Book Uncle and Me (5 page)

—

A-One Candidate

I WAKE UP LATE
the next morning and barely make it out of the door in time to catch the bus. Good thing the driver is in a singing mood. He does not yell at me.

Reeni and Anil and I talk about Book Uncle.

“I can't believe that Mayor S.L. Yogaraja would want to shut him down!” I say.

“I wonder who wrote that horrible letter?” Reeni says.

“Karate Samuel would be a better mayor,” Anil says. “He wouldn't shut Book Uncle down.”

“My wapa says anyone would be better than Mayor SLY,” I say.

Anil does a quick-twisting block with both hands. It's his karate way to say
Definitely
.

I try to twist my hands like that but I can't. My hands don't work like Anil's. But maybe trying to twist them jiggled my brain, because right at that moment I realize something.

That notice, the pink notice, is plain flat-out wrong. They can't make Book Uncle pay a fee. Commercial. Commercial is when you sell something. Book Uncle's not selling anything.

The bus turns into school and stops.

I explain my big realization as we inch forward in line to get off the jam-packed bus.

“You're right,” Reeni says. “He's not selling anything.”

“Yes, but does the mayor understand that?” Anil says.

“Maybe not,” I say.

“Who said mayor?” says the bus driver.

“I did,” says Anil.

“Be happy, friends!” the driver tells us. “Soon we'll have a new mayor! His Excellency the Most Honorable A-One Mayor-ayya, Karaaaaaate Samuel!”

He stops and looks a little embarrassed. We've caught him being a live campaign commercial. Now he clears his throat and goes back to being a serious bus driver.

“Are you going to vote for him?” I ask.

“
Am
I going to vote for him?” says the bus driver. “Am I going to
vote
for him? Am
I
going to — ”

“Okay, I get it,” I say.

He says, “Naturally I'm going to vote for him.”

And that is what gives me my next big idea.

—

Hundreds of Letters

IF ONE COMPLAINING
letter can cause a problem, maybe hundreds of letters can fix it. The doves were trapped, but when they flapped their wings together, they could lift up the net and fly it far away from the hunter — first things first — and then get help from a friendly mole who cut them free.

You may not think those things follow one another necessarily, but they can and they do in that story.

It's complicated, yes. I'm finding out that real life can also be that way.

I tell Mrs. Rao about Book Uncle's notice.

“Mrs. Rao, ma'am,” I say. “We should write letters. We should write them to all the people who are running for mayor. And we should send the letters before the election.”

Mrs. Rao listens.

“A most interesting idea,” she says. “Tell me more.”

I tell her because I have thought it all over.

“We should make a list of all the candidates. Everyone can pick who they want to write to.”

“Wonderful,” says Mrs. Rao. “I'll bring last Sunday's paper with all the political party addresses on the center page.”

“I've written my letter already,” I say. “Can I read it?”

“You can and you may,” says Mrs. Rao.

Dear Karate Samuel Sir,

I want to tell you about a special person in our city. We call him Book Uncle. He has a lending library on the corner of St. Mary's Road and 1st Cross Street. He has books for everyone. He loves his books like friends.

The city is making Book Uncle get a permit. Why? He does not sell anything. He simply lends his books out to anyone who wants to borrow one. If you take a book and keep it, that is fine with him also.

If you get elected will you help Book Uncle?

Sincerely,

Yasmin Z. Kader

I finish reading. The classroom falls dead silent. My throat is so dry I think it's going to close up. Then everyone claps-claps-claps.

“Who else is going to write a letter about Book Uncle?” asks Mrs. Rao.

A few hands go up. Then a few more. Before too long, many, many kids in the class are volunteering to write their letters about Book Uncle.

Book Uncle is quickly becoming our election issue.

At recess time Reeni and Anil and I tell everyone we know about the letters that we are collecting. They all tell their friends who tell their friends. It turns out that some of those friends or friends of friends are also Book Uncle's patrons.

Of course they are. I am not the only one who borrows books from him. I know that.

