The Re(a)d Book

They were reading poetry, the English kind.It was exhausting, and the Miss wouldn’t take a break. Meera scratched her palms yet again. She was having an itchy palm all morning. Ma said itchy palms were an indication of becoming rich. Of incoming money. The itchier the palm, the more the money. Of course, she didn’t believe in all this superstitious crap – it just gave you ridiculous hope about nothing – but she certainly liked the prospect of getting richer. You couldn’t blame a thirteen-year-old from a small village (a blip really) dwelling in the shadows of Mumbai for her chest swelling with fizzy tingles bubbling from her tummy at the possibility of quick money, could you?!

But was that happening? No! All-day, she was stuck at this stupid School At Your Door with poems. And the English onesmade her cringe. They were like the dark alleys of the village – an endless abyss of some kindshe shouldrun away from. Far, far away.Plus, they never made any sense. Why would nobody ask her to sing, recite or describe Bollywood songs? She’d gladly do it. They were fun, snazzy, and most importantly, she understood them.Could teach it to the kids, if they wanted.

She puffed her cheeks– at least she was better at it than most in her school. The newspapers she borrowedfrom the Raddiwala(paper-picker/rag-picker) when he wasn’t lookingtaught her new words. Not just that, but how to use them in paragraphs. She wrote down the long sentences they printed before silently returning back the papers. And whenever she felt she was going grammatically bonkers, she did one extra chore in the house. Nothing could make her do things the right way than that.

When the TV people frequented her area –interested in getting photos of the rural life, the poverty, and yadda, yadda, yadda– the fragmented words fused together in short, unsure sentences for a wobbly interview. She was proud of that. Her.

Plus, she didn’t play on the phone with whatnots like her friends. She used it for studying. Stuff she couldn’t get from the library at midnight when those drunk zombies patrolled the village. So maybe her Miss should cut her some slack. Give her bonus points.

She looked at her phone under the table. Brushed her thumb over its jazzy keypad. The paint on its cover was flaking, but she’d put glitter this time. IfLatha Madam Jisaw how she cherished MadamJi’s daughter’s phone, Madam Ji would be pleased with her.Meera sighed –Madam Ji was so kind to her – alwaysgiving her freebies – toys, gadgets, books…even the English ones when she did good at school or played with Madam Ji’s daughter without making the little imp cry.

When the thunder shook the tin roof of the school, she looked out. The rain dripped steadilythrough the rafters, and it was just wonderful. Monsoons meant it was the second half of the year. The half when Diwali was around. What would Madam Ji give her this Diwali?

She rubbed at the tender skin between the life-line and the heart-line. When was the money going to fall in her lap?It was almost the last light.

That’s when Miss Gauri rapped a bony stick on a dull, peeling desk, snapping her to attention.

“Meera! Focus! Stand up and start reading the poem for the class.”

Meera made a face. Miss always summoned her to read. But well, who else could, anyway.She skimmed over the page swallowing her nerves that threatened to show her inability to pronounce a few meter-long,complicated words. But what she couldn’t make up with knowledge, she could do it with innate confidence. She straightened her shoulders and began reading, expertly mumbling the words she didn’t know. After every stanza, Miss Gauri would stop her and explain the lines to the class.

Meera listened attentively, but she couldn’t relate. If a poem was supposed to be about waterfalls, shouldn’t it speak of falling water? Shouldn’t it use words like water or valleys or the color blue? Did they use…what was it…ah yes…synonyms? Ah, well, who could say? Her knowledge was certainly limited. She’d have to put some overtime in the library again. Sigh!

Over the next few days, she studied several poems – dissected them, ground them, and all but ate them. It was as though her brain had put on muffs. Nothing entered into it! It was so annoying it made her weep. But it wasn’t her fault! All poetry was, was a concoction of jumbled words – oh sorry, syllables – where sometimes words were deliberately omitted, or…or heavy ones used when the poem sounded lame. And sometimes, it was simply a collection of long, difficult paragraphs! Why else would they say Up above the world so high instead of High up above the World? Because it was cool and looked good on a page. That’s why! Or – she frowned – perhaps it didn’t go with the rhythm? What did she know! Maybe poetry was saying things in the most round-about way. How people loved to complicate simple things, she would never understand!

The long-drawn analysis Miss Gauri wrote for every poem sounded so beautiful and interesting. But it wasn’t fooling her – the summary might be beautiful, but if a poem rebounded off her brain, how could she find the interest in learning it.

But while appreciating poetry was one thing, parroting it another, she felt sure ofacing the monthly assessments blindfold even if it meant taking the road she didn’t want to or, well, writing about it in English.

It was a humid Monday when Miss Gauri came to the class and distributed the result sheets. Misscalled each student to her desk. Tsked and tsked about it.Thenshe hollered for Meera. Grudgingly Meera ambled to the front for looking at Miss Gauri’s stern expression, she had surely tanked the test.

“Good work, Meera.” Whaat?? “I see you have been putting some hours in the library.”

“Oh yes, Miss. Everyday. Just yesterday, I was studying in the English section,” She grinned, smartly pushing away the picture that flashed in her mind where she had spent the better part of that hour talking about Mouli, the charming rapscallion from across the street, with Leela.

