Black British (10 page)

Even the domestic science course had a commercial approach with the underlying premise of efficiency. Students were taught budget and staff management, the production of meals using minimum resources and appreciation of household furnishings. The attitude was, if any of the girls didn't pursue a profession, if she ended up “just getting married”, these skills would help her run an efficient home and be an attraction for a “good” husband.

Discipline, self-control and hard work were the dictums promoted to achieve the prize of success. That “success” was never defined went unnoticed. That success was confined to a narrow track of academic achievement as measured by marks from annual examinations for
all
classes, meant girls who had the ability and inclination to regurgitate from prescribed texts excelled. Those who couldn't – or wouldn't – conform were severely disadvantaged. Analytical thinking, original ideas, artistic flair, those were skills and talents that would be valued in a future era.

This rigid mould worked well for most students of that time, including me. I was lucky. With a good memory I could parrot – sometimes word for word – whatever was required, and publicly demonstrate I had imbibed words of supposed wisdom. There is nothing more flattering than to be quoted back to oneself. It gives the false impression of actually influencing someone. So most of the time, I performed to high acclaim. Other times nothing could induce me to conform, prompting the nuns to say with obvious sarcasm, “Oh-ho! I see your personal friend, Satan, is visiting today.”

In actual fact it was the sheer futility of some subjects that made me rebel. The reproductive habits of amoeba and hydra were boring and knowing the difference between mushrooms and toadstools made no sense. The only fungi I'd ever seen were of the brightly coloured pictorial variety that grew in picture books where fairies lived. And when the history syllabus changed three times in three years so that I repeatedly studied the Mogul Period I found imaginative ways to disrupt the class.

Even though I could flawlessly recite the entire poem
Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore, the fellow who'd never shut the door
²
, I was bewildered by the hand-wringing and hair-tearing that young Master Gore evoked by his habit. We lived in a hot country where the play of air through the house was essential so doors were never shut, except external ones for safety.

“Why do I need to learn how sulphuric acid is made?” I asked during one chemistry class.

“Because it's in the syllabus and you'll be examined on it.”

Another time, “What's greengage?”

“It's fruit,” and to pre-empt further explanations, “Ask your mother. She'll tell you.”

That evening, “What's greengage?”

“It's a type of plum that grows in England.”

“How do you know?”

“In Agatha Christie books Miss Marple makes greengage jam so I looked it up in the encyclopaedia. It doesn't grow here so I'd never seen one.” I'd read the same books. “She also makes elderberry wine.”

Inevitably, “What's elderberries?”

But my mother wasn't playing that game and if I persisted I was in for a long haul with the encyclopaedia.

I was itching to show off my new-found knowledge at school the next day but inexplicably failed to attract interest. It took me ages to realise that attention seeking, look-at-me behaviour is so unattractive. Learning comes from all sorts of places, academia is only one source.

On the other hand, understanding the impact of
Loo
winds on plant, animal and human life was relevant, as was its interaction with monsoonal rains. Respect for these climatic phenomena was crucial to our survival.

I loved the sheer logic of basic mathematics and spent long hours proving geometry theorems and corollaries. However, I baulked when I was required to calculate the amount of material needed for wall-to-wall carpeting. Carpet in a hot, dry climate is a magnet for dust so wall-to-wall floor coverings were ridiculous.

The difference between simple and compound interest in the prospective growth of my pocket money kept me entertained with many hours of fantastical calculations. I developed the habit of watching interest rates, a pattern that stood me in good stead in my adult life.

What I didn't understand was that the system of education was developed when pink was the predominant colour on a world map so the syllabus and school life were a close approximation of a prestigious English girls' school. The pronouncement, “If you study hard and behave with decorum, you've got every chance of growing up to be like a cultured English lady,” was a pronouncement thrown at me at regular intervals.

The German nuns visibly supported this concept and without indication of any incongruity promoted the firm conviction that all things English, all things European, were totally superior to anything Indian. From there it's a miniscule step to an equally firm conviction that all English people, all European people, all white-skinned people, are superior in every way to all dark-skinned people.

Siblings with the same parents but different skin colour experienced this discrimination.
Slightly
lighter skinned brothers were indulged over their darker siblings. It was as though the smallest suggestion of “white” blood, even though it was merely a quirk of genetics, made a person superior to his darker counterpart. Apparently, there are shades of black.

That this belief held no logic was beside the point. Skin colour swamped any intelligent reasoning.

CHAPTER 7

THINGS IMPLIED

The nuns appeared to have no understanding of the conditions under which some of the girls lived. There were times when a few of my classmates were berated on a daily basis for being late for school.

“You're late again,” screamed Miriam at Suniti when the latter and a few others walked into class at five past nine one morning. Interestingly, it was only Suniti that she singled out.

“B-u-t Sister,” Suniti stammered, knowing it was useless to protest and perhaps also knowing she was making matters worse but unable to stop herself. Attempting an explanation was often seen as “answering back” and therefore not exhibiting the required mortifying contrition. “The railway crossing was closed and…” She was interrupted by loud, hysterical, vitriolic barking.

“You are a stupid girl to use that excuse over and over again. You know it's not true.” Miriam almost burst out of her skin as she worked herself into an adrenalin-charged rage, a chemical high that made her feel powerful. “You know what time the trains run each day so leave home a little earlier. But no! You can't do that. You are too lazy to get up earlier.”

