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Book by Lalwani Nikita
Les informations fournies dans la section « Synopsis » peuvent faire référence à une autre édition de ce titre.
Extrait :
Chapter 1
Mahesh is sitting in his office, marking. He looks up at the arc of the window as a train rushes past, its urgency left behind in diesel scent and echoing clacks. The dank hush of autumn is settling into his room like a foregone conclusion. It is the eleventh season of its kind in his experience in the UK. The fourth of its kind in this room. Mahesh looks up. There are charts and pictures on the wall. The map of the world sits at an awkward angle, blue ocean disappearing behind the iron bookshelf. Books bulge in huge rows, pressing together files and papers, orange foolscap running in chunky alternation with black, white and gray. In the left corner of the room, by the whiteboard, the bumpy illustration of Gandhi peers out at him. In his mind there is an annoyance that delicately attacks his thoughts every few minutes.
Why did Rumi write that in her exercise book? This is the question that hooks into his conscience periodically: a tiny dental tool piercing soft gum. Why did she write it?
I went to play with Sharon Rafferty and Julie Harris and Leanne Roper in the woods. They let me play softball which is like rounders but with only two bases. Sharon said “let’s go and get the softball and racquets from my house.” When we got to her place we stood outside the gate and Sharon said “I just have to check you can come in Rumi because my mum doesn’t like colored people.” Then she went in with the others and I waited outside.
Thank goodness she came back and said it was OK. Then we went in and had pop ices and got the racquets. Mrs. Rafferty was sunbathing in the garden and looked red. We took the racquets and played softball in the woods.
“Colored.” The word had made him think of a crayon spreading a thick grainy brown over a round face, the kind of awkward pictures Rumi used to draw under duress when she was younger.
Again he looks at Gandhi, wizened and unflinching, in the corner of his room. What would they make of this back in college, cocooned as they had been in the company of ideas? Trotskyites, Gandhian Communists—they had found plenty of names for themselves back then, chewing betel, relishing the bitter stain on their lips and debating whether class war was compatible with nonviolence. What would they think of this name? What would they think of the conversation he had attempted with Rumi after reading it?
“Do you like your school, Rumi?”
“I don’t like the bullies.”
“What do you mean, bullies?”
“People who aren’t nice to me.”
“Do not let these things affect you. You are ten years old now.”
“What?”
“You should be like a tiger in the jungle. Like Shere Khan in The Jungle Book.”
“What do you mean, Daddy?”
“If someone hits you, then hit them back. If they hit you once, hit them twice.”
The words had come out of his mouth, as honest as a shotgun, and he had looked away when her eyes jumped. If you are shocked, so am I, he’d thought. But you are not going to be a victim. That I will not allow.
What would they think of this—the Hyderabad college collective—this world that he had chosen to inhabit, placing a solitary, all-important offspring right at the center? Come to that, what about Whitefoot, his current friend, colleague from the PhD course at Cardiff, Marxist himself—what would he think?
Another train goes past, carrying a heavy rattle inside it, dense as a migraine. The tremble of the room seems to jolt the Gandhi picture slightly. He can see a square of evening light on the glass, obscuring part of Gandhi’s face. Colored? Why did she write it?
It is four p.m., an early end to his day. He has marked four papers, and the room has lost most of its light. Mahesh screws the lid onto his fountain pen and places it in the outer pocket of his blazer so that the brushed steel is visible against the brown polyester mix. The pen had been a present from Shreene, bought with cash carefully siphoned from her first few paychecks, when she had begun to work after the birth. It is almost exactly the same age as Rumi. After ten years it still feels smooth to the touch, cool, not a single visible scratch or dent on the whole body of the piece. There is still that sensation of guilty pleasure at this luxury when he thinks about what it signifies, a tool of learning and wisdom—but a flamboyant one. He buttons up and puts the exam papers to one side, releasing the blind at his window before he locks up for the day, tucking two MSc dissertations under his arm to look at when he gets home.
Five years earlier, Rumi had come home one day and announced that Mrs. Gold wanted to come round and meet her parents. She was just five years old, in her first class at school. Mahesh and Shreene had arranged to leave work early on the appointed day, and were home by three thirty. Shreene began to fry some bhajis, while Mahesh descended into a deep silence, waiting in his shirt and tie in the living room. When Mrs. Gold walked in, Rumi was holding her hand.
