She had put her early ability of reading to full use. She had run out of school books pretty quickly. She was ready to write her tenth exam two years before she actually did. But fudging her age by five years would have been a bit too much; so they had waited. Aurobindo had given her a free hand in the use of their library. In all the spare time that was left to her, she had ravaged the books there. Then she had run out of them and had started requesting specific ones from Aurobindo. The elderly book-loving gentleman – delighted to find a youngster so hungry for books – had fulfilled all her requests. Before long Mukundo was getting her photocopies of journal articles from myriad disciplines from his university library.  Her Ph. D. was in Mathematics, but she could have held forth on her own against the scholars of humanities, history, economics and other disciplines of sciences too. In school, her teacher had been scandalized and had appealed to her guardians to talk to her when in one of the mock exams, in an essay on Gandhi, she had included Ambedkar’s criticism of the Mahatma! ‘She will fail if she writes such nonsense. Please make her understand’ she had beseeched. Aurobindo had spoken to her, “You are not wrong in what you have written, dear child, but your teacher is right in saying that examiners don’t want to read this. For the purpose of examinations, stick to the textbooks, would you?”

She had nodded. Given that she had done well, Mukundo assumed that she hadn’t pulled any such stunts while writing the exams. That’s what was even more astonishing about her than her brilliant mind. That she was also wise – much beyond her years. She had an uncanny understanding of human nature which Mukundo thought was quite unlike the stereotypical mathematical genius of novels and movies. Those people seem to understand nothing beyond the narrow sphere of their talent. Piyali, on the other hand, could read people inside out.

Once there was a mean teacher at her school, who was perhaps aware that his pupil knew more than him, and had been nasty to her. Some cooked up incident of her indiscipline had reached principal’s office. The guardians had been dutifully summoned by the school. Aurobindo, who usually played that role, was out of town. So, Mukundo had accompanied Debendra Banerjee, who by himself, would have been too nervous to meet the principal of the fancy school. The principal, Mukundo was sure, understood the situation, but she was more concerned with not undermining the authority of a teacher than with anything resembling the truth. There was no other choice. Piyali had to apologize and promise not to interrupt the teacher again in the class. Mukundo was furious with himself. He felt like he had failed Piyali by not being able to convince the principal. That evening he had talked to her, “I’m sorry that I couldn’t fix it for you, Piyali. You and I know that you were right. The teacher is no good and–” But Piyali’s reply had left him speechless, “He is insecure, Mukundo Babu. It is understandable. His job depends on his authority. He doesn’t like it being challenged.” A grandma couldn’t have sounded more like a grandma!

With this rare combination of intelligence and wisdom, she was frighteningly self-sufficient. She didn’t need anybody’s help. Not in her studies, obviously. But not even in coping with school, teachers and her friends, or the lack of them. She eschewed praise. She didn’t need anybody’s approval. Sometimes nobody at home would know of her achievements in school until several days later, when they would hear of it from someone else. She didn’t want congratulations and reassurances of how great she was. She was a world unto herself. That’s why Mukundo didn’t tell her a lot of things. She seemed beyond reach. His and anybody else’s. What could he tell her apart from expressing his own awe over her awesomeness? She didn’t need that. And deep down, he was afraid of how she evaluated him. Despite her outward politeness and a tolerance of what must seem to her the brainlessness of other people, her self-sufficiency seemed to make her dismiss other people and their petty concerns. He didn’t want to risk knowing how she felt about him.

Presently, he stirred himself and tried to think about her accusation. “Why don’t you ever take me seriously, Mukundo Babu?” Unbidden, an almost forgotten memory nudged its way back into his mind. Piyali would have been around ten-years old back then. Mohima had brought the girl to him.

“Mukundo! Piyali wants your help with her lessons. Can’t you spare an hour for her now?”

Mukundo had laughed, “I didn’t know this girl has such dark sense of humor! She can help me with my lessons any day, not the other way around. And she knows that. Don’t you, little girl? What are you up to then?”

Piyali had run away at that. Mukundo had assumed she was disappointed because her plan of playing mischief with him had been preempted. Now he wondered. She wasn’t a mischievous sort of child, was she? Had she indeed needed his help? Was she disappointed because he had not taken her seriously?

Today, again, she had come to him and said that she needed his help. And he had laughed. He had laughed from habit. Almost as soon as he had done it, he had realized that she might not be asking for an academic help. But before he could right the situation, she had taken offence, shot him that question and left.

He cursed himself for being such a jerk.

“Where is Piyali?” he asked Debangi. He had run to the outhouse that the family occupied. The outhouse was owned by the Thakurs and was in the same compound at their house, but at some distance.

“I don’t know, Mukundo. I haven’t seen her in a while.”

“Where can she go?” he panicked.

“Why are you so upset? Where could she be? Most likely in your library. Where else does she ever wish to be?”

He hoped Debangi was right.

—

To be continued