Still, it makes me happy to see my good idea become a real election issue.

The message spreads like wildfire. That is to say, fast.

Soon Mrs. Rao's desk is covered with letters. Some are for Mayor SLY. Some are for those other people who want to be mayor. But most of the letters — a wild and fiery number of them — are addressed to Karate Samuel.

—

Connections

THE NEXT TUESDAY
is Republic Day. They show us the big parade on TV, broadcast all the way from Delhi. Even Rafiq Uncle is impressed, I can see. He can't find anything to criticize.

The President of India gives her talk. Floats from all the states go past. Dancers dance and the marching bands play-play-play.

After that, the local news comes on. First a few headlines. National news. Then local. After that, we cut to a studio where all the candidates for mayor wait, ready to be interviewed!

There's Mayor SLY with his pointy mustache. And one man with a bald head, one wearing a dazzling white shirt. A lady in a printed sari. And Karate Samuel, looking very fine with a rose in his buttonhole.

All these people want to be mayor.

The interviewer opens with some welcoming remarks. Then the talk begins. Back and forth, back and forth.

I wait for someone to say something about Book Uncle.

No one does. No one.

What is wrong with them? I try not to fidget and still no one says anything, which makes me so angry I cannot sit still, which makes Rafiq Uncle demand in an irritated voice, “What is the matter, Yasmin?”

“Book Uncle!” I burst out. “He's an important election issue.”

He looks completely baffled so I explain it as well as I can. I tell him the whole story, all the way from how I mean to read a book every day for the rest of my life. The pink notice. Mrs. Rao. My letter-writing campaign. Everything.

“We wrote all those letters,” I say. “And still no one cares.”

It does not look as if Rafiq Uncle is paying any attention to my explanation. Instead he glares at my father.

“Who is this Book Uncle?” Rafiq Uncle demands to know.

Umma takes a deep breath. She picks up a small brass bell that sits on the end table next to the sofa.

“Thambi,” says Rafiq Uncle to Wapa. “What do you have to say about your daughter roaming about here and there all by herself, reading who-knows-what trash from the street corner?”

Umma lets out that deep breath she took a moment ago. She looks as if she would like to throw the bell at Rafiq Uncle.

My father comes to life. My father sits up straight. He clears his throat.

“Rafiq-anna,” he says in his most respectful tone to his big brother. “I trust my daughter. I trust her judgment. I will not look over her shoulder as if I suspect that she is up to no good.”

Umma's head jerks up. She puts the bell down. Then she covers her mouth with her hand.

Is she smiling? I can't tell.

Rafiq Uncle says, “Of course you trust her. I'm not saying — ”

Which is when I interrupt, not to be rude or anything, but because I can't stand it anymore.

“Please. Rafiq Uncle. Don't talk about me as if I'm not here!”

And that silences them all. Totally.

I say, “Umma, Wapa, I'm going to see Reeni. Is that okay?”

My parents nod.

I run out of the door and across the landing and knock on Reeni's door.

“We have to do something to help Book Uncle,” I tell her. “It's up to us.”

“What can we do?” Reeni says.

Somehow my confusion has been swept away by hearing Wapa talk back to his big brother for the first time ever. I don't know why, but I now see things very, very clearly.

“Reeni,” I say. “There just weren't enough doves lifting that net. We have to get more.”

Reeni is a little confused about what doves have to do with a piece of paper and the city.

But after I clear that one up, she says, “Oh, now I get it. Of course I'll help you.”

We go door to door, up and down Horizon Apartment Flats. We tell everyone about Book Uncle.

“Whoever you vote for,” we say, “that person has to let Book Uncle keep his street-corner lending library. Don't you agree?”

Chinna Abdul Sahib nods. “I know him well,” he says.

“You do?” How does he know Book Uncle? He never speaks two words to anyone.

Here I am getting that surprise feather feeling again. Chinna Abdul Sahib drums against the doorframe.

He says, “Music books. He gave me music books years ago, when I thought I wanted to be an accountant. He changed my life.”