“What a lovely walk home we’ve had together, Mr. and Mrs. Vasi,” she said, letting Rumi go in ahead of her.
Rumi squirmed and went suddenly quiet, looking up at her father. Mahesh stared at the teacher’s peroxide coiffure—whipped and sprayed into rounded peaks and troughs, like a butterscotch dessert. He was confused. Mentally he fought against relaxing, a natural response to the large smile exuded by Mrs. Gold.
“Is it possible to talk to you and your wife together?” she asked.
Shreene had brought in the snacks and joined him, sitting with her hands in her lap, still formal in her work wear, tights and heels. There was an alertness about her: she kept looking covertly at Mahesh, as if to say, “Give me the signal and I’ll go ahead with whatever it is we need to do.”
“What is it you wanted to talk about?” Mahesh said to Mrs. Gold, feeling the accented curves of his voice as though for the first time. “Is something wrong?”
“No . . . far from it, Mr. Vasi. I wanted to give you some news that I think will make you very proud parents.”
“And that is?” “Rumi is a gifted child!” Mrs. Gold declared, unleashing the words with a thrilled upward turn of the mouth.
Mahesh looked at Shreene, who was biting at the dry skin on her lower lip—a sign that she was tense. He looked at Rumi, who was staring at the floor, waiting for him to decipher the words. And then he cast his gaze back toward Mrs. Gold, and her radiant lines of teeth. “You mean she is doing well at school?”
“I mean more than that, Mr. Vasi,” said Mrs. Gold. “I mean that she is special. Different. Gifted.”
At this, Rumi started to fidget, scratching her nose and kicking her feet, looking from side to side, first at her mother, then at her father, her movements uncertain, exaggerated by the silence. Mahesh noticed that she had a scratch on her knee just below the hem of her corduroy dress, above the tight line of white sock gripping her calf. Shreene twitched her forehead at her daughter. Mahesh smiled at Mrs. Gold again, and softened his voice, aware that his daughter was listening to each word as he spoke. He tried to keep the pressure out of the sentences he began to create.
“Myself and my wife take . . . Rumika’s education very seriously. We are pleased that she is doing well in her studies and that her hard work has paid off. I am an academic myself—”
Mrs. Gold shook her head, interrupting. “With due respect, Mr. and Mrs. Vasi, I’m talking about something else. I am talking about a gift. Something that only comes along now and then. Rumi is a gifted mathematician!”
They were plunged into silence once more. Rumi moved her legs back and forth, pushing them rhythmically against the velour of the sofa. Mahesh registered vaguely that she was repeating the movement in batches of four, then pausing, like a physical chant. He watched her support one of her chubby little cheeks with a hand, which she made into a fist, balancing her elbow on her thigh. She was still staring at the floor.
“I am also a mathematician and I am glad that she is doing well in this subject, as you say. I have placed emphasis on it because it is my area of speciality,” said Mahesh, trying to maintain an amiable expression on his face.
“We at Summerfield believe that Rumi deserves to have this gift nurtured,” said Mrs. Gold. She leaned in, pulling her skirt together so that the pleat at the front disappeared neatly inside itself. She paused significantly, as though she was about to say something serious, possibly untoward. Rumi also leaned in automatically to listen, her swaying legs forcing themselves to halt, pressing a temporary dent into the sofa front. Even Shreene moved her body forward, raising her eyebrows expectantly.
“Have you heard of a place called Mensa?” said Mrs. Gold.
Mahesh felt exasperated. He had seen all the same adverts as her. The ads for this place she named with such careful tedium, as though she was rolling a diamond round her mouth. “Mensa.” He’d seen their childish IQ tests, fooled around with filling them out in the Sunday papers. He knew what Mensa was, for goodness’ sake. What did she take him for? And why was she so surprised that he and his daughter could string numbers together with reasonable panache? They were hardly shopkeepers.
He was “peed off,” as they said here: irritated. He tried to think of more slang, enjoying the taste of righteousness, dousing each word with it. He was “hacked off,” “cheesed off,” “not pleased.” What did she think? That he was some third-...
