The Inheritance of Loss - Kiran Desai [35]
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Noni and Sai picked up the physics book again.
Then they put it down again.
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“Listen to me,” Noni told Sai, “if you get a chance in life, take it. Look at me, I should have thought about the future when I was young. Instead, only when it was too late did I realize what I should have done long ago. I used to dream about becoming an archaeologist. I’d go to the British Council and look at the books on King Tutankhamen…. But my parents were not the kind to understand, you know, my father was the old-fashioned type, a man brought up and educated only to give orders…. You must do it on your own, Sai.”
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Once more they tried physics, but Noni couldn’t find an answer to the problem.
“I am afraid I have exhausted my abilities in science and mathematics. Sai will require a tutor more qualified in these areas,” said the note she sent home with Sai for the judge.
“Bloody irresponsible woman,” said the judge, grumpy because the heat reminded him of his nationality. Later that evening he dictated to Sai a letter for the principal of the local college.
“If there is a teacher or an older student who provides tutoring, please let them know that we are looking for a mathematics and science instructor.”
Thirteen
Not even a few sunshiny weeks had passed before the principal replied that he could recommend a promising student who had finished his bachelor’s degree, but hadn’t yet been able to find a job.
The student was Gyan, a quiet student of accounting who had thought the act of ordering numbers would soothe him; however, it hadn’t turned out quite like that, and in fact, the more sums he did, the more columns of statistics he transcribed—well, it seemed simply to multiply the number of places at which solid knowledge took off and vanished to the moon. He enjoyed the walk to Cho Oyu and experienced a refreshing and simple happiness, although it took him two hours uphill, from Bong Busti where he lived, the light shining through thick bamboo in starry, jumping chinks, imparting the feeling of liquid shimmering.
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Sai was unwilling at first to be forced from her immersion in National Geographics and be incarcerated in the dining room with Gyan. Before them, in a semicircle, were the instruments of study set out by the cook: ruler, pens, globe, graph paper, geometry set, pencil sharpener. The cook found they introduced a clinical atmosphere to the room similar to that which awed him at the chemist, at the clinic, and the path lab, where he enjoyed the hush guarded by the shelves of medicines, the weighing scale and thermometers, cupules, phials, pipettes, the tapeworm transformed into a specimen in formaldehyde, the measurements already inscribed on the bottle.
The cook would talk to the chemist, carefully, trying not to upset the delicate balances of the field, for he believed in superstition exactly as much as in science. “I see, yes, I understand,” he said even if he didn’t, and in a reasonable tone recorded his symptoms, resisting melodrama, to the doctor whom he revered, who studied him through her glasses: “No potty for five days, evil taste in the mouth, a thun thun in the legs and arms and sometimes a chun chun.”
“What is a chun chun and what is a thun thun?”
“Chun chun is a tingling. Thun thun is when there is a pain going on and off.”
“What do you have now? Chun chun?”
“No, THUN THUN.”
The next visit. “Are you better?”
“Better, but still—”
“Thun thun?”
“No, doctor,” he would say very seriously, “chun chun.”
He emerged with his medicines feeling virtuous. Oh yes, he awaited modernity and knew that if you invested in it, it would inform you that you were worth something in this world.
But outside the clinic he would run into Kesang or the cleaner at the hospital or the Metal Box watchman, who would begin to declaim, “Now there is no hope, now you’ll have to do puja, it will cost many thousands of rupees….”
Or: “I knew someone who had exactly what you are describing, never walked again….” By the time he had returned home he would have lost his faith