He's one of Book Uncle's patrons! I have never heard Chinna Abdul Sahib make such a long speech.

“That Book-ayya is a good man,” says the istri lady from behind the tall-growing-taller pile of clothes she is collecting from the boy in 2C and the lady in 2A. She counts the clothes carefully — four rupees each for the pants and the saris, two for the shirts and blouses.

“That will be twenty-six for you and forty-two for you,” she says. I'm sure she's right. She did that in her head. I would need paper and pencil.

I wonder if Book Uncle taught the istri lady how to add.

“I don't know him,” says the lady in 2A, who is new to the building. I tell her all about how Book Uncle always has the right book for the right person on the right day.

“I'll give my vote to whoever promises to help him,” says the istri lady. The lady in 2A nods-nods-nods. She is on our side.

“I miss him,” says the boy from 2C. “I'll tell my parents and my grandmother.” So he's a patron, too.

“We have to save Book Uncle's place,” we say to Reeni's mother in 3B. We tell her why.

“No question,” says Shoba Aunty, between taking sips of coffee from the mug in one hand and sending a text message on her phone with the other. Shoba Aunty is always doing more than one thing, which is probably why she is looking a little tired.

“You must make it a media issue,” she tells us. “Take it to TV.”

Reeni looks at me. I look at her.

“How?” we say together.

Shoba Aunty says, “Connections, my dear girls. It's who you know.”

My heart sinks. “I don't …”

“Yes, you do,” Reeni says. “Mummy!”

Shoba Aunty nods. “I'll put in a word at the TV station. You watch the news. What's today? Tuesday? How about Thursday evening, okay?”

—

Fine

BY THURSDAY, RAFIQ
Uncle has gone back to the village. He has finished his business in the city.

That evening, Reeni comes over to 3A to watch the news. She arrives early, so we go out to the balcony.

“Umma,” I say before I close the door behind us. “Don't forget to tell us when the news starts.”

“I don't think I have ever seen you so eager to watch the news,” my mother grumbles, but there is a gleam in her eye. She's been gleamy since my uncle left.

And another funny thing. I think my parents have forgotten to scold me for being rude to Rafiq Uncle.

Reeni and I stand on the balcony and look at the parrots fussing in the raintree. The pink-flowery, feather-leafy branches have to be clipped every now and then, so the squirrels don't get into the flats and make a big mess.

Reeni coughs and shuffles her feet.

“Are you sick?” I ask. “Have you caught a cold? Does your stomach hurt?”

She looks as if she would like to curl up in some corner and disappear quietly.

“No,” she says. “I'm not sick.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing,” she says.

“Something,” I insist.

“Nothing.”

“Something. Tell me.”

“I can't.”

“Am I your friend?” I demand.

“Ye-e-s,” she says.

“Then? So? Tell!”

“Okay, fine.” She tells. “It's Daddy.”

“Your daddy?” I lower my voice. “Are your parents still fighting?”

She shakes her head so hard her plaits flop from side to side.

“No,” she says. “But that's how I found out, because they're talking to each other again and I overheard them. They were arguing about Book Uncle all this time! And I didn't even know.”

“What? What did they say?” Why is it so hard to get this story out of my friend? I try to be patient. “Reeni, just tell me from the beginning, okay?”

She says all in a rush, “He sent the letter. He did. But it was for the association, because otherwise we would have to pay a fine. He was only trying to help, Yasmin.”

“What letter? What fine? Reeni, I'm not a mind reader. Will you tell me what you're talking about?”

“The letter to the city!” she wails. “Complaining about Book Uncle! Only he wasn't complaining, really. Just explaining that it was Book Uncle and not us.”

What does she mean? That must be the letter that the istri lady told us about, that some nasty person sent to the city saying nasty things about Book Uncle.

The nasty person was Reeni's dad?

And what does she mean, we would have to pay a fine? That does not seem fine at all. It all seems more puzzling than ever.

“Yasmin,” Umma calls. “The news is going to start in just a minute.”