Letter 43 Part A Shanti was Painfully Shy.

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Forward to Letter 43 Part B.

Part One - Getting to Know Shanti.

From Shanti,            
Titirangi,            
Auckland,            
New Zealand.            

            To Joseph,
            The Game Reserve,
            Andhra Pradesh,
            India.

Hi, Joseph and Lizamoa,
        So that was a very quick reply too. It is possible we will get to India before this letter even arrives since it is now less than two weeks before we leave, but Mike thinks we should post it anyway even if we are there when it arrives.
        So in our phone call the other day all the arrangements are made now and we will soon be on our way. We are looking forward to seeing you both again.

        That was a very sexy story Lizamoa. We both liked it very much. Rather different to our usual stories too I think.
        For our story, Mike is going to do it again. He can tell this story better than me although I did help him with some of the details and the conversation bits to make it into a better story. So now over to Mike.

        Shanti Singh was painfully shy! She was the kind of girl you could be in a class with all year and never realise she was there until the last day of class when she tripped on a desk leg or sneezed during the final. She was a non-entity at my high school. A shadow in the background, never seen, never heard.
        One day I decided to say something to her. I don’t know why. It just came into my head one day that I wanted to speak to her. I wanted to speak to her because suddenly it had occurred to me that, in all that time we’d spent in the same class together, I never had spoken to her. I had literally never seen any person speak to her about anything. Even the teachers seemed to sense that she was too shy to be called on during class and not one of them ever tried to draw her out that I could see.
        At first, I thought it might be because she was Indian but then I decided that wasn’t it. Shanti’s older sister Hasina, two forms above us, was an Indian too and she very outgoing and always the centre of attention. She dressed sharply, always looked beautiful. Even us younger guys took notice when she walked by. She was every young guy’s pure fantasy. So why was her younger sister, Shanti, so different?
        Guys were not interested in Shanti, even though if you looked carefully you could see that she had a decent body hidden under those shapeless, frumpy dresses and she certainly had a nice face; when you could see it, that is, which was seldom. She usually had it turned toward the ground, or buried in a book, or hiding behind her long, dark black hair.
        Certainly, nobody teased her. Who will ever forget the time her sister caught Harry teasing poor Shanti. She never defended herself. She never said a word. She just sat there and silently wept.
        But then her older sister walked in. Quickly taking in the situation, with a scream she sprung at Harry. I’ve never seen anything like that from a girl; Hasina was like a wild cat. She seemed as strong as Harry, over powering him and throwing him to the ground. She threw herself on top of him all concern of modesty with her short skirt forgotten as she continued attacking him.
        Finally some of the older kids managed to pull her off. Poor Harry was lucky to get away with only a black eye, some sore ribs and numerous scratches. That cut under his eye was deep and took a long time to heal. Nobody messed with Shanti or her sister after that.
        Hasin looked a lot better off, once she got her skirt pulled down again. While Harry's shirt was almost ripped off, her blouse only lost a couple of buttons revealing more of the swells hidden underneath. But the only other damage to Hansine was the knuckles on both hands were bleeding, proof of the ferocity of her attack.

        After that, we all just left Shanti alone. She always ate lunch sitting alone on the brick retaining wall that surrounded the base of the flagpole. It was sort of out of the way, and there was only enough sitting space for two people, sitting somewhat close together. There was little chance of anyone sitting next to her, so I suppose she felt she was “safe” there.
        One thing that was surprising about Shanti was that she would join in when we played some physical games like Bull Rush. She was a fast runner, often hard to catch. She would put up a fight and stuggle to get away before she got tagged. We saw more of her then, saw her face, and heard her laugh but she never talked. Afterwards, she would always return to her normal self, return to her little brick wall.
        When swimming season came around we all got a surprise. She was a strong swimmer and competitive too. She obviously liked to win, especially against us boys. She didn't look bad in a swimsuit either. A hot-looking body, a younger version of her big sister.

