Nanju poked his head out of the last stall of the bathroom, and gave his khaki shorts one firm tug to make sure everything inside was secure. He peered around to see if the coast was clear.
A plastic packet with a pair of soiled school shorts lay tucked away under the stone ledge of the stall, hidden among the cleaning detergents, mops and brooms that the Ayammas stored there. Nanju had decided to come back for his packet when school was over.
Wearing a diaper did not bother Nanju very much.
Though he was ten years old, it was as normal for him as pulling on a pair of socks or lacing up one’s sneakers was for other kids. Because his crooked feet turned inwards, pulling on socks or lacing up sneakers were not things Nanju did.
Nanju’s parents had told him that the doctor in the Mahegowda Government Hospital had said that there was something wrong with his spine soon after he was born.
“He won’t know when to go to bathroom!” Nanju imagined the doctor barking – doctors in government hospitals always spoke to their patients as if they were deaf. “Must always wear nappy!”
The school Ayammas didn’t appreciate stumbling over Nanju’s little parcels, and they were known to tweak ears and pinch bottoms if it took their fancy.
Nanju couldn’t afford to be caught with dirty pants again. Theresa Miss had promised to call his father if he forgot to check his diaper in the breaks and had another accident.
Since he had entered Standard Five, life had changed. He had just one year left before he moved up into Standard Six, the big year at the United Integrated School. After that, one had to prove one’s competence to be given admission to a new school.
“Learn to be responsible!” was the new mantra. And no one took this more seriously than Appa.
“This year you must get good marks, Nanju,” Appa had glared at him that very morning.
Nanju decided that the glare was because Appa could not find his tailor’s tape and chalk piece and was swearing under his breath as he searched.
“They’re on top of the TV, Appa,” he said cheerfully, sprawled out on the floor as he put on his calipers, the plastic encasings for his bent legs that gave him additional support when he walked. “Shanti Akka always puts it there.”
His father rewarded him with a deeper scowl. Since his wife had died two years earlier, his daughter Shanti had taken to arranging his things for him. But he could never find them.
“Don’t change the topic! If you score badly this year, I’m going to send you to Kolar, I promise you!”
Prakash Mama ran a hostel for orphan boys in Kolar. Nanju always felt like a mouse in a lion’s den when Prakash Mama dragged them around the hostel on their annual visits. The rough-looking inmates were usually engaged in tearing each other’s shirts off on the dusty football field, or hanging the smaller fellows face downwards from the monkey bars, or simply baring their teeth in obscene grins at the scared creature that crept along beside Prakash Mama. Nanju would try to ignore the jeers and hisses that filled his ears from all sides.
How could Appa threaten to send him off to this place?
What Nanju needed to do now was to get across the long corridor without anyone seeing him. On one side were the classrooms, and on the other, big wide windows that overlooked the small courtyard where the kids ate and played. All was quiet; the children seemed to be safely tucked away in their classrooms. The coast was clear for him to leave.
He hurried out of the bathroom, and hobbled slap bang into the arms of the oldest school Ayamma.
“Ay! Go slow! And what are you doing hanging around in the bathroom during class? Don’t tell me you’ve again ...”
“No, Amma, nothing! Just going to toilet ...” Nanju wiggled his head from side to side.
Ayamma gave him a long look. Her lips tightened and her mouth curled up a little.
Nanju raced off before she could reply, wiping his wet hands on his shorts. He had washed his hands thoroughly in order to get the smell off, and as he hadn’t used any soap, it had taken a lot of water to do the job.
“Aradhana! Stop talking and sit down!” Theresa Miss thundered. It was the last period for the day and the children were restless.
The class teacher of Standard Five was middle-aged, with salt-and-pepper hair and a dignified way of pulling her saree pallu across her shoulders. At the moment, however, Theresa Miss resembled a tired old crow with a sore throat.
“Miss, I found my science book! It was on Armaan’s wheelchair.” Aradhana sat down obediently, though she couldn’t resist having the last word, as usual.
The class topper’s books had been vanishing and reappearing ever since the start of the term and was a source of great sorrow for her and a joyful distraction for everybody else.
“Armaan! Why did you take her book?” Theresa Miss rounded on the culprit, who had dozed off in his wheelchair.
“What, Miss?” Armaan woke with a start. “What, Miss?’
Armaan loved any kind of attention, because he rarely got any. He spent most of his day listening to the teacher or doing simple sums—one plus one, two plus four—in the only notebook he owned. Hence, he was always ready to engage in conversation, even where he was being rebuked. Armaan had cerebral palsy, which affects a part of the brain that controls movement. He couldn’t move his legs, and his hand movements were also very limited.
“Nothing!” Too late, Theresa Miss realised who she was dealing with.
“Take out your science books and turn to Chapter Two. Today, I am going to teach you about molecules.’
Nanju scrambled about in his bag, looking for his dog-eared science textbook. He dreaded the next forty minutes but he was also relieved that Aradhana had found her notebook. Nanju had great respect for the pretty, popular Aradhana, who had stood first in class ever since he could remember.
“Miss should scold Armaan nicely, no, Mahesh?” Nanju bent down and whispered to his neighbour.
Mahesh used a chair and desk that was half the size of the regular classroom furniture, so that his feet could touch the ground. They both sat in the front row, to ensure that Mahesh was able to see the blackboard clearly, and Nanju could be right next to his lifeline.
“Miss should scold Armaan nicely, no, Mahesh?” Ronit mocked from his seat behind Nanju and the children sitting around him giggled.
“Shutyamouth!’
“You shut your mouth!’
“Miss! They’re saying bad words,” one of the sneaker-pots shouted and the conversation came to an end.
Excerpted with permission from Simply Nanju, Zainab Sulaiman, Duckbill Books.
