Uncertainty - The Peak of Hazard

By Riya Singh

“When can I get my coffee? It’s already getting late,” yelled Mr. Verma, in his anticipated wait for the Friday daily. It was the summer break, and the wait was for the letter of selection, perhaps for a new beginning in the West.

“Have you any patience for me? Or is it only the offer letter you sum it all for?” This was Mrs. Shanthi Verma, a usually complaining married woman with no wit due to her maddening chores in the villa. The birds in the yard chirped along with her as if complaining their hearts out. “Chi…chi…chi.”

“All turmoils for today only? What’s with the postman now? It feels three hours past 8, but it’s just a few minutes now.” His fingers were screwing each other as if in wrestling mania. Mr. Verma is a PhD holder in the area of education, and his dream has always been seeing himself with his wife settled in the West as a professor of dignity and honor. His current position as a teacher, being called “Master Saheb,” wasn’t very satisfactory to him. Belonging to an orthodox Bengali family, he was fed up with the brack given to him just because of the family being a curtain to his profession.

“Master Saheb, how have you been? I swear the roads were the reason, and I was not leisuring around (just to escape the torrents of words from Mr. Verma). Is this what you were asking for? Here I am,” the postman was a quarter late past 8. “What an honor, Shastri, when have you ever been late! It’s just the time that carries wings.” Mr. Verma showed all the spectacles of him being a literature master; his words were enough to shiver people.

“Ahmm Saheb, this time believe me… (his lips flickering random words as his mind knew none would work, but the human tendency to not back off and lie continued) … the roads were the actual reason (hope he doesn’t ask me the municipal quiz again; if at all I were born with a silver spoon as him, why would I die a spectacle of him each day, passing unworthy letters… thinks to himself).”

It was no awe to understand that Mr. Verma’s activities as a teacher weren’t appreciated, as he was a man of dreams and difference. The society was not really digestible of a rich man sweating hard as a teacher behind poor children, leaving behind all his riches. People considered it either foolish or an act of political attraction, a mere action, but in the back end stood a pious light of change in Mr. Verma. This became a reason for his dream of settling in the West.

“Ah, at the end, I have this piece of paper with my fate written. How long had it taken to meet me, Shanthi, is it you? Why is that scrapping so hard… GrrrrRgggg… Is there any peace that I can get?” How did Mr. Verma know this letter and this instant could change his pages forever?

“Ain’t me, Saheb.”

“Who else, Shanthi?”

“Busy cooking, can you not help your own self? It would help your obesity which you’ve gotten as a gift as a teacher so busy.” Mr. Verma regretted asking for help here. Mrs. Verma too wasn’t happy seeing her husband working so hard in vain, neglecting all his health and wealth.

“Fine, dear, I am up now… Who’s that near the door? Got anything specific? Hello? Can you not open up your business, mister?”

“Well, I can, Mr. Verma, only if you open the closed doors in my face,” spoke a very natively English voice. “Am I not welcome, Saheb ji?” At this, Mr. Verma knew who it was. Jumping with his unstable posture in his mid-thirties, Mr. Verma hardly took a minute to bang open the door and hug the guest behind the hinder.

“Yehiiiiiiii Bob, it took you 8 years to get familiar with my address, my friend? Not a letter since the election last time. I wondered if I lost you to the bitterness of international affairs.”

“How could you, Verma? But before anything else, are you not eager to read those lines in the letter posted to you a while ago?”

“Oh yeah, Bob, get in, it’s been long. Wait a minute, how do you know about it?”

“Your applications reached my sight a few months ago, and it took me another couple of months to process it and pack it with myself to you. I would have been early if your postman hadn’t given himself a treat at the road end… HahahahahaHAAA.”

“Oh really, it’s you then, and the postman? What talk of him? I, I can’t have a word for him.”

(Mrs. Verma, as if a superwoman, filled the entire dining with plates with savories and sweets hot and fresh, and stood behind the curtain only with her ears standing high to catch the words from afar.)

“Open it, I am waiting.”

“Oh yeah, my soul as well.”

They held a stamp of The Royal Residencies and The Teacher’s Society of Vinscent University, stating the appointment of Mr. Verma as an Associate Professor in the Department of Literature and Arts. Mr. Verma could read it all at once by sensing the bold of his name in the letter above the stamp of honor.

“Bob, is it me or you?” Mr. Verma was a man of grace; how could he accept anything coming as an act of corruption? “It’s you. I am just a person of delivery and process; I have no hands that could take anyone so far. It’s your perseverance, Verma.”

The Friday morning seemed a festival of lights at Verma Villa. It was soon the time for afternoon classes, and Mr. Verma had no compromise with his precious teaching classes and poor students waiting for him. “Bob, I’ll be back at 5, I’ve got my children waiting. I’d asked them to compose messages in English today. I am eager to see their writes.” “Yes sir, I’ll await you.”

At school, the children sat under a tree waiting for their teacher, who was suspiciously late today. Hardly expecting their loving teacher to leave them sooner for the West.

“Good day, dears. Sorry I am delayed. Shall we start? At the end of the class, don’t forget to ask me for good news and jalebis (Indian sweet). Shall we start the message reading for today’s class?”

“YESSSSSS SIRrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr (chorus of glee).”

A student read:

“Dear Sir, I owe this letter to you. Yesterday, I taught my mom lessons from my English prose; she could read all by her own. I play your role as a teacher at home and I teach like you. You have been my inspiration, and from you started my education; otherwise, I had no ways. With a teacher like you, we all could one day become MASTER SAHEB.”

This left the smile on Mr. Verma’s face frozen. The words “With a teacher like you with us” echoed in him like a serpent out of life. “What have I dreamt of? Am I leaving them helpless? What will be the lesson to them? Will they not turn their backs on education again? Is WEST so important? Maybe the West can offer me dignity, but what about the need? The need needs me more, and perhaps this is dignity, nothing else.”

Students continued reading similar letters in gratitude while Mr. Verma fought against his thoughts, and the session ended with Mr. Verma fixed with his decision.

“Sir, what’s the good news?”

“Children, the good news is that we are all leaving for a museum visit tomorrow. Go and get your sweets from the tea store and let them know that your teacher will pay.”

At the other end of the tree stood an empty tin dustbin wherein went the letter of his dreams. “I now have a new dream to chase.”

“Master Saheb, 170 will be your bill.”

For the first time, Master Saheb felt like a title of dignity to Mr. Verma. “Take one for all of you and pack 10 for me too.”

“MASTER SAHEB will pay it too,” said Mr. Verma in all satisfaction.

“Master Saheb, thanks for the treat today. May God lead you good.”

By Riya Singh