Joseph works on Algebra homework - Wadala Wagrants Episode 3

The rexine of the old sofa sighed under Joseph’s weight as he slumped into it, the worn material giving a low, leathery groan of protest. He settled in the space nearer to his father, the familiar scent of old newspaper and stale tobacco a constant perfume in the room. His father, Robert D’Costa, was a man who inhabited his own world. He sat, a figure of serene concentration, in his favorite armchair, the large pages of The Times of India held up like a shield against the world. The house itself seemed to breathe around them, with the low creaks of settling wood and the distant rumble of traffic from the main street.

Joseph’s mind drifted for a moment to the morning ritual, the sharp clink of the newspaper hitting their door with a satisfying thud, a sound that meant the day had officially begun. He wondered if the newspaper boy, with his small satchel and perpetual hurried look, ever paused to think about all the lives contained within the pages he delivered. Or the milkman, whose bike bell rang at an ungodly hour, a shrill and cheerful sound in the pre-dawn darkness. Robert's legs, clad only in a rumpled lungi, were splayed out, his calloused feet resting on the cool tiled floor. He was a man of the factory floor, and even in the quiet of his home, he carried the silent weight of that world with him.

Joseph reached for his school bag, its canvas worn thin at the corners and stained with the accumulated history of a school year. He unzipped it, the brass zipper giving a sharp, metallic rattle that seemed to echo in the quiet room. He pulled out his textbooks, the thin, cheap paper of the Algebra textbook a crisp contrast to the well-thumbed notebook with its dog-eared pages and ink-blotted exercises. He flipped to the correct page, the scratch of his nails on the paper a small, insignificant sound in the grand, silent rhythm of the room. He picked up his pen, a cheap blue ballpoint, and stared at the lines of numbers and letters, an alien language that demanded logic and reason.

Joseph stared at the equation on the page, a frown pulling his eyebrows together. The numbers and variables swam before his eyes, a tangled mess of unknown values. He chewed on the end of his pen, the cheap plastic taste a familiar comfort, and then scribbled a line of calculation. It looked wrong. He sighed, a gust of frustrated air, and dug the eraser into the paper, the gray dust smudging the page. He knew the concepts, but putting them into practice felt like trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing. The afternoon quiet felt oppressive, the weight of the unsolved problem a heavy burden on his young shoulders.

From behind the newspaper, Robert shifted, a faint rustle of paper and a low grunt escaping his lips. He took a slow, deliberate sip from his glass, the sound of the ice cubes clinking a quiet punctuation in the room. His eyes peered over the top of the paper, watching Joseph in a way that wasn't judgmental, but rather... observant. He wasn't offering help, but he was there, a silent, disapproving presence. He cleared his throat loudly, a grumpy noise that was meant to be heard. “This new generation,” he muttered, his voice a low grumble. “All this homework at home. What is all this?”


Robert D'Costa at his armchair with 
The Times of India and his whisky


He took another sip of his whisky, the amber liquid a golden glow in the dim light. “In my time, we did our work in school only. Our teachers, they made sure of it. Or if not, we did it early, early in the morning. When the mind is fresh, before all the nonsense fills your head for the day.” He didn’t look at Joseph, speaking more to himself than to his son, as if reciting an ancient, half-forgotten wisdom. The idea of doing homework at home, after a long day of school, was a foreign concept to him, a symptom of a world that had become too complicated, too soft.

He was deep in thought, his brow furrowed in concentration, when his father’s voice, a low rumble that seemed to come from far away, broke the silence. Robert didn’t lower his newspaper. His voice simply rose from behind the pages, a disembodied question. “Joey,” he began, using the old nickname that still made Joseph feel like a little boy. “You’re working on the Maths, no? Is it too difficult? You know Mr. Fernando is here, no? On the first floor. He’s teaching in your same school, no?” The questions came in a slow, almost lazy cadence, each one a separate, gentle inquiry.

Joseph looked up, surprised. It wasn't often that his father showed such an interest in his homework. He glanced over at the armchair, seeing only the top of his father’s head and the edge of the newspaper. “Yes, Papa,” he said, his voice a little tentative. “It’s Maths. But it’s okay. I’m just doing the Algebra homework. From Mr. Syed.” He paused, then added, “Mr. Fernando teaches Geometry, no? And then there’s Father John Samala for Modern Mathematics.” He said the names with a certain reverence, as if each teacher and each subject existed in its own distinct, unbreachable kingdom. “This is Algebra. I can do it. I think. I know how to do it.” He said the last sentence with a little more conviction, a quiet attempt to reassure his father, and perhaps, himself. He picked up his pen and returned his attention to the page, the lines of numbers and letters seeming to swim before his eyes.

In the small, crowded kitchen, Cynthia moved with a weary efficiency born of years of habit. The clatter of her utensils—the sharp clang of a ladle against a pot, the low scrape of a spatula on the bottom of a frying pan—were the soundtrack to her daily life. She could, without looking, reach for the exact spice, the right jar, the perfect bowl. Her eyes, though, were often on the passage, peering into the living room where her husband and son sat in their separate, silent worlds. She saw Robert, the newspaper a familiar fortress, his glass a steady companion. She saw Joseph, hunched over his book, a mirror of every student who had ever wrestled with numbers.

A flicker of a smile touched her lips, a brief, private moment of pleasure. She was pleased to see them together, even if their interaction was brief and their conversation punctuated by Robert’s grumpy, nostalgic pronouncements. It was a rare enough sight. More often, the two of them moved through the apartment like ships in the night, their orbits only intersecting for a quick word or a shared meal.

A flash of irritation followed the pleasure. Why couldn’t Robert just ask Joseph directly about his homework? Why the pretense, the silent observation? And why was he so quick to believe Mr. Fernando, a man who probably didn’t even remember the conversation a minute after it happened? Her hands, busy with the ladle, moved with a sudden, jerky motion as she imagined the scene on the stairs, her husband cornering a tired teacher with questions that were probably better left unasked. But then, the feeling softened. It was Robert’s way, a clumsy attempt to connect, to show that he cared. He didn’t know how to ask, so he resorted to what he knew: observation, complaint, and a quiet, indirect concern.

Bharat Bhushan
21 August 2025

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