Mrs Goody Two Shoes XIX

Love pangs

Romanticism is beautiful in the pages of literature. But parents of 11-year-olds don't see it that way

'My deer deearest,
You take my love and this perfume. I love you. I and you can together eat icecreem. In my house, my mother can cook icecreem for me and you. You and I, in this biutifull world.
When I and you grow to college, we can marry like mother and father.
M'

"Who is this b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l girl?" I asked, half amused, half bored, spelling the word to see if Minti caught on. “Meenakshi. She has come first also,” the fat kid said with a pout.
"What did she say?"
"She say she will speak to madam." Was that a teardrop I saw glinting at the corner of his eye?
I suddenly felt sorry for the fellow. A bully who thought he owned the world, with no sense of romanticism, lesser sense of the language that the first girl probably excelled at, this boy's world had fallen into pieces when his first love, which he was confident would translate into marriage, had been mocked and thrown into the winds.
It was the first day of my lesson with him, as had been decided the week before with Sonia and Mahesh. After Minti's tearful mother thrust the letter and her boy into my hands and ran away, I wasn't quite sure which mess was I supposed to sort out first -- the appalling state of his communication skills in English or his tangled, hurt emotions. We were caught in this awkward silence when Minti opened his copy to an empty page and took out his pencil. I realised that he takes many tuitions and is used to the routine proceedings. I could see him tremble inside as a sigh rose and fell in his eyes.
I had a tough task at hand. But I had a plan. “Minti,” I said as softly and lovingly as I could, considering that till a day before I had hated the kid, “why don’t I read a few love letters to you? Famous ones? Then you can see how to express your feelings with flair. F-L-A-I-R, the word means something like talent or skill at something.”
The lesson had begun. Minti was not in a state to agree or disagree, engrossed as he was in self-pity and melancholia. I read from Keats and Byron. After a minute or two, I didn’t much care whether Minti was listening, or appreciating. I was on my own trip, absorbed in romanticism when suddenly, “Oh auntie! I can’t take dictation fast! Cannot also understand all words. Slow please. How will I give to Meenakshi if I cannot copy down the notes?”
He will approach the girl yet again! I was alarmed. To avoid an immediate calamity I told Mintu to take a few more lessons, get good at the language, and then we would decide on the next course of action.
Unfortunately, there could be no ‘few more lessons’. Mahesh walked in with a serious face that night. He did not speak to me and addressed my husband. “I feel sad that this has happened.” (What again?) “But I don’t think we can entrust Minti to your wife’s care any longer.” He looked at me with a sad expression, like I was a promising child gone haywire and as if the husband was my guardian who he sympathized with.
Annoyed, I asked, “Why? What’s wrong?”
“I though you will teach Minti some good behaviour. Instead, I feel embarrassed to say this,” and he turned to the husband again, “she is teaching him about dirty things like love letters and romance!” He walked away in a huff, and I stood there, appalled. “Good riddance,” the husband smiled at me and winked.