What Maya Saw Page 2

  ‘Shut up, Cara,’ another mumbled. ‘He’ll hear.’

  ‘Who on earth is that guy?’ Maya wondered, trying hard not to stare at the unexpected heartthrob. ‘He’s hardly the Summer School type. Much more the Sleep-Till-Noon sort.’

  She was still wondering when the door flew open and a sprightly old man rushed in. He was thin and upright, with the beaky nose and beady eyes of an inquisitive bird. Before he sat down behind the massive desk in front of the room, he surveyed the class through thick spectacles and his eyes lingered on Maya.

  ‘Good morning and welcome to the Summer School,’ he said in a papery voice.

  ‘Good morning, Sir,’ the students chorused in reply.

  ‘I am Professor Kekobad. I, along with two other teachers, will be conducting this school. Many of you are from St Paul’s College and know the drill. But some of you are from other colleges and schools. So I would like to start with a few instructions.’

  Professor Kekobad went through the rules of the college. No strappy tops. No shorts. No smoking and drinking in the college. ‘One last caveat,’ he continued. ‘I am allergic to perfumes and perfumed soaps. If I enter the class and detect the faintest hint of perfume, I will walk out immediately. While you are in the Summer School, you are only allowed to use Neko Germicidal Soap, Dermadew or Dove.’

  Maya goggled and nodded solemnly. She tried hard to remember what soap she had used that morning. Mrs Anand rejoiced in all things pink and floral, and Maya imagined a malevolent puff of rose and jasmine travelling across the classroom and overpowering the poor professor.

  Professor Kekobad was wrapping up his talk. ‘I’ve given you numerous rules,’ he said with a small smile, ‘But my final point is a request rather than a rule. Please plan on spending as much time in the library as in the canteen. Frightening though the prospect may seem to those of you who are as allergic to the written word as I am to perfume.’

  Everybody laughed uproariously as Professor Kekobad picked up his battered leather diary and left the lecture room, giving a curt nod to the two newcomers who had just walked in, carrying stacks of folders.

  Maya watched with interest. The old professor didn’t seem too fond of his colleagues, who had just deposited their precarious piles on the desk. One of the newcomers was a short, fair priest in a white cassock. He had froggy eyes, a frown and small, white hands with raw, bitten nails.

  Maya felt a thrill of recognition. She’d read his books on the history of Bandra and Thane, and had heard him on TV, talking about Mumbai. She leaned forward eagerly to listen. After all, Father D’Gama was a genuine expert.

  Not exactly Madonna or Messi, but still a Celebrity of Sorts.

  Unfortunately though, a dour Celebrity of Sorts. ‘Please study the reading material I’ve prepared for you,’ the priest snapped, pointing at the stack of folders. ‘A Summer School only works if the students are serious. Those of you who know me understand that I do not suffer fools. For those of you who do not know me, I would like to add that I am a stickler for rules and dress codes. I expect attendance and punctuality and the highest standards of academic integrity.’

  Everybody looked subdued for a moment, and began to jot quick notes when Father D’Gama rattled out his reading list. ‘The books have been placed in a separate section in the library for your convenience. There are some books that are essential reading. A Short History of the Bombay Presidency by Edmund Cox, Old and New Bombay by Claridge, The Rise of Bombay by Edwardes. And, of course, the essays by Karl Brun, that great historian who actually taught at St Paul’s College around 60 years ago.’

  The students looked palpably relieved when Radhika Rathod took over from the surly priest.

  Radhika Rathod was an energetic woman of about 35. Her khaki pants and sturdy boots gave her the air of a mountaineer about to conquer Mount Everest.

  She grinned at the class and at her colleague. ‘Father D’Gama likes to start out by terrorising his class. Yes, we do have a lot of ground to cover in just 25 days. But first, I want to welcome all of you. Some I know well. Others I’ve seen going at the doughnuts in the canteen. Some of you I don’t know at all. And some of you I know, but hadn’t expected to see.’

  When she said this, half the class snickered and swivelled around to look at the backbenches. Maya peeked as well.

  A lanky boy was sitting next to Owais. He had full lips, an aquiline nose and silky hair. He looked up and Maya caught a glimpse of heavy-lidded eyes. But it was their troubled expression that snagged her heart.

