When Dhiraj came to work in Kolkata from Midnapore as a house help in my uncle’s home way back in the late 60s, he was 10 years old. Dark, lanky and with eyes that glistened, Dhiraj was a quick learner. My uncle and aunt loved him dearly and taught him the alphabets and life skills. But within a couple of years they left for the US and in order to ensure that he stayed in safe hands and was loved as much, my uncle left Dhiraj in the care of my parents. There was no dearth of love there too, even though my mother was a strict disciplinarian. She told me that once when she caught him playing cards with the para (locality) boys on the footpath, she had even slapped him and dragged him home.

At 65 now, Dhiraj da, as I call him, says that it was because of my mother’s strict discipline he could have a focus in life and moved from being a cook in my father’s office canteen to the owner and driver of an autorickshaw to now being the owner of a small truck for a cake company. In our home I always knew I had two brothers, my own and Dhiraj da and even when he moved out to have his own family – a wife, a son and a daughter – I remained as attached to him as I was when I would hold his hand and go to the Rather Mela (Chariot Fair) with my ponytails dangling in gay abandon.

So when he told me that his 16-year-old son needed help in English I was willing to go that extra mile and ensure the boy learned English. But to my disappointment Rathin had none of his father’s qualities. Dhiraj da was always tinkering in the kitchen to learn new skills and his biriyani is still famous among my friends. When he had free time he would be sitting with a book or helping me with my craft homework. He would hang the festoons and decorate our house beautifully on my birthday. From a radio, to a cycle to a car, he could repair all.

But Rathin had the outside sheen. He wore expensive shirts, a watch with a big dial, polished shoes but when I taught him grammar I knew his mind was elsewhere. I don’t believe that a person has to be inordinately intelligent and has to be a master in studies, but it is the enthusiasm and effort that always counts. Rathin had none of that. He refused to write, never did his homework and absolutely failed to appreciate the fact that after coming really late from work, I woke up early in the morning just to teach him. He didn’t realize that I did it for my love for Dhiraj da, not for any personal or financial gain.

Months went by and as Rathin failed to make much progress in English, my frustration grew and I realised that instead of quietly teaching him, I was shouting all the time he was there. Counselling or shouting seemed to have no impact though. He only looked enthusiastic when I served him his breakfast of omelette and toast.

Six months went by like this, when I woke up one morning and sat to teach Rathin, groggily nursing my cup of coffee. I asked Rathin to read from his book. He read: “The dog wa-uld go with the boy every day.”

I said, “Can you pronounce ‘could’?”

He said, “Yes! Ka-uld.”

“And ‘should’?”

He said, “Sha-uld.”

 Something snapped inside me. I realised no amount of love for Dhiraj da could make me teach this boy anymore. I realised I was probably wasting time.

I told Dhiraj da to send him to a tutor and that I would pay for it. He obviously refused.

Rathin is 28 now. He managed to get a college degree in the pass course after failing once. Then he registered to study Chartered Accountancy, which he has been studying for the last 6 years and believes he is meant to sit in a leather chair in an air-conditioned room. His father still slogs all day and tells me Rathin gets upset if he doesn’t give him enough pocket money.      

Amrita Mukherjee's latest book is Museum of Memories, a collection of 13-soul stirring short stories. She has worked in publications like The Times of India, The Hindustan Times and The Asian Age in India and she has been the Features Editor with ITP publishing Group, Dubai’s largest magazine publishing house. An advocate of alternative journalism, she is currently a freelance journalist writing for international publications and websites and also blogs at www.amritaspeaks.com