The first of a series of tales by Ghetufool. Piklu is the nickname of a boy who’s not like his older siblings. In English it might be Sunny, or Ziggy. Is he autistic? Asperger’s syndrome? Doesn’t matter. He’s learning to have fun. I used to edit some of the more serious of Ghetu’s stories: “correcting their English”. Whoops! That was then 😱
Piklu is awake but can’t just muster the courage to step out. Today being Sunday, mother won’t hurry him out of his bed. He can lay there like a log if he wishes to, soaking in the warmth of his quilt. He doesn’t understand why people get up early when they don’t have to go to school or attend the office in a hurry. Usually, on weekdays, he gets ready for his school in flat fifteen minutes, and by the end of twenty, he is waving his hands goodbye to Maa. On weekends though, he is the insect in a pupa. He would emerge out of his shell only when it is warm outside. There is no blunder than to leave the bed on a chilly Sunday morning.
He has been awakened early today by footsteps outside his window. He could sense a few men were hurrying down the road in small batches as if their life and death depended on it. They are saying something excitedly, but the words don’t sound familiar.
Right where Piklu is, besides the old wooden window, one can hear everything that goes about in the street. It is usually quiet, except during the dawn when fisherfolks head towards the river, chatting about waves and the missed catch. Mill workers drag themselves a little later.
When Piklu and his sister head for school, the street again lay like a snake too weak to move.
The windowsill is Piklu’s favourite spot in the whole world. He hasn’t disclosed the secret to anyone other than his Thakuma, granny, that the window is a radio. Lying beside the window at night, Piklu could hear everything — an oil-soaked thief tiptoeing away, babies crying at the top of the palm trees, tigers sharpening their claws in the trunk, jackals disappearing in the swamps of elephant ears. Closing his eyes, Piklu can see everything on the other side of the window. And if it all gets too dull, he turns the nob to pick up distant voices, murmurs, and dialogues.
Clear-headed, he surveyed the world around him. The light green walls, soft darkness filling the room, blue embroidered bedsheet, the sliver of light escaping the curtains, these all are his personal property. Pinki is sleeping beside him, her pillow drenched in saliva.
Piklu recalls what she said last night. “You’d be good for nothing,” she had blasted. Piklu couldn’t hold back his smile now seeing her gaping mouth. She is just a year and a half older than him, yet she has always been his self-appointed guardian. Pinki never stood second in her class. Perhaps that’s why teachers did not have the heart to flunk Piklu. This year she had to move to a new school as the earlier one, where Piklu still studies, has only till class four. It is both a relief and sorrow for him. Piklu can finally be himself, but he misses Pinki in the school van.
On weekends, usually, guests come and go. So, their parents have given her the responsibility to tutor him. Mortally afraid that Piklu is of his mother, there is no reason to take Didi seriously. He is aware of her craving to be the best in whatever she does, and that’s why he sometimes looks forward to these morning classes.
She starts as a no-nonsense math teacher. With a stern face filled with disgust, she adjusts her glasses and jots down a series of problems in Piklu’s copy. Piklu takes the book and casts a blank gaze on the pages. It is not that he cannot solve some of those assignments. He easily can, but why should he? Piklu bids for his time, pretending not to be moved by the occasional damnations directed gently towards him.
By the time they must fold up, Pinki’s face transforms into half panic and half pleading. She goads Piklu to write the correct answers. Having no time to waste, she starts disclosing the solutions one by one. There too, he’d write the wrong answers to tick her off. Horrified, she coaxes, cajoles, and even promises to part with a few blocks from her chocolate bar when she gets hold of one.
She then flies off with the copy in the kitchen, where she’d check them in front of mother. Tick, tick, tick, her student is the epitome of perfection. She has nothing but praises for the discipline and effort that her student puts through under her careful watch. Piklu doesn’t wait for approvals, though. He is off the instant his role in the farce ends.