BY NILKAN A. PERUMAL

On the very first night I went to live in my newly rented flat in Kobe, Japan, where I was living a few years ago, my landlord's family came to see me. It was a cold night although spring had come and the cherry blossom season was in full swing. I was in my warm dressing gown in the study busily revising an article for the Osaka Mainichi (one of the two greatest newspapers in Japan) when the door was knocked. I said, "Come in!" The door then flung open and a Japanese woman past her middle age carrying a baby on her back, entered and bowed. She was followed by another, young woman holding a child by the arm and yet a third, a bright-looking girl attired in a butterfly kimano, who appeared to be fourteen years old. All of them smiled innocent smiles and reverently bowed to me saying, "Kumbava" (good night), I rose upon my feet and returned their salutations. Then there was pin-drop silence in the room for a while.

The elderly lady then began "Anone"–for that was the way the Japanese started any conversation–and spoke something in Japanese which I did not know enough to understand as to what exactly she spoke. I stood puzzled, and blushed. Then "the girl of fourteen" stepped a pace forward to my help.

"Upasan (grand-mother) say," she said in English slowly, taking long breaths between each word she uttered, "she happy you come."

"Oh, thanks. I am equally happy to see you all here. Please tell her so," I replied rather quickly. Although I doubted very much whether the girl had understood me fully, I saw she appeared to, from the way in which she immediately gave a translation of what I spoke.

Again the elderly lady spoke something and the little girl interpreted.

"Upasan say," she continued, "I know lithle Engriz (English)–want–study–more." And she took a deep glance on a piece of paper which she held tight between her fingers, laughed heartily, and said, "You teach."

"That is fine. Come to-morrow and we shall see," I replied without a second thought.

They bowed in reverence, as only the Japanese know how to, and departed.

The whole affair appeared to me very funny. I wondered–and even now I do–why they came to me with the request to teach the girl English. How did they expect me, a pucca Indian to give English lessons to a Japanese, when I knew not enough of Japanese to converse even and when the girl knew nothing of my own language, Tamil? Yet I thought that nothing was lost in trying an experiment. And so I decided to try.

Punctually at seven next evening, Masako-San–for that was the girl's name–turned up alone and bowed to me with a broad smile. She was full of curiosity and hesitation which she tried to conceal.

"Gooth nigth," she said in English as I rose up to receive her. I gave her a chair to sit by me, and as she sat she thanked me in Japanese, "Arigatho-Gozaimaz" (Thanks please).

Then she gracefully opened a cloth bundle and produced a note-book, a copy of the English-Japanese pocket dictionary and an English First Primer whose author I do not now recollect. She placed these books on the table and again smiled.

I sat still like a frozen corpse, for I knew not what to do. But something had to be done. . . . Why not then start a conversation, I thought, and this, I did.

"Why–you–want–I learn English?" I asked her in broken English in order to make it easy for her.

"Why–you–want–learn–Engriz?" she repeated almost in parrot-like fashion, casting a serious look at me. She sat in contemplation scratching her head wondering what I meant by those words. She could not however catch me. And yet another laugh! . . . Then slowly picking up her note-book and fountain pen she asked me, "What you say?"

I repeated the words slowly, and she carefully jotted them down in her note-book, one by one. She read them over again and consulted her dictionary. And it took her full fifteen minutes to understand the full meaning of my query.

Then with a long breath she exclaimed, "So!–" which was a Japanese exclamatory expression similar to "Is That so?" in English. Again her fingers were busy turning the pages of the dictionary to find the exact English words to give me a reply. Another fifteen minutes! And the reply was: "I like–become–working girl," by which she meant that she was picking up English with a view to become a sales-girl in one of the big departmental stores in Kobe where foreigners frequent. If she knew the English language she would get a position easily and she would also receive a better salary than the other girls.