  Up in front, Radhika Rathod chuckled and continued, ‘Our Summer School is a very flexible programme. We plan to identify five areas in Mumbai and really, really try and understand how they have changed since 1850.’

  A hand shot up in the front of the class. ‘A quick question, if I may. Which areas?’ asked a plummy voice. It belonged to a podgy boy with a clipped accent and magenta t-shirt.

  ‘That will have to come from you, Aadil,’ the teacher replied. ‘We’re giving you a set of maps that will show you how Mumbai emerged from seven islands into the city we know today. Study the maps and then tell us which areas you would like to investigate. Also, start writing a list of questions about these areas. Often, the questions are as important as the answers.’

  ‘Millions saw the apple fall, but Newton was the only one who asked why,’ intoned a confident voice from the first row.

  A few smirks and eye-rolls greeted this statement.

  ‘It’s a famous quote,’ the bossy voice added.

  Maya craned her neck to see this fount of wisdom – and spotted a stocky girl with a pugnacious jaw and a stern bob.

  Radhika Rathod raised an eyebrow but nodded. ‘Veda’s right,’ she said. ‘Anyway. Think. Ask. Over the next few days, we’ll decide on our groups and areas.’

  ‘We will also have experts in local history, including Professor Charles Brown from the UK. We’re lucky that he’s conducting research in Mumbai at the moment. So we have access to his considerable expertise.’

  The maps were handed out, and the students started making notes. Maya was hard at work when a shadow fell over her book. She looked up to find Father D’Gama staring down and felt a prickle of revulsion.

  There was something creepy about the priest, with his soundless prowl and his boneless, childish hands. She could only breathe again when he padded away to spy over another shoulder.

  The morning passed in a flash. At her desk in the corner, Maya felt invisible and safe. Then the class broke for lunch and she was forced to leave her refuge.

  Most students hurried towards the canteen, chatting about juices and dosas. Maya looked around uncertainly and then drifted towards the empty quadrangle where she found a shady spot under an arch covered with plaster furbelows and flowers.

  She wasn’t really hungry, but she ate the too-buttery chicken sandwiches, mopped her brow and fanned herself. She admired the graceful chapel that crowned the quadrangle and stared at the rows of feline gargoyles that leered from the roof. Each gargoyle was different, she realised with astonishment. Some had beards, some smirked, others gorged on bunches of grapes.

  Then, because she had nowhere else to go, Maya wandered to the first floor and walked along the verandahs till, through a doorway, she spotted a vast, silent room filled with books.

  * * *

  For many years afterwards, Maya wondered if things would have turned out differently if her feet had led her anywhere else.

  Anywhere other than the library of St Paul’s College.

  CHAPTER 3

  Maya stumbled out of the library 27 minutes after she had entered it.

  Her ears buzzed, her knees wobbled and her face was mottled and tear-stained. As she rushed towards Lecture Room 113, she looked around with wild eyes – and let out a ghastly howl when a black plastic bag fluttered in the corridor. Two girls sniggered and whispered behind cupped hands.

  For once, Maya didn’t care what others thought. All she could see was those horns. Twisty
, gleaming and cruel.

  The too-buttery chicken sandwiches sat uncomfortably in her stomach. As soon as she reached Lecture Room 113, Maya collapsed onto her chair. She was shivering and could barely unzip her pencil case. Or unscrew her green metal water bottle. Or breathe.

  The cool blast from the AC helped. So did the silly squeals from the groups drifting into the room.

  The Crystal-Cara crowd strolled in, chattering about a dance party.

  ‘… blue off-shoulder dress …’

  ‘… the DJ was stupid only …’

  The girl with the bossy voice was parked in her front, middle seat, highlighting the reading material with green and yellow markers. Watching her arrange her pens, Maya felt calmer. She was exactly what you would expect from someone who chose to attend a Summer School rather than lounge in front of the TV. She would ask the most questions, supply the most answers and read the fattest, dustiest books in the library.

  At the thought of the library, something sharp and jagged sliced through Maya’s stomach. ‘Be sensible,’ she berated herself. ‘That girl with the horns is nothing to do with me. I’ll never see her again. It’s over. All I have to do is sit here and remain invisible till it’s time to go home. Easy butter jelly jam.’

