Posted on Mar 9, 2005

Mufazzal sat patiently in the principal's tastefully decorated office. The latter, a bespectacled, balding man of about 55, was looking intently at him. "When the cleaning lady came to us with these," said the Principal Avinash Mishra, pointing to the large manila folder lying on his table, "she brought it straight to me." Saying this, the principal picked up the folder and handed it over to Mufazzal, who took it from him with a quizzical expression on his face. "What is it?" he asked. The principal looked distinctly uncomfortable. He squirmed in his seat and said, "Er...Sir, why don't you open the envelope and see for yourself?" Mufazzal did so with slightly shaky hands, and withdrew what seemed to be a sheaf of loose papers. A glance told him that they were inscribed in Zaheer's handwriting, and looked like letters written to some person or persons. He looked up at the principal and said, "These here seem to be just letters. What made the school management force me to come urgently to see you? After all, he is free to write letters to anyone, isn't he?" The principal pushed back his chair and got up with a frankly angry look on his face. He remarked,” Yes, he is free to write letters, of course, this is a democracy, for God's sake!" Here, he paused to adjust some pens on his pen-stand. Continuing in a slightly softer tone of voice, he added,” However, since he hasn't posted all these letters, it seemed that there was some hanky-panky going on, so his class teacher Ms. Jaiswal thought it prudent to forward them to me for necessary action. I opened the first letter on the top, and was aghast when I read its contents. Why don't you read it?" The principal thereupon pointed to the topmost paper in the pile. Mufazzal, still confused and apprehensive, finally opened the indicated letter and began to read it. It was addressed to "My dear Laila". The margins of the letter comprised a single row of neatly hand-drawn hearts, surrounded again by a single line of free hand drawing consisting of a green curly line adorned with flowers of many hues and shapes. Obviously, it needed no imagination or intelligence to conclude that it was a love letter. Mufazzal shot up from his chair. He looked angrily at the principal, who had by now gone back to sitting. "I say, Sir, all teenagers go through this! Writing secret love letters without going through the routine of posting them to one's sweetheart is perfectly normal behaviour, and I am sure most students in this school may be doing so even now. I hardly see this as ground for disciplinary action or censure!" The principal said, "I do agree with your theory and would scarcely have glanced at love-letters written by my teenaged students, but I did read a few lines, and was shocked at the language used by your son, Mr. Latifi." "Language?" asked Mufazzal. "Why, Sir, it is impolite to read someone's private papers, much less publicly accept the fact..." "Sir, please calm down, and read one letter. We have not made any public remonstrations of this entire episode, and only Ms. Jaiswal and I are privy to the contents." Mufazzal, pacified a little, read the letter. It was one of the most obscene letters that he had ever read in his life. There was a mild start, with exhortations to send "flying kisses" and "hugs" and then the writer had launched on telling the recipient the contents of his sexual fantasies in lurid detail, without leaving anything to the imagination. Mention was made of anatomical details, the act of making love, and of "coming", and having read about ten or eleven lines, Mufazzal's face turned an embarrassed red, his hands trembled, and he dropped the letter on to the table. He wiped the sweat from his brow, as he sighed and asked, "Are all the letters like this?" "Yes, I think most are. Is there someone called Laila that Zaheer knows?" Mufazzal was distraught and did not hear what the Principal had asked him. The latter allowed him to recover his composure for a moment. Then, he gently repeated the question. Mufazzal looked at him blankly. He slowly stood up from the chair and started pacing the room, his hands performing a slow, tortured dance that caused him to look at them entwined with each other. He cleared his throat and gently answered in the affirmative. "If I am not being rude, could you please say who she is?" enquired the Principal. "She is the daughter of a friend of mine, Sir, and also my daughter's good friend," replied Mufazzal. "I see," said the Principal. He too stood up and approached Mufazzal, who seemed to be in a daze. A small tear was visible in the corner of Mufazzal's eyes, as he seemed to struggle with his inner self. The principal came around behind him, and placed his warm hand on Mufazzal's shoulder. "Mr. Latifi, I can understand your problem, and believe me, I sympathise with how you must be feeling right now," began the Principal. He walked up to the windows that faced the school courtyard and looked blankly to the horizon. He continued in the same placatory tone, "I have a job to do here, Mr. Latifi, and I am sorry to say that Zaheer's letters have made me very sad and disappointed with him. I discussed this with my staff committee, and the general feeling was that he is a very clever, indeed, perhaps the cleverest child to study in this school for as long as anyone can remember. The opinion of my staff seems to be to warn him, but to let him continue for the time being. I have, however, decided to stop his selection as Head Boy till the matter has been cleared up to my satisfaction. I am sure you will agree that this is the right thing to do, given the almost lurid circumstances." The Principal reached for a glass of water which sat upon his desk, and lifting it, raised it to his lips and took in a generous gulp therefrom. He then returned to his seat and patiently awaited Mufazzal's response. Mufazzal returned to his chair and plopped down into it, as if the soft cushion would absorb the shock he was feeling. Never once in his life had he imagined his son to do such a thing as he had just witnessed. He finally spoke with a heavy heart. "I appreciate your looking into the matter in such a humane way. I should very much like to question Zaheer as soon as I am able, Sir. Will there be any other work for me?" he asked, as he rose up from his seat and prepared to leave. "No, Mr. Latifi, that will be all," countered Mr. Avinash Mishra. He too got up, and shook hands with Mufazzal. "Er, can I take these letters with me?" asked Mufazzal. "Yes, of course, you may, Mr. Latifi," said the Principal. On this cue, Mufazzal exited the Principal's room, and walked out of the school, his mind in a turmoil. ***** Back home, Mufazzal continued to mull over whatever he had seen and heard at the school before confronting Zaheer. It was not a surprise that Zaheer had a crush on Laila; after all, she was an almost regular visitor to their home, and was pretty too - what Mufazzal could not digest was the tone and the tenor of the letters written by Zaheer. Where had he learnt such profane language? How had he managed to fantasize about the sexual act in such a realistic way? Why had he written so many letters? There were too many questions, but no easy way to ask them even to his own son, Mufazzal realised with an ironic emotion. He awaited the next morning, when he would finally confront his son with the difficult, but necessary questions after breakfast.