One morning, school teacher Rajalingam came to my house when my mother was sprinkling buffalo and cow dung water around our house. He had on trousers, a bush shirt and rubber slippers on his feet. What attracted me most were his clean white feet with blue slippers. His long face with curly black hair made me think that he was an unusual man from an unknown world. He was entirely different from the men I had seen so far. What he wore itself was a kind of fancy dress in my village. When he came home, my mother hurriedly left her work, put out a cot and spread a bedsheet on it while he stood at a corner politely.
This could have been in May or early June of 1960. My mother requested him to sit. For the first time in her life she heard someone address her politely, “Kattammagaru, you must send your two sons to the school.” I clearly remember my mother dressed in a red and blue sari and a black blouse. She heard him attentively. I stood at a distance, listening to their conversation carefully. My mother first resisted him. She said, “Ayya, education does not go well...
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