  A moment later, Radhika Rathod entered the classroom. Two moments later, she disposed of the plan that Maya had so hopefully proposed.

  ‘Okay,’ the teacher clapped, ‘It’s time we got to know each other better. So we’re going to introduce ourselves. Let me start. I’m Radhika Rathod, and I teach history at St Paul’s College. I love reading and knitting sweaters and I collect spoons.’

  This was so unexpected that Maya giggled.

  Radhika Rathod laughed as well. ‘Never judge a book by its cover and all that,’ she said, looking around. ‘Now your turn to introduce yourselves. Let’s start from the back row. Sanath, you start, as you’ve travelled the longest way to get here.’

  All eyes turned towards the last row. Owais now had two companions. The beautiful boy with the sad eyes. And a girl whose face and toned arms were veiled by heavy black curls.

  The boy stood up – shoulders tense and hands stuffed into the pockets of his faded jeans. On his face was that same troubled expression that made Maya’s heart do silly things.

  ‘He’s a cutie,’ a girl whispered somewhere near Maya. ‘Why’ve I never seen him before?’

  Her question was answered seconds later.

  ‘I’m Sanath,’ the boy said with the slightest lilt. ‘From Sri Lanka … uhh … I’m at St Paul’s College as an exchange student. I just got here two days ago. I like cricket and black-and-white photography.’

  ‘Aha,’ the girl whispered to her friend. ‘Mystery solved. Let’s help him feel at home. I think we’ll take up cricket and photography. Strictly black and white. LOL!’

  Radhika Rathod gave Sanath a friendly smile. ‘Sanath will attend St Paul’s for a year,’ she said. ‘He’s at the college hostel. Is that right?’

  ‘Same room as Owais,’ Sanath replied as he sat down.

  ‘Good, good,’ Radhika Rathod nodded. ‘I hope you have a good stay in Mumbai. Okay next, Amara.’

  The girl sitting next to Owais pushed back her glossy curls as she sprang up. ‘I’m Amara,’ she drawled. ‘I study at St Paul’s College. I like partying and techno music. But there’s more to me than meets the eye.’

  Amara turned and looked straight at Maya.

  Maya stiffened.

  Amara was the girl from the library. The beautiful girl with hooped earrings and the tall, slim body of a dancer.

  The girl with horns.

  CHAPTER 4

  One after another, the students introduced themselves.

  The Crystals—by some quirk of fate, all the girls in the group had names like Crystal, Kirsty, Cara and Tanika—all loved singing, dancing and Rihanna.

  The trackie crowd swam, watched movies and were into cool, alternative rock. They cast pitying glances at the Crystals and inviting glances at Owais and Sanath.

  Four boys, who looked like they had been born with Summer School brochures in their mouths, were interested in ‘mumble, mumble, Experiments with Truth, mumble, mumble, santoor, mumble, socialism.’

  But Maya heard very little. She felt frozen and nauseous. She jumped when Radhika Rathod called her name.

  ‘Maya,’ the teacher said. ‘Earth to Maya. Please tell us something about yourself.’

  Maya stood up quickly, thwacking her knee on the desk. Her face turned hot when she saw the entire class watching. ‘I’m Maya,’ she stuttered. ‘I’m from Model Girls’ School. I love reading.’

  Quickly, she sat down again, ducking her head.

  Radhika Rathod nodded. ‘Maya is the baby of our class. But we’re told that she already has a great understanding of history,’ she said before turning to the next student.

  Maya was still blushing and rubbing her bruised knee when a concerned voice said, ‘That was an epic bang! Is it hurting? Do you, like, need a Band Aid? I carry a packet of Band Aids with me all the time. The flexible type that come in a jar. They’re great for shoe bites. And it’s one of the sad facts of life that nice shoes all bite. Unlike dogs.’

  Maya looked up in amazement at a pair of dancing eyes and an infectious smile. They belonged to the girl sitting in front of her. ‘I’m Lola. Well okay. Actually I’m Lalitanjali. But Lola suits me better. Don’t you think?’

