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?”
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.
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