Mumbai, India, 1998.

All the boys of my class thought Miss Eliza beautiful and mysterious. Like an American film actress, she had pale skin and wore skirts or jeans. The other teachers wore saris or dresses more concealing than the nun headmistress’s black blankets. She was also kindhearted. For the two slum kids in class, she sometimes brought food. And before going home, she gave everyone a hug.                                                                       

Except me.                                                       

When David turned nine, she gave him a big kiss on the cheek. Luckily, he was my desk-mate. So, I kicked him to stop him smiling so stupidly.

I was turning nine in two months.  I was in love. And I wanted Miss Eliza to kiss me.                        

But she never touched me or even smiled at me.      
                                                
“Maybe, you talk funny in English, that’s why.” David said.    
                                                     
“Vaat yuu meening?” I asked.
                                                                                                
“You say yum not m, yes not s, yun not n; yell, yum, yun, yo, pee…”               
                          
“Okay, shud up.”         
                                                                                                          
“I’m only helping.”         
                                                                                                       
Our private Christian school’s instruction was in English. And I spoke it with a South Indian accent. Both my parents and the Kuwaiti Indian community I grew up in were from the South. And since I moved from Kuwait to Mumbai six months ago, my accent was thick.                    

It could be why Miss Eliza didn’t like me. But where could I learn proper English? Except in school, everyone in the city spoke Hindi or Marathi. The only…the only… I turned on the TV and put on Cartoon Network, the only channel in proper English.                                                     

For a whole month, I imitated how the cartoons spoke. But Miss Eliza treated me the same. Priya, one of the class’s slum-kids, said, “You know, Miss Eliza thinks you’re hoity-toity.”     

“Who says?” I asked.                     
                                                                                       
“I‘m not a taddletale.”   
                                                                                                                    
“David, Michael, Joshua, Jessica?”      
                                                                                             
She smirked, but said nothing.    
                                                                                                 
“Tell me at least, what are they saying,” I begged.                                
                                   
“They say he acts big, coming from foreign, his abu working in Foreign,” she replied.                   

None of the kids I knew or their parents had gone abroad. Growing up outside of India in the oil rich Persian Gulf made me feel special. My daddy still worked there, sending money to mummy so she could take care of our new home. It was why we had the only AC unit and CD player in the building.                                                                                                                         

But, if Miss Eliza didn’t love me because I was a spoilt, selfish boy; I could show her I was not. Mummy told me my teacher was a widow with two children. I never heard of a mother without a husband. How did she pay for things?                                                                                   

I started giving the lunches my mummy made to Priya and Rajiv, the class’s two slum kids—hoping Miss Eliza noticed. She often brought food for them. Now, she didn’t have to. She could save her money. Like in Hindi films, I was her hero. And, she would have to fall in love with me.                                                                                                                                 
One day, mummy came to school with my inhaler. I was sitting in the eating room with my back to the door. She saw me giving my food away.                                                   
Furious, she dragged me to the headmistress’s office. Miss Eliza was called in.                             

“Do yuu noo waat my suun ees doingg?” my mummy asked her.                                                

“I-I am not sure,” Miss Eliza replied.
                                                                                        
“How cuum? Yuu arre his teechar.”                                                                                                         

“In class, he—”    
                                                                                                                             
“No, no, no. At lunch, do yuu noo hee ees not eertingg?”                                                             

“Why not?”         
                                                                                                                               
“Yuu arre makingg heem geeve his food to the slumm chleedran.”                                                     

“I,I—”                                                                                                                                                
“Ees it not enoff, they gettingg free education. I paay fer my cheeldran.”                                   

“But I didn’t kno—”
                                                                                                                          
“And aal the money I geeve during donashun.”
                                                                    
The headmistress silenced Miss Eliza with her palm and spoke, “Madam, we are really sorry.”                                                                                                                                               
“Waat did I tell yuu fer my cheeldrun?” mummy asked.                                                              

“We are taking special care of them, like you asked.”                                                                

“Maybee I am taking them out…”
                                                                                                    
“No need, madam. Miss Eliza, we all, will keep a special eye on him.”
                                     
I kept my head down, embarrassed, not saying a word.  
                                                                 
The next day I was ashamed and avoided Miss Eliza’s eyes. I put her in trouble and didn’t save her. I was no hero; only a stupid, silly boy.
                                                                   
Gone was all hope for my first kiss. But I now knew mummy’s bossiness was why Miss Eliza treated me like I belonged in a glass cage.
                                                                                      
Three days before my birthday, after a week of heavy rains; the sun visited and all came out to see it—snails, earthworms, birds. Our class took a fieldtrip to the sea. The water was too filthy for us to swim in. So, I made a sand tower on the beach while my classmates threw rocks at the seagulls.
                                                                                                                                 
Suddenly, I felt something slide on my leg. When I turned to look, it was a snake. And it hissed at me. I screamed. I was used to how animals lived like humans here—dogs, cows, goats, monkeys, buffaloes and elephants. But I never saw a snake. I cried and called for my daddy. I wanted him to take me back to Kuwait: away from the animals, the stinking smell, the beggars, the dirtiness, the chaos of Mumbai.                                                                                                        
Miss Eliza took me in her arms and held me. I could feel the warmth of her belly on my cheek and smell her flowery perfume. She told me not to be scared, that everything was okay. Sobbing, I turned to see my classmates circle the snake, throwing rocks to kill it. It was a game and they were having fun. I buried my face in Miss Eliza’s blouse and cried some more. She held me tighter and my fear gave way.                                                                                                     
During my birthday song, she left the room. I kept looking at the door, waiting for her. I blew out the candles, wishing…  
                                                                                                          
When I looked up, she was in the doorway. She came and gave me a big sloppy cheek-kiss, patted my head and left again.            

The End.        

– Suraj Alva                      

Author’s Note: This piece was originally published by Multiplicity: A Nonfiction Literary Magazine in July 2020.