The Elephant Chaser's Daughter Read online

  Dr. George chuckled and didn’t show so much as a kernel of surprise, since he’d already heard of these rumors. ‘I will not take your children’s kidneys or eyes. I will give them my heart.’

  A soft gasp rippled through the crowd. Some parents whispered amongst themselves, unsure what he had meant.

  An elderly man dressed in a simple shirt and a lungi raised his hand. ‘Are you planning to convert our children to Christianity?’ he asked.

  ‘I am a Christian,’ Dr. George answered. ‘I am a Hindu. I am a Muslim. I am a Jew. I am all of these.’

  Several nodded, impressed. I’m guessing most of the parents found this statement confounding. But a few probably understood the implications of what he was saying, and tried to explain to others.

  Dr. George waited patiently.

  At last, a young man cut through the chatter. ‘Is this all government money?’ He pointed to the construction going on outside.

  ‘I have not accepted any financial assistance from the government, nor do I plan to,’ Dr. George replied instantly. The crowd was confused. They couldn’t understand where the money was coming from. They were accustomed to grabbing whatever the government offered them by way of concessions and food subsidies. It was difficult for them to grasp why anyone would reject government assistance.

  ‘Without basic amenities like electricity, running water, and proper roads, it has been difficult,’ Dr. George said, referring to the challenges inherent in constructing a school in a remote village.

  We heard more about these early hurdles when we were older, like the day a bulldozer ran into a huge anthill. Out of nowhere, a large cobra sprung up and posed menacingly with its hood spread out. Several more snakes followed, some crawling towards the bulldozer. The driver screamed, completely aghast. The local superstition is that if one killed a cobra, its partner would avenge its death. Afraid that the snakes might creep up to his seat, the driver jumped down and ran away from the vehicle. Mr. Frank, the facilities manager of the school, and two laborers took long sticks to chase the snakes away. The frightened driver watched from a distance, muttering a feverish prayer. Only after being assured that the snakes had been driven out did he return to work.

  It was apparent from the start that there was much skepticism among the parents about the motives of rich people. What Dr. George had said sounded just as lofty as all the promises that politicians and landlords often made but failed to keep.

  ‘Why are you doing it for free?’ one man asked.

  Dr. George answered calmly, ‘People like you haven’t had the opportunity to overcome poverty. You have been poor since birth, and your ancestors were poor for generations. I believe that educating your children will help your families rise out of poverty.’

  Appa did not understand why Dr. George would want to help poor families with his own money, but he wasn’t altogether unfamiliar with the generosity of rich people. After every harvest, the landlord in our village would invite his laborers for a meal to be served in the open ground outside his large house. When politicians gave saris to poor women before elections, they asked only for loyalty in return. Occasionally, a few rich folks from the city showed up in their beautiful cars at the village on religious holidays or on their loved ones’ death anniversaries. Some considered that their acts of benevolence on auspicious days would be rewarded with God’s blessings. My parents along with our neighbors would gather with great anticipation for what was promised by the village leaders—an afternoon meal, clothes for the children, or whatever small gifts that might descend from rich visitors.

  Dr. George ended his talk in the same reassuring tone in which it had begun. ‘I hope you also have the same dreams for your children as I have. I don’t want you to take them out of school and force them to work. Or get the girls married off early.’

  His confidence had a positive effect on the audience. Placing his hand on the shoulder of a pleasant-looking man sitting beside him, he said, ‘This is Mr. Jude. He is the CEO of this institution, my right-hand man.’ Mr. Jude smiled and, like Dr. George before him, joined his hands in Namaste.

  Turning to another staff member sitting close to him, Dr. George said, ‘This is Mrs. Law, the principal of the school. All the staff here will take good care of your children. From today onward, they are my children too.’

  The crowd was now visibly excited and moved by what they had just heard. They rose as one and offered a thunderous ovation. ‘We will cooperate, sir,’ many in the crowd shouted. ‘We will help you.’