I and my pupil carried on conversation in this manner for a few hours! That night I decided that the only thing I could do was to teach Masako-San English conversation. In order to do that I would daily write down a few sentences which came into daily conversation. She had to find out the exact meaning of those sentences in Japanese. Then she should also try to converse with me every day in English and not show signs as most often she did. Further she should read out to me her English primer and I would correct her pronunciation and explain the meaning. That was all possible. She agreed to my method of helping her and as days passed on, Masako-San did really improve her English conversation, though she made no advance towards correct pronunciation.

Masako-San was an intelligent girl. She had a very good memory and never forgot anything that I once told her. And she was a painstaking student. Like all Japanese she was bent upon achieving her self-imposed task, somehow. Besides doing all her domestic duties, she devoted all her leisure to learning English and reading the daily press. She would now and then drop into my room and consult me on this and that. I admired her zeal and was therefore only too pleased to help her as best as I could, in spite of the busy time I had to spend-like all journalists in Japan.

Among the Japanese I came across several English writers and speakers, but I have never known anyone who spoke the English language with ease and with correct pronunciation. Men like Dr. Inazo Nitobe (the scholar-philosopher), Yone Noughchi (the poet-artist), Tsurmi (the author-politician) and Kawakami, the leading journalist, all wrote fairly good English but you could always notice clearly the Japanese accent in their speech.

With Masako-San also the chief difficulty was pronunciation. Well-read girl that she was in her own language, she could seldom easily think in English. And whenever she came out with her funny pronunciation, she always made me laugh. But Masako-San took no offence and she too seemed to enjoy the joke. To quote only one example, I could never get out of her mouth the letter L. She always pronounced it as R. I dinned into her ears that she should say only "L" but in vain.

"Say ‘Glass,’ Masako-San," I used to tell her but she only said ‘Grass.’

This reminded me of how the Japanese who read Kipling studied his verses which ran:

as:

Four months had now passed since Masako-San became my pupil. She could fairly converse in English though she never said anything without a little hesitation while choosing her words. However she could do nothing by herself, without the aid of her favourite dictionary. She wrote a round neat hand English and always tried to improve upon it. She did not at all appear to be weaned in trying this laborious experiment of picking up English and she toiled day and night. If however she has now attained her goal, none would be happier than I to hear it, for I helped her a little–in fact very very little–towards her ambition.

One day after she had finished her daily lessons, I broke the news to her–the news of my sailing for the United States the next morning. Her face turned pale. She stared at me sitting motionless. I could read in her eyes how much she felt my departure. Her kindly eyes twinkled while her usual smile remained as sweet as ever.

"Why, you needn't have to go," she spoke in English with feeling and concern.

I was now happy that Masako-San had improved a little in English conversation after she came under my tuition, though she had learned something all by herself and without a teacher before I went to live in her flat. That was the only joy I had in leaving behind Masako-San, who held me in reverence and even in affection, for the little service that I had rendered her.

After a pause she gracefully picked up her dictionary and turned over its pages more quickly than she had ever done before. This time she was not looking for words for her own benefit. She was searching for words, I understood, to wish me good luck in my mission to the United States.

After half an hour, she had completed forming a few sentences which she wrote down in her note-book. Taking a careful look on the pages of the note-book, she told me in a feeling tone:

"Perumal-San, I wish success to you in America. I cannot be enough grateful to you, for kindly teaching me. Japanese people respect teachers. I respect you."

So saying she rose up from her seat, bowed to me, and walked out of the room. I was astonished why she did not even wish me the customary "Kumbava." But my astonishment was soon over when she came back a few minutes later. She had gone out to a near-by shop and bought a calendar diary, an ivory pen and a crystal ink-bottle. With these in hand she entered the room, and as she held out these gifts towards me she said:

"These are my offerings to you and please accept."

I accepted her presents without a word of protest for I knew that there was no use refusing it, although I did not deserve them. After all what had I done to merit these offerings? Nothing.

As I looked at the parcel containing the gifts I was moved, and so was Masako-San. Tears rolled down our cheeks. There was perfect silence.

I merely said, "Thank you" as I bowed to Masako-San, taking leave of her.

"Arigatho, Kumbava" was all she said in reply before leaving the room with another of her characteristic bows.

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