room, “Oh, stubborn boy, didn’t I tell you there are no Professors here?”
Since that book, four more had come out, each garnering near universal acclaim. Uday had become a national treasure, winning awards and recognitions internationally. And it was reported that on this very day, as his old teacher went out to buy his book, he would be receiving a civilian honour from a foreign government.
The last time Percy had actually met him, how long ago was that? Five years ago, maybe six? He had come with a television crew that wanted to shoot an interview with him as he strolled wistfully through his alma mater. He had contacted Percy and asked him to come on the show to speak about his formative days. This was a great honour for a teacher, and he eagerly pulled out the old yearbooks, and wore the commemorative pin he had received from the school. When the interview was finally broadcast, ol’ Percy’s bit was eighteen seconds in all.
That wasn’t the last time he had seen his protégé though. That would be after Uday had bought one of the biggest houses near the school, one that used to belong to a British magistrate, and made it a summer house in the hills. It was announced in all the interviews that this would be his writing retreat for him, but in reality he only came here twice, both times with groups of friends, all glowing with the aura of glamour as he himself did. Percy caught his eye one morning when he was feeding the birds and Uday had sauntered out with a cup of coffee. They waved at each other and smiled, before Uday went back in. The birds chirped and raised an especial ruckus around Percy, possibly to distract him, before he too eventually turned and went back inside. Two days later, exhausted after their litany of cocktail parties and woodland jaunts, the group returned to the plains and the festival circuit.
“There you are, Percy babu, your book’s waiting for you.” Madhav was always happy to welcome old-timers like himself to the shop. An English teacher was always good for business, but a kindred spirit like Paresh was welcome even for a chat. He reached under his desk and pulled out the book.
“It’s not my book,” Percy corrected him.
“Not until you pay for it,” responded Madhav, good-naturedly, thinking they were fooling around.
“No, I mean it’s Uday Sharma’s book. I am just a reader.”
“Well, of course. But, I remember when the first one came out, what it said about his debt to you. As his teacher you get a stake in all his books, eh.”
Percy picked up the book and felt its shape and weight on his hand. “He’s gone places I have never dreamt of, made a life from his writing that’s beyond anything I ever inspired in him. Can I really claim anything more than the smallest part in his success? Does a man putting up a signpost lay claim on another’s thousand-mile journey?”
This surprised Madhav, after all everyone in town knew that the teachers from the boarding school were the best in the province, maybe even in the country. Prime Ministers, industrialists, doctors, and builders, all had passed through those gates. The teachers here commanded immense respect, almost like saints.
“You aren’t just a man pointing the way, teachers like you are like parents to the boys. A parent can claim everything that a child achieves in their life.”
Percy shot him an alarmed look, “A parent? I am a confirmed bachelor. Don’t scare me like that. I can’t afford children at this age.”
Madhav didn’t know if Percy was joking, it wasn’t usual for him. “It was just making a comparison, nothing serious.”
“Nothing serious, indeed, Madhav. I was joking. Come on, don’t tell me you took it seriously. Here, let me pay you for this.”
As Percy counted out the money, a young girl of eleven or twelve, came into the shop. “Rinku, what do you want, child?” asked Madhav. Percy turned to see who it was.
The girl paid no attention to the customer and walked right up to Madhav. “Dadi wants to know if you can come home early today to take me to the cinema. She says I’m too jumpy and she needs me out of the house.” Clearly, she was quoting verbatim.
“Yes, I will, thanks to Percy babu here giving me an early sale. Say hello to him.”
The girl wished Percy and with the bold gaze of a child took her time looking him over.
“She’s my grand-daughter,” explained Madhav. “Her parents have sent her to us for the summer holidays. She’s in class five.”
“Class six,” she corrected, indignantly.
“Say, since she has all this time, and things around here must be a little slow for her, can she join your summer classes?”
“Summer classes? You mean the storytelling ones?” Madhav nodded. “But, I haven’t done that in years.”
Madhav looked disappointed. “I should have known. It’s been a while since you retired. Sometimes I forget how old we’ve grown together. It’s a shame, I think this one has a talent for stories. She reads to us from her books sometimes.”
Percy bent a little and spoke to the girl directly, “You like reading, do you little girl?”
“Yes, I do. But, I don’t like my teacher.”
“Why’s that?”
“She doesn’t know what’s what. She pauses at all the wrong places and even gets the pronunciation of easy words wrong.”
“But, how do you know if she’s wrong?”
“We used to have a good teacher before her who left. She taught us the correct way.”
Percy was impressed by how clear this young child was in her responses. “You mean to say, not all teachers are good?”
“I think most aren’t,” she replied with complete seriousness. Percy smiled and nodded in agreement.
“Looks like a good teacher is needed,” said Madhav, seizing the chance.
“Do you have any friends here?” Percy asked her.
“Sure, there’s Smita, and Ankur, and Ruskin, and Pinky…”
“That’s fine, that’s enough” interrupted Percy. “Do you think they’d also like to come to my house and talk about stories? Maybe write some?”
This was like being invited to a carnival, and Rinku jumped with excitement. “Yes, yes, of course they’ll come. But who cares about them? I really want to. Dada, please, can I?”
Madhav agreed instantly. “Have you forgotten this was my idea? Give this old man some credit.” Rinku jumped on her grandfather and gave him a tight hug. He turned to Percy, “I’ll speak to the other parents and grandparents and give you a call. But, I’m sure they’ll all agree when I take your name.”
Percy bowed his head with humility, “I’m a blunt instrument now, but I’ll do what I can.” He took the book and went on his way back home.
After nightfall, and when dinner was over, Percy sat in his reading chair with a hot cup of lemon tea and opened to the first page and began to read his book.