  Appa, like all the others, stood with his palms joined in respect. Amma, soon to give birth to her third child, my only sister, picked herself up carefully. She joined the others, but I know Dr. George hadn’t convinced her. She wanted me home, and there was nothing she could have heard at this gathering that would have changed her mind about that.

  As for Dr. George, his mission was slowly beginning to take shape. For Appa, there was now a good future to dream about. Both my father and my father figure came away from this initial meeting with hope in their hearts. Soon, I was busy playing by my mother’s side, oblivious to the significance of all that had taken place that day.

  It was time for the parents to return home. As they prepared to leave, every child pleaded to go with them. We loved the school, but watching our families walk away was too painful to bear. The aunties had to restrain us, and had no choice but to bolt the dormitory doors. As before, I stamped my feet and screamed, ‘I want my Appa. I want Amma!’

  Thinking about that day now, I realize how crucial that first meeting was for everyone. If Dr. George hadn’t been able to persuade my parents and set their minds at ease, Appa and Amma might have taken me back home with them, closing the doors to the new life that now lies ahead of me. By the same token, it was Appa’s unrelenting insistence in the face of nearly unanimous opposition from family and neighbors that gave me a different future. It appears that karma offers just one chance, if any, in one’s life for such a transformative prospect. Dr. George often tells others, ‘It is hard to truly transform poor people. Money can feed them for a while, but beliefs and mind-sets are very difficult to change.’

  After that first session with our parents, every time Dr. George returned from the United States, he would meet with them. Although travelling to Shanti Bhavan always meant rising early and taking several buses, my parents told me they awaited such days eagerly. With the help of his interpreters, Dr. George communicated freely with our families, and they in turn grew more at ease, and even jovial with him. It was clear that Dr. George understood they needed to know what was happening in the school and how their children were faring. Over time, Amma reconciled herself to seeing me only when I returned home for the holidays and during her occasional visits to the school for special events.

  While our parents were anxious to hear about our progress, we children looked forward to seeing Dr. George for entirely different reasons. Like Santa Claus, he appeared with a sack full of surprises when he arrived from America. He would smile lovingly at us, his pioneers—the first two groups of children at Shanti Bhavan. ‘Hello, children,’ he would say in greeting. We would jump all over him, electrified by the sight of colorful lollipops in his hands. The aunties found it hard to keep us under control when he was around. We even had a nickname for him, a private one we used chiefly amongst ourselves: we had christened him, ‘DG’.

  All of us enjoyed being with DG. Whenever we encountered him, he was playful, asking silly questions and joking with us. He usually ended his conversations with us by enquiring seriously, ‘How come you are so smart?’ Happy to learn that DG thought of us that way, we smiled and looked at each other to be sure. When I talked to him alone about the books I had read, like Charlotte’s Web or Beauty and the Beast, he often concluded with the question, ‘Do you know you are a genius?’ I would reply that I didn’t think I was, but he confirmed his belief in me anyway, much to my private satisfaction. But his smile would disappear in an instant if he found things ami
ss. Poor grades or improper behavior would bring out the strict side I dreaded.

  Several years would pass before I realized how important DG was to our lives. I will never forget the time we thought we had lost him forever. One morning at assembly Mrs. Law announced, struggling to sound calm, ‘Children, Dr. George’s office was in one of the twin towers in New York that were destroyed by terrorists. We haven’t heard from him yet.’

  We stood aghast. I must admit that I felt worried not only at the prospect of losing DG but also about how it would affect us. I had come to enjoy every minute of playing with my friends and eating different foods every day. If Shanti Bhavan closed and we were all returned home, what would our lives be like then?

  Two days later, to our great relief, Mrs. Law read aloud an e-mail she had just received. DG had been away in Washington, DC on the day of the attack. No harm had come to him.

  A month later DG suddenly walked into our dorm with Mrs. Law, catching us by surprise. Everyone was full of questions. Face beaming with a big mischievous smile, he announced that he had seen us through the window of the airplane he had arrived in and had waved at us, complaining that none of us waved back. He always had something ludicrous to say, and my imagination would soar hearing him and seeing how playful and silly he could be in our presence.

