Extract from Gifted by Nikita Lalwani

Tag : Polyester Velour

Mahesh is sitting in his office, marking. He looks up at the arc ofthe window as a train rushes past, its urgency left behind indiesel scent and echoing clacks. The dank hush of autumn issettling into his room like a foregone conclusion. It is theeleventh season of its kind in his experience in the UK. The fourthof its kind in this room. Mahesh looks up. There are charts andpictures on the wall. The map of the world sits at an awkwardangle, blue ocean disappearing behind the iron bookshelf. Booksbulge in huge rows, pressing together files and papers, orangefoolscap running in chunky alternation with black, white and grey.In the left corner of the room, by the whiteboard, the bumpyillustration of Gandhi peers out at him. In his mind there is anannoyance that delicately attacks his thoughts every few minutes.
Why did Rumi write that in her exercise book? This is the questionthat hooks into his conscience periodically: a tiny dental toolpiercing soft gum. Why did she write it?
I went to play with Sharon Rafferty and Julie Harris and LeanneRoper in the woods. They let me play softball which is likerounders but with only two bases. Sharon said 'let's go and get thesoftball and racquets from my house. When we got to her place westood outside the gate and Sharon said 'I just have to check youcan come in Rumi because my mum doesn't like coloured people.' Thenshe went in with the others and I waited outside.
Thank goodness she came back and said it was OK. Then we went inand had pop ices and got the racquets. Mrs Rafferty was sun bathingin the garden and looked red. We took the racquets and playedsoftball in the woods.
'Coloured'. The word had made him think of a crayon spreading athick grainy brown over a round face, the kind of awkward picturesRumi used to draw under duress when she was younger. Again he looksat Gandhi, wizened and unflinching, in the corner of his room.Whatwould they make of this back in college, cocooned as they had beenin the company of ideas? Trotskyites, Gandhian Communists - theyhad found plenty of names for themselves back then, chewing betel,relishing the bitter stain on their lips and debating whether classwar was compatible with non-violence. What would they think of thisname? What would they think of the conversation he had attemptedwith Rumi after reading it?
'Do you like your school, Rumi?'
'I don't like the bullies.'
'What do you mean, bullies?'
'People who aren't nice to me.'
'Do not let these things affect you. You are ten years old now.'
'What?'
'You should be like a tiger in the jungle. Like Shere Khan in TheJungle Book.'
'What do you mean, Daddy?'
'If someone hits you, then hit them back. If they hit you once, hitthem twice.'
The words had come out of his mouth, as honest as a shotgun, and hehad looked away when her eyes jumped. If you are shocked, so am I,he'd thought. But you are not going to be a victim. That I will notallow.
What would they think of this - the Hyderabad college collective -this world that he had chosen to inhabit, placing a solitary,all-important offspring right at the centre? Come to that, whatabout Whitefoot, his current friend, colleague from the PhD courseat Cardiff, Marxist himself - what would he think?
Another train goes past, carrying a heavy rattle inside it, denseas a migraine. The tremble of the room seems to jolt the Gandhipicture slightly. He can see a square of evening light on theglass, obscuring part of Gandhi's face. Coloured? Why did she writeit?
It is four p.m., an early end to his day. He has marked fourpapers, and the room has lost most of its light. Mahesh screws thelid on to his fountain pen and places it in the outer pocket of hisblazer so that the brushed steel is visible against the brownpolyester mix. The pen had been a present from Shreene, bought withcash carefully siphoned from her first few pay cheques, when shehad begun to work after the birth. It is almost exactly the sameage as Rumi. After ten years it still feels smooth to the touch,cool, not a single visible scratch or dent on the whole body of thepiece. There is still that sensation of guilty pleasure at thisluxury when he thinks about what it signifies, a tool of learningand wisdom - but a flamboyant one. He buttons up and puts the exampapers to one side, releasing the blind at his window before helocks up for the day, tucking two MSc dissertations under his armto look at when he gets home.
Five years earlier, Rumi had come home one day and announced thatMrs Gold wanted to come round and meet her parents. She was justfive years old, in her first class at school. Mahesh and Shreenehad arranged to leave work early on the appointed day, and werehome by three thirty. Shreene began to fry some bhajis, whileMahesh descended into a deep silence, waiting in his shirt and tiein the living room. When Mrs Gold walked in, Rumi was holding herhand.
'What a lovely walk home we've had together, Mr and Mrs Vasi,' shesaid, letting Rumi go in ahead of her.
Rumi squirmed and went suddenly quiet, looking up at her father.Mahesh stared at the teacher's peroxide coiffure - whipped andsprayed into rounded peaks and troughs, like a butterscotchdessert. He was confused. Mentally he fought against relaxing, anatural response to the large smile exuded by Mrs Gold.
'Is it possible to talk to you and your wife together?' she asked.
Shreene had brought in the snacks and joined him, sitting with herhands in her lap, still formal in her work-wear, tights and heels.There was an alertness about her: she kept looking covertly atMahesh, as if to say, 'Give me the signal and I'll go ahead withwhatever it is we need to do.'
'What is it you wanted to talk about?' Mahesh said to Mrs Gold,feeling the accented curves of his voice as though for the firsttime. 'Is something wrong?'
'No . . . far from it, Mr Vasi. I wanted to give you some news thatI think will make you very proud parents.'
'And that is?'
'Rumi is a gifted child!' Mrs Gold declared, unleashing the wordswith a thrilled upward turn of the mouth.
Mahesh looked at Shreene, who was biting at the dry skin on herlower lip - a sign that she was tense. He looked at Rumi, who wasstaring at the floor, waiting for him to decipher the words. Andthen he cast his gaze back towards Mrs Gold, and her radiant linesof teeth. 'You mean she is doing well at school?'
'I mean more than that, Mr Vasi,' said Mrs Gold. 'I mean that sheis special. Different. Gifted.'
At this, Rumi started to fidget, scratching her nose and kickingher feet, looking from side to side, first at her mother, then ather father, her movements uncertain, exaggerated by the silence.Mahesh noticed that she had a scratch on her knee just below thehem of her corduroy dress, above the tight line of white sockgripping her calf. Shreene twitched her forehead at her daughter.Mahesh smiled at Mrs Gold again, and softened his voice, aware thathis daughter was listening to each word as he spoke. He tried tokeep the pressure out of the sentences he began to create.
'Myself and my wife take . . . Rumika's education very seriously.We are pleased that she is doing well in her studies and that herhard work has paid off. I am an academic myself - '
Mrs Gold shook her head, interrupting. 'With due respect, Mr andMrs Vasi, I'm talking about something else. I am talking about agift. Something that only comes along now and then. Rumi is agifted mathematician!'
They were plunged into silence once more. Rumi moved her legs backand forth, pushing them rhythmically against the velour of thesofa. Mahesh registered vaguely that she was repeating the movementin batches of four, then pausing, like a physical chant. He watchedher support one of her chubby little cheeks with a hand, which shemade into a fist, balancing her elbow on her thigh.
· Tomorrow read an extract from Tom Robb Smith's Child 44.