By P. Ganapati Sastry

(Rendered from Telugu by Marcella Hardy)

JUST after she had reached college and entered the lecture-room, the rain settled down to a steady downpour. The rain-drops made a strange, soft music, and the students sat looking dreamily out, paying no attention to the voice of the history lecturer.

Near the lecturer’s chair drops were falling tappa-tappa-tappa through a leak in the roof. Presently he, too, began to feel that this was no time to give a lecture, so he turned to a book in which he was soon engrossed. More black clouds slowly gathered and, gradually, the lecture-room became darker as the rain began to fall more heavily. Every now and then a cold rain-laden wind swept over the students who drew their coats more tightly round them and huddled close together.

As Lila and her companions sat talking, she would every now and then look out at the green grass swaying in the wind and at the green grasshoppers leaping joyously in the rain. Presently, Venkateswarulu left the room and stood on the verandah looking now at Lila and now at the rain; four or five of his friends got up to join him. The lecturer was dosing over his book while Venkateswarulu continued glancing at Lila as he talked to his friends.

Another gust of wind swept over the students and Lila, looking at the rain, was filled with memories of her schooldays. As she sat dreaming, every incident of those days rose clearly in her mind. That was long, long ago! She was a child, then; she may have been some ten years old. Both she and Venkateswarula were in the first form; he must have been about twelve and, oh! how mischievous he was! One day, after the second period, the teacher had dismissed all the children for break and Poorna and Lila went with the others for a drink of water in the courtyard. Poorna finished drinking first and walked back to the class-room without hearing Lila calling to her to wait. When Lila joined Poorna in the room, the teacher for the third period had not yet come, so she sighed with relief and sat down.

Poorna came up close and told her that she had seen Venkateswarulu touching her books and slipping something into one of them. This annoyed Lila and she searched through the books until she found a piece of paper. She started reading but could make neither head nor tail of it, at first, for the writing was quite illegible. At last, however, she managed to make out: “Please come to play with me this evening; I have something to tell you,” then there followed two or three sentences as illegible as the first, and Lila felt quite upset. Meanwhile, all the other girls had crept up from behind and were trying to read the letter; then, tittering and giggling, they returned to their seats. Poor Lila was so embarrassed that, for quite a moment, she could think of nothing at all. How she wished she had found this letter when she was alone! Then she might have kept calm. “The Teacher is coming,” whispered Poorna, “show him the letter.”

When the teacher entered the class-room, he noticed that all the girls were giggling. “What’s the matter?” he asked. Ah well, it could not be helped, so Lila quickly took the letter and placed it in his hands. He read it through quickly, then looked up sternly at the class. “You little dolts!” he said and waited a moment or two; then he spoke again: “Tell me who wrote this,” he said. “If you tell the truth, you won’t be punished.” The children sat ‘like squashed lice.’ Again the teacher demanded who had written the note, and still nobody answered. “Tell me at once, or I’ll have the whole class stand on the benches!” Even then nobody spoke. Then the teacher turned to Lila: “Who do you think wrote this letter, Lila?”

She blushed and looked down. “I don’t know, Sir. When I opened my book, I found it there,” she murmured.

Poorna sprang up. “Please, teacher, Venkateswarulu opened Lila’s books and slipped the note inside,” whereupon she fell back in her seat, overcome with shyness.

“Did you see him do it?”

“Yes, Sir, I saw him when I was coming into the class. I saw him slip the letter into her book.”

“Venkateswarulu, did you put this letter into Lila’s book?”

The boy felt sick with fear but, pulling himself together, “No, Sir, I didn’t,” he answered.

“Tell me the truth.”

“It’s the truth, Sir.”

“If you confess now, you won’t be made to suffer for this. If not, the matter must go up to the Headmaster. Be careful now; this handwriting is yours.”

“No, Sir, it’s not mine.”

“Where is your Telugu composition book?”

“What for, Sir?”

“Bring it here, and don’t argue.”

Silently and slinking like a cat, Venkateswarulu handed his book to the teacher who compared the handwriting in it with that in the letter. The children wondered what the teacher was doing until they saw him grew very red. “You’ve lied to me,” he said looking at Venkateswarulu. “Stand on the bench!”

Still protesting his innocence, Venkateswarulu stood up on the bench, humiliated at having to do this before the whole class. He stood there looking most innocent for a little while, then suddenly shook with silent, uncontrollable sobs. Lila’s heart swelled with pity; how she wished the incident would end there! But no; springing up like a rocket, Poorna piped out: “Please, Teacher, Venkateswarulu is always looking at Lila and doesn’t attend to his lessons.” blushing hotly and all confusion.

“Is this true, Lila?” asked the teacher. At this, the whole class burst out laughing. The teacher looked round with a look of thunder, but some boys went on tittering. “You’re still making too much noise,” said the teacher; gradually everybody fell silent.

Lila thought of denying that Venkateswarulu ever looked at her, but she suddenly felt afraid to do so. “Yes, Sir, he does look at me now and then,” she said.

“How do you know he looks at you?” the teacher asked again. Lila felt like a lump choking her and, for a moment she was quite unable to speak, nor did she know what to say. Then: “Yes, Sir, he always looks at me,” was all she could murmur lamely, and all the boys shouted with mischievous laughter. Lila sank back in confusion.