  A day or two following his return, DG showed us a video about the World Trade Center attack. For the first time watching it, I felt frightened and insecure. Our good fortunes could disappear in a moment. What happened in a distant land might be enough to end the fairy tale we were living. The worry disappeared when Ms. Ruth called us over to drink cocoa, and we went back to our carefree lives.

  CHAPTER FIVE: LEARNING ABOUT MY MOTHER

  The holidays were nearing. I was eight years old. The whole school was abuzz with excitement as we stacked our books in large cardboard cartons, packed away our clothes and blankets, and talked nonstop about how we were going to spend the next three weeks with our families. I could hardly wait to tell Amma all about my classmates, our games, our walks, our meals and treats, and everything that had happened since she and I had been apart.

  Too restless to sleep, I lay awake the night before going home imagining Amma and Appa smiling as Ms. Ruth told them I had been a good girl in school, that I didn’t steal chocolates from her cupboard, or lie like I used to before, and that I was doing well in class. I could almost taste the sweets that Grandmother would make for me—roasted peanuts rolled into balls with melted jaggery.

  I was sure my little brother and my sister—now four years old, the age I was when I left home—would be excited to see all the beautiful things I had made in art class. My favorite was the collection of bird feathers gathered during nature walks around the campus and by the lake outside the school gates. The thought of playing in the ragi fields of my village or stealing mangoes from the landlord’s garden made my excitement barely controllable.

  Now that we were old enough to understand, Mrs. Law had spoken a day earlier to all of us on the dos and don’ts of being home. We were to keep up with our hygiene, bathe regularly, protect ourselves from sexual abuse, be helpful to our siblings and parents, and not interfere if violence broke out within our families. I found it all a little dizzying.

  At last, the day arrived. I managed to push my way to a place among my classmates who stood against the dormitory’s broad glass windows, trying to spot their parents among the families who were being served breakfast in the dining hall. The dorm doors were locked to stop us from running wildly to our parents before our housemothers and teachers could update them on our performance in school.

  ‘Leelie, I see your mother,’ I shouted to a classmate over the noise of the television set and the boisterous chatter of excited children.

  ‘Who else is with her?’ she yelled back.

  ‘Your father is with her.’ I had just spotted his lean figure by her mother’s side.

  I scanned the crowd for my parents. They hadn’t come. I pulled away from the window. My temples hurt.

  Just then I caught sight of Appa’s short figure among the group of mothers and fathers who had broken away from the crowd in the dining hall and were sweeping across the lawn to get closer to our dorm. I could almost feel the magnetic pull of their anticipation. Aunty Shalini wouldn’t let parents come to the dorms looking for their children, and so she guided them back.

  I stepped away and sat on my bed silently. I was troubled to see that Appa was alone.

  Just then, one of the housemothers opened the door to let us out of the dorm. All my classmates ran to their parents, but I walked towards my father, crying. Appa tried to calm me when my second-grade teacher, Miss Christina, a tall, fair-skinned Anglo-Indian woman whose gentle nature had won our hearts, joined us. She had nicknamed me the ‘fighting hen’ because of my reputation as a feisty, hot-tempered girl who constantly got into fights with classmates.

  ‘I don’t know where you get all that energy, Shilpa,’ she said, smiling at me and greeting my father warmly. ‘She’s like a volcano.’

  I could sense that she was more impressed than disappointed.

  Sounding confident despite her difficulty in speaking fluent Kannada, Ms. Christina turned to my father. ‘Shilpa is a bright girl. She loves reading and does well in spelling tests. She needs to do better in Mathematics.’

  Appa sat smiling as she spoke, nodding as if he understood the difference between spelling and math. He appeared nervous in her presence, as if he didn’t quite know how to handle himself in the presence of an educated female. Regardless, he was pleased, and thanked her with his hands folded respectfully in Namaste. I wished Amma were also there to hear the good news from my teachers.

