Barking Up the Wrong Tree – Hema (or the Road to Hell is paved with good intentions)
There it was.....her beautiful wooden box with the different sections for storing her ink well and nibs and the spot for the fine paper. But what was that horrible Hussain doing with it?
That beautiful wooden box, with the different sections for
storing the ink wells, the nibs and the fine paper. She remembered tucking it
away into her backpack after last week’s “Show and Tell” at the art class. The
teacher had asked her to show the class how she had used the different nibs to
create the award-winning poster. The box was very special. It had belonged to
her aunt, the one who was an artist and lived in New York. Her aunt had gifted
it to her upon learning of her interest in graphic art and calligraphy. Rani
treasured it and kept it locked in her desk, except for when she took it to
demonstrations, like she had last week, or when she took it home on the
weekends.
She had unlocked her desk on Friday afternoon, and to her
horror, found an empty space instead of the box. She had checked her backpack
and frantically searched the Art classroom. Her friends and even the Art teacher,
Ms Halwai, joined the search. Rani was inconsolable. The teacher had posted a
sign on the notice board asking for help finding the box.
And here, at Monday recess, was that dreadful Muslim boy,
grinning from ear to ear. He seemed to be teasing her as he held her precious
box slightly over his head. She rushed towards him, “Give that to me at once! How
could you take it away from me? You don’t even know what it is used for!!”
The grin on Hussain’s face vanished into a sea of red. “I
was just bringing it back to you.”
“Of course,” she sneered grabbing the box with both hands.
“Cos you knew someone would catch you soon enough.”
Hussain reeled under the venom spewing from her eyes. “Look,
you know, that’s not true. I saw the notice on the board. I know how special
this box is to you, so I went looking for it. I’d last seen you use it in art
class on Friday. I talked to the janitor. He says he found it on a window sill.”
“Oh, go blame the poor janitor now. You must have taken it
from my backpack in art class. Why would I go leave this precious set on a
window sill?” She turned away from him. Then over her shoulder, “If you must
make up a story, at least make up a better one. I am going to report you to Ms
Halwai.”
Hussain tried to stand his ground. “You’re barking up the
wrong tree. I’m not the guilty party here.” And then weakly, to her departing
back, “I just wanted to help you.” And
even as he said it, he knew. He had been wrong to hope they could ever be
friends. His was a family of devout Muslims, she came from a clan of fierce
Hindus. Both families still bore the scars of “Partition”, some terrible event that
happened more than 75 years ago, something that he really did not understand.
The lump in his throat threatened to become a sob. He
swallowed it. He had only wanted to bring
the box back to Rani. She had seemed so sad and forlorn on Friday. Shyly, he had hoped, that they could be
friends, perhaps collaborate on a poster together, he had seen some fantastic
Arabic patterns.
He waited outside the principal’s office staring at the
floor, his chin resting on his chest, certain he was guilty of something even
if he hadn’t stolen the box.
The principal would definitely call in his parents. Abba
would shake his head sadly and say, “What were you thinking?” Mom wouldn’t say
anything, though she’d make sure he realized how much he had embarrassed the
whole family. His cousins would tease him, there would be no mercy there.
Perhaps grandma? No, that Hindu business would get in the way.
Pandu, the janitor, watched the small crowd clustered outside
the principal’s office below. He suppressed the surge of pity that welled up
inside him at the sight of Hussain’s forlorn figure. He remembered that day not
so long ago, when he had learnt that same bitter lesson. He had tried to help a
beautiful woman in distress. Instead of being grateful, she had turned the
wrath of the mob on him. He had lost his job and his reputation. More than that
he had lost the will to salvage either.
Pandu had been in a hurry to close up that past Friday
afternoon. He was going to his village for the weekend. He had quickly walked
through the classrooms, emptying the trash and setting the chairs back in
place. The box had been sitting on the window sill in the Art classroom. The
sill was just above eye level for the middle school kids. This was the fifth
item he had rescued from the window sill this year. Kids usually set things up
there while packing their stuff, and sometimes they forgot to take it. It was a
pretty box, and for a while he entertained the thought of keeping it. Regardless,
he would put it in his closet till Monday morning. It would be safer there.
On Monday morning, when he saw Ms Halwai’s notice, he
realized that it was best the box be found. He planned to place it back on the
window sill in the Art Classroom in the period after morning recess. Then it
would be a matter of pointing it out to one of Rani’s friends. He did not want
to engage in the business of returning it directly. Who knows what he might be
accused of. But young Hussain had knocked on his door at the start of morning
recess.
And before Pandu could say anything, Hussain had spotted the
box on the shelf. “Where did you find that box? I must have it at once. We’ve
been looking for it since Friday. Rani is beside herself. I must bring it back
to her.” Hussain had been so eager and so anxious to be a hero he reminded Pandu
of himself and his own foolishness all those years ago.