Revue de presse :
Mahesh is sitting in his office, marking. He looks up at the arc of the window as a train rushes past, its urgency left behind in diesel scent and echoing clacks. The dank hush of autumn is settling into his room like a foregone conclusion. It is the eleventh season of its kind in his experience in the UK. The fourth of its kind in this room. Mahesh looks up. There are charts and pictures on the wall. The map of the world sits at an awkward angle, blue ocean disappearing behind the iron bookshelf. Books bulge in huge rows, pressing together files and papers, orange foolscap running in chunky alternation with black, white and gray. In the left corner of the room, by the whiteboard, the bumpy illustration of Gandhi peers out at him. In his mind there is an annoyance that delicately attacks his thoughts every few minutes.
Why did Rumi write that in her exercise book? This is the question that hooks into his conscience periodically: a tiny dental tool piercing soft gum. Why did she write it?
I went to play with Sharon Rafferty and Julie Harris and Leanne Roper in the woods. They let me play softball which is like rounders but with only two bases. Sharon said “let’s go and get the softball and racquets from my house.” When we got to her place we stood outside the gate and Sharon said “I just have to check you can come in Rumi because my mum doesn’t like colored people.” Then she went in with the others and I waited outside.
Thank goodness she came back and said it was OK. Then we went in and had pop ices and got the racquets. Mrs. Rafferty was sunbathing in the garden and looked red. We took the racquets and played softball in the woods.
“Colored.” The word had made him think of a crayon spreading a thick grainy brown over a round face, the kind of awkward pictures Rumi used to draw under duress when she was younger.
Again he looks at Gandhi, wizened and unflinching, in the corner of his room. What would they make of this back in college, cocooned as they had been in the company of ideas? Trotskyites, Gandhian Communists—they had found plenty of names for themselves back then, chewing betel, relishing the bitter stain on their lips and debating whether class war was compatible with nonviolence. What would they think of this name? What would they think of the conversation he had attempted with Rumi after reading it?
“Do you like your school, Rumi?”
“I don’t like the bullies.”
“What do you mean, bullies?”
“People who aren’t nice to me.”
“Do not let these things affect you. You are ten years old now.”
“What?”
“You should be like a tiger in the jungle. Like Shere Khan in The Jungle Book.”
“What do you mean, Daddy?”
“If someone hits you, then hit them back. If they hit you once, hit them twice.”
The words had come out of his mouth, as honest as a shotgun, and he had looked away when her eyes jumped. If you are shocked, so am I, he’d thought. But you are not going to be a victim. That I will not allow.
What would they think of this—the Hyderabad college collective—this world that he had chosen to inhabit, placing a solitary, all-important offspring right at the center? Come to that, what about Whitefoot, his current friend, colleague from the PhD course at Cardiff, Marxist himself—what would he think?
Another train goes past, carrying a heavy rattle inside it, dense as a migraine. The tremble of the room seems to jolt the Gandhi picture slightly. He can see a square of evening light on the glass, obscuring part of Gandhi’s face. Colored? Why did she write it?
It is four p.m., an early end to his day. He has marked four papers, and the room has lost most of its light. Mahesh screws the lid onto his fountain pen and places it in the outer pocket of his blazer so that the brushed steel is visible against the brown polyester mix. The pen had been a present from Shreene, bought with cash carefully siphoned from her first few paychecks, when she had begun to work after the birth. It is almost exactly the same age as Rumi. After ten years it still feels smooth to the touch, cool, not a single visible scratch or dent on the whole body of the piece. There is still that sensation of guilty pleasure at this luxury when he thinks about what it signifies, a tool of learning and wisdom—but a flamboyant one. He buttons up and puts the exam papers to one side, releasing the blind at his window before he locks up for the day, tucking two MSc dissertations under his arm to look at when he gets home.
Five years earlier, Rumi had come home one day and announced that Mrs. Gold wanted to come round and meet her parents. She was just five years old, in her first class at school. Mahesh and Shreene had arranged to leave work early on the appointed day, and were home by three thirty. Shreene began to fry some bhajis, while Mahesh descended into a deep silence, waiting in his shirt and tie in the living room. When Mrs. Gold walked in, Rumi was holding her hand.
“What a lovely walk home we’ve had together, Mr. and Mrs. Vasi,” she said, letting Rumi go in ahead of her.
Rumi squirmed and went suddenly quiet, looking up at her father. Mahesh stared at the teacher’s peroxide coiffure—whipped and sprayed into rounded peaks and troughs, like a butterscotch dessert. He was confused. Mentally he fought against relaxing, a natural response to the large smile exuded by Mrs. Gold.