“Stop this noise at once!” cried the teacher furiously; “You’re no bigger than my finger, but you’re already like a pack of rowdies! If anybody dares raise his head for the rest of the lesson, I’ll whack him across the back!” The entire class, heads bowed over books, sat in complete silence, but the sound of booted footsteps was heard on the verandah–the Headmaster stood in the doorway.

“What’s all this noise, teacher?” he asked.

Nervously the teacher went over to him. “Oh, just unruly youngsters, Sir. It’s those trashy magazines they read nowadays; it spoils them. Specially since the cinemas have come, they’re quite unmanageable.” He then pointed to Venkateswarulu. “Do you see our prize boy, Venkateswarulu, Sir?” and he placed the letter into the Headmaster’s hands.

The Headmaster glanced quickly through the letter and glared at the boy. “Make him stand on the bench for the whole of tomorrow,” he ordered the teacher. Both men then walked back to the verandah and stood talking there for a few minutes, then started chuckling.

Already four or five months before this had taken place, Venkateswarulu had nicknamed Lila, the Pumpkin, and the name had soon spread throughout the school. After the letter incident, however, the teasing of Lila passed all bounds although nobody could catch the boy at it. To Lila’s growing annoyance, the letters of the nickname appeared one by one over the benches and walls of the school house; it went so far that she began to be afraid of walking alone to school! How angry she was at being teased like that; oh, what a naughty boy he was in those days! Those days, however, had passed away and everybody had now forgotten the nickname. It must all have happened quite five or six years ago.

Both Lila and Venkateswarulu matriculated the same year, and both entered the same college and were placed in the same section. She wondered now whether he still remembered how he used to tease her, and she still felt shy to look at him. Just fancy, only those few short

years had passed, and now he was at college…And Lila sat remembering her schooldays.

A peon came into the lecture room and handed a note to the lecturer. He woke up with a start from his dose and read the note aloud to the class: it was a notice about the debate that was to be held that same evening. After the announcement the room was filled with laugher, coughing, giggling.

Before evening had set in, the students of the Intermediate Section were already going into the hall where the debate was to be held; soon the hall was packed. The rain, lifting little by little, had finally stopped, while drop followed drop from the eaves. A few crows sheltering in a banyan tree were cawing softly to themselves, and a squirrel crept daintily along a branch, stopping every few steps to sit up and eat something between its paws. Through the black clouds that still chased across the skies, an occasional ray of sunlight slanted out and played over the soft green of the grass. Twilight was slowly deepening as the debate began. The electric lights were switched on and, in the sudden glare, the debaters blinked uneasily. This evening it was the Lecturer in History who was presiding over the debate; at his instance, some of the girls joined in. By and by it was Lila’s turn to speak.

She begins slowly but, as she speaks, her tempo increases. The entire hall listens in complete silence, even the lizards on the walls seem to be listening; a few insects whirl round the lights–they alone are moving. On the whole, Lila is speaking well and all the students sit attentively hearing her; yet, just as her speech is drawing to a close, somebody starts coughing loudly. At once two, three, four, five...the whole hall is coughing. The chairman raps on the table and orders silence; one by one the coughs stop. Again a cough; everybody looks in that direction. The chairman, looking at Venkateswarulu, speaks in English: “You seem to have a bad cough.” Venkateswarulu stands up obediently: “Yes, Sir,” he replies, also in English, and the hall resounds with roars of laughter. The chairman looks sternly at the students, then tells Lila to finish her speech.

Now Lila’s eloquence becomes quite impressive; even those who had scoffed are swept away by the torrent of her oratory. As she finishes, the hall resounds again with applause and shouts; proudly, Lila walks back to her seat and the girls all congratulate her profusely. Lila herself feels that she has spoken well, yet she also feels dissatisfied; she feels as though there had been something lacking in her speech. What was that something? When everybody was listening so attentively, why should Venkateswarulu have created a disturbance? Of course, he was just teasing, but why should he go on teasing her?

As Lila was going home in her carriage, some words floated across to her: “How are they selling pumpkins in the market?” This question was greeted with much laughter and, in that laughter, Lila recognized Venkateswarulu’s voice, and it made her wonder. That night she could not sleep for thinking of Venkateswarulu and his teasing. Since coming to college she had often heard the word pumpkin, but she had not minded it at all; but now that Venkateswarulu had laughed over it with the other boys, she felt stung as though by a scorpion.

A week or so passed. One day Lila was reading in her room; the early morning sunshine was falling on the mandara blossom outside. The flowers stood out clearly in the sunlight and, as she looked, a tiny sunbird alighted on a twig. It was like a small yellow lemon; with its tiny beak it drank honey from the flowers, and Lila fotgot her books as she watched it.

The postman opened the door and placed a letter op the table. Lila wondered at the handwriting on the envelope; it was not that of any of her girl friends. Vaguely troubled, she started reading the letter; as she read, her hands began atrembling with her sudden surprise and excitement. She had never expected this to happen: poor boy, he was asking her forgiveness! Lila’s eyes shone as she read those dear words. Quickly, she bolted the door and began reading the letter all over again. Again she read it; two, three times and, as she read, contentment, joy, pride swelled in her heart, and two tears slowly fell from her eyes. She folded the letter carefully and placed it in her bosom. Yes, she must treasure it like her life. Why could she not just as well have locked it up in her box? Ah, because this was the letter in which Venkateswarulu was begging forgiveness for having teased her...

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