  Lola looked like a naughty pixie. Her hair was short and wispy. Her eyes twinkled and crinkled, and everything about her was XXS.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Maya whispered, hoping that she didn’t sound unfriendly. ‘But thanks.’

  ‘Cool,’ Lola replied and turned back to listen to Radhika Rathod.

  The teacher was wrapping up for the day. ‘It’s horribly hot out there, and it’s our first day,’ she said. ‘So let’s pack up. But there’ll be days when we finish late and your fieldwork will keep you out till the evening. So be prepared. See you tomorrow.’

  The class surged towards the door. Maya darted a quick look towards her, and was relieved to see Amara saunter out of the classroom without a backward glance.

  Maya scurried out with the crowd.

  There were too many arches, staircases and hidey-holes in St Paul’s. What had appeared charming just this morning was now sinister. Maya was determined never to walk these long corridors alone. And it was only when she passed the porch and the chowkidar and returned to the hubbub on the street that she felt able to breathe again. That she felt she was safe from Amara with the twisted horns and vacant eyes.

  Maya stood on the pavement, waiting for her mother. Other students wandered away in noisy knots. A few headed towards VT station, others towards the big bus stop at Metro. Every few seconds, Maya glanced around.

  Thankfully, no Amara.

  What she did see, however, was a police jeep driving up to the college. Three men stepped out – two of them in khaki uniforms. Then a familiar figure trotted out of the college.

  Father D’Gama.

  The priest had changed out of his white cassock into blue pants and a cream shirt. He looked even more disagreeable than before. Grimacing and gesticulating, he steered the three policemen into the college. The only words Maya could make out were ‘vanished … impossible … feeble’.

  Maya was fascinated. Not in all her years at Model Girls’ had a police car ever driven up to the school. She moved a couple of steps away from the college gate, putting as much distance as possible between herself and this dangerous place.

  Just then, the familiar silver Honda appeared. Maya flung herself in and slammed the door. ‘Let’s go,’ she said, willing her mother to drive away. But Mrs Anand was one of those cautious souls who check seatbelts and indicators and petrol gauges. So it was some time before Maya felt free of the looming shadow of St Paul’s.

  ‘How was your first day?’ Mrs Anand asked.

  ‘Okay,’ Maya lied.

  ‘I hope your classroom was air-condit
ioned,’ Mrs Anand continued. ‘Do you know, today was the hottest day in the hottest April in 29 years? The temperature went up by five degrees in a single day. People are dying of heat across the country. They’ve announced massive water cuts.’

  ‘It’s hot,’ Maya agreed.

  ‘You must be exhausted. Did you eat the sandwiches? Did you make any friends? I hope you took part in the discussions.’

  Maya opened her mouth and closed it again. She longed for reassurance. But she also knew it would be a rotten idea to confide in her mother.

  Within three minutes, Mrs Anand would have fixed appointments with eye doctors and mind doctors. And though Maya often doubted herself, this time she was certain. No doctors could offer a solution.

  There was just one answer. Staying away from St Paul’s College.

  ‘I’ll explain that I’m really not having a good time at all,’ Maya decided. ‘Mummy will have to listen. It will all work out.’

  CHAPTER 5

  Fifteen minutes later, Maya knew there was no easy way out. Nothing short of a bout of dengue.

  Maya realised this as soon as she stepped out of the car into the neat, cemented compound of Pine View Building. She was patting Mr Pinkwhistle when ancient Gotoskarji interrupted his evening walk to chuckle.

  ‘Very good, very good,’ he said. ‘Your mother told me all about how that college invited you. Very good. Cleverest girl in building.’

  ‘Brilliant girl,’ doddery Mr Vaidya rambled. ‘Like my niece who is in the Harvard University in America. You will also go to the Harvard University one of the days.’

  Maya smiled weakly. Waving, she hurried towards the maroon granite steps that led into the building, but Mr Ranglani was quicker. He popped out of his ground floor window, with his greasy, paan-stained grin and sprinkling of biscuit crumbs.

  ‘Your motherji is telling us all about you,’ he said, handing her a small stack of business cards with a greasy hand. ‘All what you are doing. If your new college friends are wanting to rent or PG, give them my kind reference.’