“And what was it you learned, Meera?”

“Why, Miss, I looked up that poem ‘bout fur…ah…fur-innings of the moon,” she mumbled hurriedly, “I even saw a book of poetry analysis on the far corner of the section.” She remembered being distracted by its thick scarlet cover while mooning over Mouli’s smile. Her mind strayed to the afternoon –

The big hardcover sat in a corner. Andlooking at its polished casing, her eyes went wide with wonder as though someone had given her a mound of Boondi Laddoos. She turned Leela’s head towards it, “Look”.

But Leela was busy trilling about her absolute, undying love for her latest boyfriend. “You are not listening, Meera!” Leela’s voice complained from a distance. Everything around Meera had slowed. Fazed. Her mind had relaxed into a stupor.When Leela couldn’t ignore Meera’s dazed look, the girlshook Meera violently.“There isn’t any such book, Merrr…Wake up!”

 “Get it down, get it down…”Meera’s voice rangdrab to her own ears. But her mind screamed – Get the book down, I need it, I want it…Give me the book…

Leela yelled through the fog, “You are seeing things, Meera! If you don’t stop, you will walk right into the wall and mess up your pretty face with a big bump. And for God’s sake, stop staring at concentric circles! Meera…Meera, listen! This is important…”

Leela continued down the aisle, speaking about changing her hairstyle, leaving a stupefied Meera frowning at the shelf.

“Is that so?” Miss Gauri’s question brought her back to the class, bursting her memory bubble. Even the memory sent her into a zone.

“Yes, yes. But I had to work at Latha Ji’s…So I had to go.” She lied.

Miss Gauri sat back, beaming as though Meera had just won a lottery, “The next time you go up, I want you to read the book. It is important…They say only the fortunate ones who look for it or have the slightest inclination of understanding poetry can find it. And not many who do, are privileged to open it… To use it. I wasn’t…” She murmured, her eyes going dreamy like Meera’s, “See if you can, Meera, because I think…I think you will love what you find” Then, as if coming back to her senses, Miss Gauri smiled, “You are a bright child, girl. You don’t want to be a domestic help all your life, do you?

Meera didn’t completely understand the woman, for it was all gibberish, but she bobbed her head sideways and more. She really wanted to do more than work for Latha Ji all her life. Not that the work was bad, but she had plans for her future. She wanted to earn lots and lots of money so that one day she could sit beside Amitabh Bachhan Ji and they could smile for the cameras like two close friends.

So that day, after school, she dissed Leela and went up to the attic library. It was a huge place – attic was a misnomer in her opinion – with rows of books lining the walls from top to bottom. She took the wrought iron steps to the second level and stepped into the English section. On the corner shelf, she saw the book. It sat high, alone in a royalruby binding with silver lettering. A blue-ribbon lining its corners called to her. It looked to be of easy thousand pages, but then she never could really count beyond thousand.

A ladder sat right beside it as though it was put there just for the book. Meera climbed up to reach the book and pulled it, but it didn’t budge. Looking at the black soot and dust on her hands, she wondered if anyone had used itfor centuries. Absently brushing it down her salwar, she tried again, but the book was stuck. Smartly, she pushed the book instead of pulling and twisted it sideways.

And there. The book moved. And so did the shelf and Meera. The frame swivelled with such a speed that she wasplunged onto the other side with a solid force.

“Ow! What the hell?” she cried out on seeing stars. Her head bumped hard on a wall, and her elbow throbbed. She opened her eyes but instantly shut them against the strong light above her. “Ah! What the hell?” she sat up. Looked around.

She was sitting in a small room with a high blue chair. Her heart trembled with fear and excitement. A secret room! Wait till she told Ma about it! Ma would totally freak out and stop sending her to this daft school. What she didn’t realise was that the room had no door. She saw a painting of concentric circles sitting right in front of the chair. Leela must have peered into the room and noticed the picture, Meera realized.

Shewandered to the painting and looked closely. Did it mean something? All these circles? Was it some theorem she was supposed to remember but wasn’t? She jumped back when a hoarse, male voice boomed out,

“Welcome, Meera. We have been waiting for you. It’s been a century” when she just stared dumbly, the voice ordered, “Sit in the chair, Meera!”

“Why…Why should I sit in the chair? Who are you?” her voice faltered.

“Unless you want to spend the rest of your life locked in here, you would listen. Now, sit down!” the voice snapped.

Fear crept in her mind as she stumbled into the chair. No sooner she sat than the arm and leg restraints strapped her to the chair. A whimper escaped her as she frantically fought them.

“What? What do you want? I don’t have any money…Please…please let me go…” she stammered, “My Ma…my Ma, she would look for me.”

But her words just bounced off the blue walls of the room. Two things happened simultaneously – a fog of cold mist shrouded the ceiling, and a cloud of gas snaked its way up her dangling feet. Very slowly, they clawed at her sweaty skin, or perhaps she imagined they did because she was busy screaming her lungs out. She shrunk into a tight ball whileher toes fought to reach the solid ground because, by God, she’d walk strapped to the chair if she had to! But the soft insides of the binds kept her in place.