“Is it possible to talk to you and your wife together?” she asked.
Shreene had brought in the snacks and joined him, sitting with her hands in her lap, still formal in her work wear, tights and heels. There was an alertness about her: she kept looking covertly at Mahesh, as if to say, “Give me the signal and I’ll go ahead with whatever it is we need to do.”
“What is it you wanted to talk about?” Mahesh said to Mrs. Gold, feeling the accented curves of his voice as though for the first time. “Is something wrong?”
“No . . . far from it, Mr. Vasi. I wanted to give you some news that I think will make you very proud parents.”
“And that is?” “Rumi is a gifted child!” Mrs. Gold declared, unleashing the words with a thrilled upward turn of the mouth.
Mahesh looked at Shreene, who was biting at the dry skin on her lower lip—a sign that she was tense. He looked at Rumi, who was staring at the floor, waiting for him to decipher the words. And then he cast his gaze back toward Mrs. Gold, and her radiant lines of teeth. “You mean she is doing well at school?”
“I mean more than that, Mr. Vasi,” said Mrs. Gold. “I mean that she is special. Different. Gifted.”
At this, Rumi started to fidget, scratching her nose and kicking her feet, looking from side to side, first at her mother, then at her father, her movements uncertain, exaggerated by the silence. Mahesh noticed that she had a scratch on her knee just below the hem of her corduroy dress, above the tight line of white sock gripping her calf. Shreene twitched her forehead at her daughter. Mahesh smiled at Mrs. Gold again, and softened his voice, aware that his daughter was listening to each word as he spoke. He tried to keep the pressure out of the sentences he began to create.
“Myself and my wife take . . . Rumika’s education very seriously. We are pleased that she is doing well in her studies and that her hard work has paid off. I am an academic myself—”
Mrs. Gold shook her head, interrupting. “With due respect, Mr. and Mrs. Vasi, I’m talking about something else. I am talking about a gift. Something that only comes along now and then. Rumi is a gifted mathematician!”
They were plunged into silence once more. Rumi moved her legs back and forth, pushing them rhythmically against the velour of the sofa. Mahesh registered vaguely that she was repeating the movement in batches of four, then pausing, like a physical chant. He watched her support one of her chubby little cheeks with a hand, which she made into a fist, balancing her elbow on her thigh. She was still staring at the floor.
“I am also a mathematician and I am glad that she is doing well in this subject, as you say. I have placed emphasis on it because it is my area of speciality,” said Mahesh, trying to maintain an amiable expression on his face.
“We at Summerfield believe that Rumi deserves to have this gift nurtured,” said Mrs. Gold. She leaned in, pulling her skirt together so that the pleat at the front disappeared neatly inside itself. She paused significantly, as though she was about to say something serious, possibly untoward. Rumi also leaned in automatically to listen, her swaying legs forcing themselves to halt, pressing a temporary dent into the sofa front. Even Shreene moved her body forward, raising her eyebrows expectantly.
“Have you heard of a place called Mensa?” said Mrs. Gold.
Mahesh felt exasperated. He had seen all the same adverts as her. The ads for this place she named with such careful tedium, as though she was rolling a diamond round her mouth. “Mensa.” He’d seen their childish IQ tests, fooled around with filling them out in the Sunday papers. He knew what Mensa was, for goodness’ sake. What did she take him for? And why was she so surprised that he and his daughter could string numbers together with reasonable panache? They were hardly shopkeepers.
He was “peed off,” as they said here: irritated. He tried to think of more slang, enjoying the taste of righteousness, dousing each word with it. He was “hacked off,” “cheesed off,” “not pleased.” What did she think? That he was some third-...