  During the three-hour bus ride, I could not stop wondering why Amma hadn’t come for me. Every time I asked, Appa simply avoided answering. Finally I stopped asking, but kept thinking of it. When the bus conductor hollered, ‘Thattaguppe,’ at the end of the journey, Appa lifted me off his lap and stepped out first, turning around to carry me down the bus’s rusty steps.

  It felt like an eternity since I’d last seen Amma. That had been during the winter vacation nearly six months ago. Unable to control my excitement, I skipped along the road humming my favorite English tune, ‘My Bonnie Lies over the Ocean’. I knew she would be delighted to hear me sing English songs. Each time she tried to learn the songs from me, we both ended up laughing at her awkward pronunciations; but, determined to learn, she never gave up.

  At a distance, I could see the large cross atop our neighborhood church, towering over the thatched roofs of the huts that bordered the sides of the road and the small shops displaying their wares to tempt the passerby. Carefully dodging clumps of cow-dung and stray dogs running about under the hot sun, I walked past shabbily clad boys playing cricket on the road with coconut tree branches as bats. I couldn’t help noticing the rubbish piled alongside the muddy road. The scene was far from glamorous, but it was home.

  Just as I was about to hop over the gutter to approach our house, Appa stopped me. ‘Shilpa,’ he said in a tone that clearly meant no, ‘Let’s first see your grandmother.’

  I was just too anxious to see my mother, and nothing else could be more important. The door to our house was locked. I wheeled on my father, ‘Appa, where is Amma?’

  ‘She is there,’ he said simply, avoiding my eyes and indicating that I follow him. I couldn’t understand how Amma could be inside a locked house but I obeyed and kept close to him.

  From a distance, I could see my grandmother standing outside her hut waiting for me with my sister in her arms. I yanked my hand from Appa’s grip and ran as fast as my chubby legs would take me down the slope towards her.

  ‘Grandma, Grandma!’ I shouted. Her face lit up and she quickly put Kavya down by her side.

  I clutched her large waist as she bent down and kissed me. Kavya was clapping her hands, repeating, ‘Akka has come! Akka has come!’ For a moment, I forgot all about Amma. As I struggled to pick up Ka
vya, she wrapped her small arms around my neck tightly. I smothered her with kisses.

  ‘You have grown dark,’ I teased.

  ‘She plays too much in the hot sun,’ Grandmother complained. ‘She doesn’t listen to me at all these days.’

  Holding my hand, Grandmother led me into the dark hut, thatched with dried coconut leaves. ‘Step in with your right foot. It is good luck,’ she reminded me. I slipped out of my rubber shoes and stepped over the clay threshold with my right foot. She walked me to a large, wooden-framed portrait of Jesus that she’d neatly garlanded with purple wildflowers. Drawing the sign of the cross on my forehead, she uttered a prayer under her breath before searching for a matchbox. With a solemn expression, she lighted the shaggy end of a broomstick on fire and swung it three times in front of my face. I recoiled from the burning broom, afraid sparks might fall on my dress. She chanted loudly, ‘Let all evil spirits that set their jealous eyes upon you go away. Protect my child in your grace.’ I remained still, waiting for something to happen, certain that her prayer would drive away the devil.

  I wasn’t unfamiliar with rituals like this. My family had been converted to Christianity centuries ago, yet we still clung to age-old Hindu traditions. Church teachings about Christ and Heaven were interspersed with superstitions about spirits and the power that our ancestors hold over us. Grandmother told me that inner peace could be found only if demons were chased away. When I grew older I questioned her beliefs, but she would answer, ‘If there is a God, there is a Devil, too.’

  The practice I dreaded most was what Grandmother did whenever I fell ill with fever. She would remove a black glass bangle from her wrist, crack it against the wall, place one end of the broken shard in the kerosene flame, and swiftly press it to the back of my head. It was believed that the shock from the sudden burn would chase the evil spirit away and cause the fever to subside. If I continued to cry, Grandmother would sing softly, imploring the moon, ‘Chanda mama, be kind to my child.’