A small voice buzzed through the mist. At first, she couldn’t understand it at all. But she focused. Focused hard. Taking a deep breath, she pulled out words from the haze. Since she had a hard disk for memory, Meera began memorizing the words. If she ever escaped alive from this place, she wanted to remember every bit of the last detail. Her eyes darted left and right while her brain scooped the knobbly words in. Something bugged at her subconscious as her mind parsed through them – the words sounded familiar. So she listened closely. And then she remembered. She remembered them from the first poem. Why yes! It’s the first poem Miss Gauri had taught them.

Suddenly the mist above her stopped, and instead, words sprayed out of somewhere. They danced all around her. She looked up, trying to find its source. What was all this? Was there a clue in this poem? Was she supposed to find her way out deciphering it? What? What? Desperate, she looked this way and that, yanking at her restraints and craning her neck. Tears ran down her cheek, and she sniffed her running nose. A hint of wild honeysuckle and gold honey drifted through the smoke as words matching it poured from above. She turned her head to see if someone had entered the room, but there was no one. It was just the scent following the words. She tried to scream, but no voice came out of her.

Calm down, Meera! Calm Down! They are just words. Just poems – she began chanting like a mantra. But it didn’t help – the words buzzed around her like bees. That is when she realized the restraints were off. She scrambled down the chair and ran in circles around the room to find a way out. She dragged the painting from the wall. Was there a secret passageway somewhere? When she found nothing, she dropped to a corner and prayed. Prayed that someone would find her. Prayed that they would come, get her. Leela…Leela knew she was in the library. She might tell her Ma…someone. The librarian, Miz Diaz, down on the first level, knew she was up here. Surely at the closing time, Miz Diaz would look for her, wouldn’t she? She was a nice woman.

Then realizing something, she paled. Did Miss Gauri know about this room? Did Miz Diaz know? Did they send her purposely to it? Dear God! T.V. said they abducted kids—especially the poor, innocent ones. A sheen of fresh sweat broke on her full upper lip. People did horrible things to kids.

Her screams grew louder and louder until her throat hurt. Thirsty, hungry, and tired to the bone, she sat back while the words sang a lullaby around her. She realized the poem had changed again. The words had changed. There must be a vent that refreshed them. Her eyes looked for it, but she couldn’t find the darn opening.

Frustrated, she swatted at the words. Then simply closed her eyes because she was going green in their constant hum. Her sick tummy threatened to throw up. She slapped her hands over her ears to seek some quiet. But a couple of the stupid words entered her ears. She felt them circling around her brain. Like pebbles in an empty tin, they made an irritating and loudnoise – tuk-tuk-tuk, thap-thap-thap. She whimpered but couldn’t will them away. Exhaustion took over. She wanted her Ma. Where was her Ma? Why wasn’t she looking for her?

And as if strange wasn’t already happening with her, as if the room weren’t creepy enough, her heart, gradually, drop by drop, poured into her brain and sucked out all the words into itself. Like a vacuum cleaner, the heart swept her brain, clean. The words slithered down to her chest. And the hive of sensitivity there patted the little imps like a mother soothing a beloved child.

She opened her eyes to a garden – of bright red and yellow roses – swaying in the air she was breathing. Somewhere to her right, she sensed a mother singing to her baby of the yellow moon that was smiling in the dark sky above them. Just under the chair she had vacated, she saw a soldier giving a war cry as mines went off all around him. Carried away with the scene and gore behind him, Meera barked at him to move his ass before he got blown away. But he couldn’t hear her. He looked right through her. She looked away just as a string of bullets hit him. She couldn’t see him dying. She had simply no strength for violence.

To the left of the creepy painting, she saw a rainbow scissoring a waterfall – water falling down the room walls that were now covered with wisteria creepers. Winding through its green, violets winked at the pink and orange butterflies. Their transparent wings fluttered…and fluttered until they all but became green like the vines that swayed in the wind. A shudder rocked her. Not because of the wind, for there wasn’t any, but it was just so beautiful.

Above her, she saw two men kissing each other right before jumping into a ravine. She gasped, but they were bungee jumping. As her heart settled, she saw the sawn of the Edgewater dropping its long neck into the body of the Great lake. Her stomach quivered at the white rice and red beans sitting in an antique bowl on a picnic mat on the banks of the lake.When she looked closely, she understood. She understood what they meant.

With all these pictures sprouting around her like holograms but not really, painted by the words trickling down some invisible vent, she understood. She understood all the poems she had read and the ones she was yet to read. All the poems ever written or would be ever written were all hers for taking. For understanding. The words sighed their way to her as if she was their ultimate destination. They spoke as though they were meant for just her ears. As she looked at them, she found herself sitting in the English section of the second level of her school library right in front of the shelf that held the Red book of Poetry Analysis. The book winked at her before going back to looking glum and lonely.

“Meera, stop staring at the concentric circles and get going, child. It’s late.” came Miss Diaz’s quiet voice down the rows…and rows of books.