Bored with proceedings, as I'd been compelled to attend the pantomime many times before, I mentally switched off until I made the mistake of looking over my shoulder at Suniti. Examining her shoes carefully, as though she hadn't seen them before, Suniti wore her powerlessness with abject misery, her face a study of embarrassment and shame.

The sudden movement as I leapt to my feet shocked Miriam into silence, giving me the opportunity to butt in. “She's right. It often happens to my father when he goes to his mill. The trains stop right across the level crossing and sometimes all three gates are closed. No one can get through.”

A railway line separated the prestigious cantonment area of large houses and magnificent gardens, where my family and the school lived, from the polluted, densely populated districts of commerce, shopping and fresh produce. Each day each seat on the numerous trains that used the line was occupied by legitimate travellers. The packed-to-overflowing phenomenon came from the numerous ticketless people – men, women and children – who sneaked onto the train to occupy every square inch of unavailable space, including the roof. Depending on the weather, the rooftop was often a respite from the jam-packed, hot conditions below.

Ticketless travelling, though illegal, was widespread and accepted as the only option available for many people. Was it wrong? Ethics, principles, moral behaviour, these are invented by people who can afford them.

Tickets cost money that was urgently needed elsewhere and not available to be wasted on the pointless exercise of feeding government coffers; coffers that were depleted from paying out corrupt money in much greater amounts, at much higher levels, than the cost of a third-class train ticket. Without recourse to this illicit practice many people would never have been able to engage in their essential travel. Desperate times do indeed call for desperate measures.

It was common practice for the train to stop just short of the cantonment railway station to allow excess passengers to disembark with impunity. It was far safer than jumping off a moving train. Unfortunately that often meant the level crossing was closed for long, irregular periods of time, effec-tively cutting off all flow of traffic to and from cantonments.

Thus, Suniti, and many others, had a legitimate excuse for their tardiness. Individually they were powerless in a system that had no systems, doing the best they could in difficult circumstances. The nuns, living their isolated, protected lives behind convent walls behaved as though they were totally unaware of these challenges though it was a burden that marked all our lives in one way or another.

My supporting Suniti with a plain statement of fact was not to be tolerated.

Since when was the truth a persuasive defence in the court of our nuns?

The threat of a complaint letter posted to my parents was made. Miriam was a past master in the art of tailor-made denigration. Knowing full well that yelling and screaming had little effect for I'd already demonstrated a healthier pair of lungs than her, she resorted to more subtle forms of manipulation.

Implications can be an indirect form of abuse. When a statement is not verbalised there is no opportunity to enter into dialogue and argue or refute the accusation. The specific implication was that I couldn't be trusted to hand deliver a sealed message.

Uncertainty kept me on tenterhooks because it was possible the threat would be forgotten once the fury was spent, or something else could happen that took precedence and the letter never sent. Or it could get lost in the post.

At table that evening my anxiety showed through, prompting my mother to ask with a don't-tell-me-it's-nothing look, “What's up? Why are you off your food?”

My words burst out, fast and furious, like blood from a pulsating severed artery. “Miriam drives me mad.” Seeing my parents stiffen, I controlled the flow. They, like everyone else, were tired of my never-ending battles with the nuns. Forcing myself into a calm I didn't feel, because I'd learnt the way I presented my case was just as important as the case itself, I ensured I used the nun's title.

“I couldn't help myself,” came out in one long garbled sentence. “Sister Miriam was shouting at Suniti for being late again, which she couldn't help because the level crossing was closed and Daddy often complains that he gets caught there sometimes up to forty-fiv minutes and Suniti looked so miserable she was trying hard not to cry that I had to say something and that made her furious with me.” Noisy air rushed into my depleted lungs.

I needn't have worried. Families have a unique way of understanding each other regardless of ineloquence.

“She does the same thing to Anna.” Lily made her own point. “She screams and screams until Anna goes white in the face and looks like she's going to faint. I get so upset I want to faint.” She looked as though she'd often thought this and was glad of the opportunity to speak up.

Lorraine, a few years older and therefore with more guile, had a bright idea. “The nuns love tears, it makes them feel powerful. Tell Anna to shed crocodile tears and it'll soon be over.”

“I try that!” Lily was almost in tears herself. “I tell her to cry but Anna gets angry with me. And when Sister Miriam sees me being friends with Anna she screams at me.” Conceding, “But not that much. Not as much as she screams at Anna!”

United in our powerlessness in the face of cruel forces that were the nuns, the air was empty of sound but overflowing with outrage and resentment.

My mother had been listening to the conversation with great interest. She spoke with studied deliberation, choosing her words carefully, “Anna has it hard, much harder than any of you.”

We knew what she meant. Anna's family were not well off. Her father found it difficult to hold down a job because there were no jobs available. Infrastructure, industry –
everything
– had been developed to service an elite few and now that more people – the common man – were allowed access, there was not enough of anything, jobs, housing, food, water – any water let alone
clean
water. Electricity, hospitals, health services, schools, transport – everything that constitutes a survivable existence in the twentieth century were in short supply.

In such a climate Anna was particularly vulnerable. She relied on the nuns for a free education that would rescue her from the shame of generational poverty so had to bear the regular humiliation with what grace she could muster. It was, however, a lot easier when she acquired her “partner-in-crime”. Being the only two Catholic girls in the class with English as their mother tongue, Lily and Anna gravitated towards each other, bound by their minority status. That their families' financial positions were worlds apart didn't seem to matter. The ties that bound them were strong. What Lily had the good sense to omit that evening was the way she sided with Anna so both of them were in trouble together.