How did Smita parelkar meet her daughter's requirement of need extra money the next day
Answers
Answer:
Explanation:
Manjula Parelkar knew she was no Hussain. She could never be, not with those hands
of hers, those claw-like malformed fingers. Why her hands too? Wasn’t it enough that
her feet were deformed; ending in two massive moon-shaped toes pointing at each other,
the hard nails touching, grating against each other whenever she wore wrong shoes. She
wore wrong shoes most of the time, for there weren’t any shoes in the market soft enough
for her clumsy feet.
Her feet hurt most of the time but she didn’t mind them
so much. She could hide them in those ugly made-to-order
shoes. But she could not hide her hands, could she?
Manjula Parelkar knew she would never paint like Hussain,
but she could learn to paint well. Handling brushes was no
problem, they didn’t feel any different from a pencil. Her
problem was the cost of the materials she would need.
‘Mummy,’ she asked one evening while helping her mother
in the kitchen after dinner, ‘do you think I could... .’ she
paused nervously, ‘...I could have some extra money
tomorrow?’
4
Pre-reading Task
1. Imagine a situation wherein you are suffering from very high fever and you are to appear for a
very important examination the next day. What will you and your friends do? Discuss in groups
of five.
2. Do hurdles dishearten you or give you greater strength? Share your opinion with your friends.
malformed: badly formed clumsy: awkward/large and heavy
Ch04.indd 23 2/22/2016 3:05:43 PM
24
‘What do you need it for?’ asked her mother
gently, rinsing the dishes.
‘For ice-cream,’ answered her brother from
the door with an impish grin. Thumping the
door with the palm of his hand he chanted,
‘We want ice-cream! We want ice-cream.’
Ignoring him her mother repeated, ‘Why do
you need the money, Manjula?’
‘For colours and paints... I ...I want to learn
painting.’
‘Painting?’ asked her mother unbelievingly.
‘But... you.....’ She added quickly, ‘Of course, it’s a nice hobby.’
‘It will be more than a hobby,’ replied Manjula quietly.
Mrs Parelkar looked at her daughter
searchingly. She gazed long into those serious,
melancholic eyes. Closing the tap she walked
over to the kitchen cupboard and pulled out
an ornate, metal tea box from the topmost
shelf.
‘My piggy bank,’ she smiled. ‘Don’t let out the
hiding place.’ Then she pressed a few notes into
Manjula’s hands. ‘Go ahead and buy whatever
you need, dear. Have fun and show me the
painting.’
Manjula Parelkar showed her first painting
to her mother the very next day. ‘Manjula,’
cried her mother dropping her needlework in
surprise, ‘why, that is beautiful I didn’t know
you were this good.’
‘Do you really think so?’ asked Manjula
doubtfully.
‘Of course, dear,’ she held the water-colour painting at arm’s length. ‘It looks perfect.’
‘Oh, Ma,’ cried Manjula pleased, ‘this is just the beginning. I’ll pick up fast.’
impish: mischievous
Ch04.indd 24 2/22/2016 3:05:44 PM
25
‘I’m sure you will,’ her mother returned the painting.
‘You must show it to Papa. He’ll be impressed.’
Mr Parelkar pushed his glasses up and glanced at Manjula’s work. ‘Well done. Very good. A
nice picture. See, see what all you can do.’ Even though he didn’t look at her hands, those
claw-like malformed fingers, she knew what he meant. She swallowed dryly, something
inside her twisting painfully. She knew the pain. She was used to it. ‘Keep it up,’ her father
patted her settling in his favourite chair with the newspaper. He enquired, ‘Is the tea ready?’
‘Why don’t you frame it?’ cried her brother Amol, snatching the sheet from Manjula’s
hands. ‘Or why don’t you sell it?’ Raising it over his head he imitated an auctioneer, ‘Two
thousand rupees. Who bids more? Two thousand one, two thousand two.. .’
‘Amol,’ his mother warned him. ‘Put that
painting down at once! Tell me, have you
finished your homework?’ .
The word ‘homework’ was enough to sober
Amol. He crept to his room.
Manjula returned to her brushes and paints
and drifted into another world, a brighter
world of glowing colour, beautiful forms and
perfect shapes—the world where she wanted
to belong so desperately.
Nobody had asked Manjula Parelkar what she
wanted for her thirteenth birthday. But she
got all she had secretly wished for.
‘Oh Mummy! Mummy,’ cried Manjula
overwhelmed. ‘A set of artist’s water colours.
Thank you. Thank you so much!’
‘And this is from your father.’ Her mother pressed a book in her hands.
‘Painting, Step by Step,’ Manjula jumped in excitement, her dark eyes shining with
happiness. ‘Oh Papa, I could have never dreamt of this.’
‘You wouldn’t have dreamt of this present either,’ said her brother with a mischievous
smile, holding out a big parcel, tightly wrapped and knotted. Manjula eyed it suspiciously.
Sometimes she wasn’t too sure whether her brother was mischievous or simply mean.