Roofs with Tarps
Misty is tapping her feet impatiently as I braid her hair. The day seems calm, despite the summer heat’s chaos. I can see the busy city roads from my home. A few boys on motorcycles speed by, their weirdly shaped bags hanging off their shoulders. Must be the bags that were made for holding badminton bats or perhaps guitar bags?
I don’t know, I am too far to identify clearly. My eye sight is weakening. A bag sits in the corner, its zip half done. There are books all around — my daughter hasn’t packed them yet. I pulled her hair ever so slightly, chastising her not to move too much, but how could she not?
She’s restless. The longer she stays still, the more frenzied she becomes. As soon as her hair was tied, Misty ran across the room, piling up her books. Technically, they were her brother’s books.
Actually, they were not even her brother’s books. Someone gave them to her brother, and she is using them now. He is a year older than her, in eighth grade. He attends a small local school. A very small school. She used to go with him too, but no longer does. When she was in fourth grade, she stopped going to school.
It was too expensive for us to buy books, uniforms, and school fees for both of them. Her brother continued, someone from the family has to be literate, right? Misty, my cheerful daughter, is brilliant, but the brilliance cannot shine under roofs with tarps. She used to accompany me to work and help sometimes. It broke my heart to see her watching her brother go to school with longing.
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In the evenings, her brother used to teach her a few things, but they did not make much sense to her. I tried to teach her too, but I only know so much.
Then it changed. Then they said they’d teach her. I did not trust them, why should I? The world has gone insane, but I sent her anyway. Along with other children in the settlement, Misty went to that school — street school, they called it “Pehchaan- The Street School” to be precise .That evening, I saw my brilliant daughter again. She has so much to say, she’s got new notebooks, not the one her brother half used.
She caught up. Now she can also understand whatever her brother teaches her. Maybe, I can trust them. Just a little.
“Misty!! Come on’ we’ll get late!!!” Another girl from the settlement shouted from the street.
My daughter packed her bag with fragile yet precious textbooks, notebooks that were starting to look more and more voluminous, and ran out with lightning speed.
Yesterday, she told me she wants to be a teacher or an artist. I know, my brilliant daughter can be anything she wants to be.
Perhaps brilliance can shine through roofs with tarps.