“Nikita Lalwani’s poignant, vivid debut beautifully describes the dramas of growing up. Her keen-eyed observations highlight what it means to be young, gifted and Asian and the way those three things can be a source of both pride and prejudice.” – Marie Claire
“Observant, witty and stylistically original. . . . The novel is a winner.” —The Bookseller
“Not the least of Nikita Lalwani’s achievements in this superb debut novel lies in her ability to present the tragedy of a gifted second-generation immigrant girl within the framework of larger throes: the conflict and isolation of strangers ina strange land, carrying the wounds of Partition. . . . The novel is especially memorable for its sensuous power. Lalwani not only knows her characters’ minds: she is able to record, in wincing detail, events within their very mouths.” —The Independent
“[A] charming rite-of-passage novel. . . . Lalwani’s evocation of teenage dislocation is pitch-perfect and she inhabits her heroine’s interior world with tender authority.” —The Guardian
“The novel’s triumph is in elucidating the hurt of both child and parents. . . . Rules abound in the world of mathematics, but Lalwani compellingly depicts the pain and pleasure of breaking the rules.” —New Statesman
“The main characters are well-drawn, pulling the reader into their inner lives as Lalwani powerfully evokes the loneliness of adolescence and the awfulness of being newly away from home and out of one’s depth.” —Daily Mail
“Nikita Lalwani does a good job of getting inside Rumi’s mind, as we journey with her from the innocent child with a love of numbers to a frustrated teen, addicted to chewing raw cumin seeds and trying to grow up in a family that won’t let her.” —The Times
“[Lalwani] conveys the confusions of Rumi’s developing body and mind with charm and warmth . . . and pinpoints with genuine insight the bewilderment and anguish of a young woman marked out from her peers.” —The Sunday Times
“A triumph. . . . Fluid, original, clever, glitteringly vivid, funny. . . . All the conventional pieties and forms of Indian immigrant identity and trauma are so wittily pre-empted; and yet there’s a sure grasp, at the serious core of the novel, of the deep reverberations of politics and history.” —Tessa Hadley, author of Accidents in the Home
“This is an outstanding piece of writing – rich, vivid, fluent and well paced with a wonderful cast of well developed engaging characters and a constantly surprising storyline.” —Gerard Woodward, author of I’ll Go to Bed at Noon
From the Hardcover edition.
“Observant, witty and stylistically original. . . . The novel is a winner.” —The Bookseller
“Not the least of Nikita Lalwani’s achievements in this superb debut novel lies in her ability to present the tragedy of a gifted second-generation immigrant girl within the framework of larger throes: the conflict and isolation of strangers ina strange land, carrying the wounds of Partition. . . . The novel is especially memorable for its sensuous power. Lalwani not only knows her characters’ minds: she is able to record, in wincing detail, events within their very mouths.” —The Independent
“[A] charming rite-of-passage novel. . . . Lalwani’s evocation of teenage dislocation is pitch-perfect and she inhabits her heroine’s interior world with tender authority.” —The Guardian
“The novel’s triumph is in elucidating the hurt of both child and parents. . . . Rules abound in the world of mathematics, but Lalwani compellingly depicts the pain and pleasure of breaking the rules.” —New Statesman
“The main characters are well-drawn, pulling the reader into their inner lives as Lalwani powerfully evokes the loneliness of adolescence and the awfulness of being newly away from home and out of one’s depth.” —Daily Mail
“Nikita Lalwani does a good job of getting inside Rumi’s mind, as we journey with her from the innocent child with a love of numbers to a frustrated teen, addicted to chewing raw cumin seeds and trying to grow up in a family that won’t let her.” —The Times
“[Lalwani] conveys the confusions of Rumi’s developing body and mind with charm and warmth . . . and pinpoints with genuine insight the bewilderment and anguish of a young woman marked out from her peers.” —The Sunday Times
“A triumph. . . . Fluid, original, clever, glitteringly vivid, funny. . . . All the conventional pieties and forms of Indian immigrant identity and trauma are so wittily pre-empted; and yet there’s a sure grasp, at the serious core of the novel, of the deep reverberations of politics and history.” —Tessa Hadley, author of Accidents in the Home
“This is an outstanding piece of writing – rich, vivid, fluent and well paced with a wonderful cast of well developed engaging characters and a constantly surprising storyline.” —Gerard Woodward, author of I’ll Go to Bed at Noon
From the Hardcover edition.
Les informations fournies dans la section « A propos du livre » peuvent faire référence à une autre édition de ce titre.
- ÉditeurDoubleday of Canada
- Date d'édition2008
- ISBN 10 038566382X
- ISBN 13 9780385663823
- ReliureBroché
- Nombre de pages304
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Gifted: A Novel
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Gifted Lalwani, Nikita
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ISBN 13 : 9780385663823
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