        I don’t know what made me want to approach her. Considering her sister, some might say I was a bit crazy. Perhaps it was just curiosity, perhaps it was even a touch of pity. It was just that I had begun to notice her more, sitting in the back corner of my math class, hiding in the last clarinet row in the orchestra and sitting there lonely on that obscure brick wall. I felt some strange desire to at least hear what her voice sounded like.
        So at lunchtime, I decided to go and join her on her wall.
        “Excuse, me. Is there anyone sitting there?” I said, having stepped up quietly to a position directly in front of her.
        She jumped a little and looked up from her sandwich, long locks of her jet-black hair sweeping into her eyes. She pulled the hair away with a fingertip in a gesture that would have gone perfectly with pushing glasses up on her nose if she wore them. She said nothing.
        “Uh, can I sit there?” I said pointing to the spot next to her on the planter.
        She lowered her gaze again, and nodded, scooting to one side and hunching her shoulders almost as if she was trying to disappear into the bricks she was sitting on.

        We sat for several long moments, each munching our lunch, neither saying a word until finally, I tried to break the ice.
        “So, I think we’re in Mr Clarkson’s math class together,” I said.
        She nodded again, quickly, never looking up.
        “Yeah. So, anyway, did you understand that stuff today about cross-multiplying ratios?” I had understood it fairly well, but I figured that perhaps a direct question might get her to speak.
        She shook her head.
        “Me neither. I’m just not that good at math.” That was true enough.
        She responded with silence, head still bowed, just sitting there staring down at her lunch.
        I suddenly felt like I was really bothering her. I felt like I had invaded someone’s very private space, and it made me feel guilty. “Look,” I said, “I’m sorry if I bothered you. Really! I didn’t mean to.”
        With that, I got up to leave. I thought I heard her make some noise, like “Juh” behind me, and I turned to look, but she was still staring down, still hunched into a protective little ball.
        I turned and left. What else could I do?

        I figured that would be it - she’d be terrified of me now and I’d never even hear her speak. But the next day I caught her looking at me in math class and then again across the lunch quad as she sat on her wall and I stood in the lunch line. Her look told me nothing, really, just sort of a blankish stare that ended as soon as she realised I was looking back. But the mere fact that she was looking I felt was significant, given that I’d never seen her look at anyone before.
        So I thought I’d try again.
        The next day at lunch, I approached her retaining wall again. She seemed subtly different somehow, but I could not put my finger on it at first. At first, I made no move to sit with her, but stood nearby, looking at the tree that stood next to the flagpole.
        Finally, I spoke: “Hi Shanti.”
        I did not turn to look, figuring that she’d have to say something to such a casual greeting, that she should not be so rude as to just ignore me.
        Hi,” she said after a moment, her voice very small but notably soft and lovely.
        Surprised at finally hearing her voice, I turned to look at her, then realised what the change was that I had sensed. Her hair, which was usually hanging straight in front of her face, had obviously had some attention. It looked brushed and soft, curving away from her face in a gentle wave. I’d never seen evidence that she’d paid much attention to her hair before; now she’d obviously done something to it. Had she done this for me?
        “Uh, do you mind if I share the wall with you again? I promise to keep quiet,” I said.
        She looked up at me, our eyes meeting briefly. I smiled, trying to look harmless, and she nodded, looking back down to her food.
        We ate in silence for what felt like an hour but was certainly no more than a few minutes. I tried to concentrate on my food, but I also noticed that she smelled very nice, like a lemon grove or a teashop, as though she had put on some kind of old-fashioned perfume. There was a decided tension between us, but I could not identify it.
        I was surprised when she was the first to speak or almost speak.
        “I-I-I,” she began, then gulped her breath, “d-d-dont m-m-m-ind if you, tuh-tuh-tuh.... tuh....” Her face grimaced as I looked at her, obviously struggling to speak, but determined. “Tuh-tuh talk.”
        I stared at her, perhaps a bit too long, and she looked mortified. I had heard her secret - she was a stutterer and a pretty severe one at that. It took me a moment to realise that my staring was telling her I was disgusted by her problem, and as she began to rise, to run away, I tried quickly to explain.
        “W-Wait,” I said in panic, my old stutter returning. “I underst-st-stand..."
        She turned to look back at me, rage and disappointment in her eyes, then began to walk away quickly. She thought I was mocking her, of course. How could I explain? The tension of the moment had brought back that old monster, the stutter that had plagued me when I was in primary school. I had to tell her, or she’d think I was an arsehole, like so many who had probably made fun of her throughout her life, and somehow that seemed like the worst thing that could happen.
        I ran after her, trying to tell her that I was not making fun of her, but the more I tried to speak, concentrating on not stuttering, naturally the more I stuttered. That’s how it works. Eventually, she escaped into the girl’s toilets and would not emerge. I felt horrible.
        For the next week, I tried in vain to talk to her. Her radar was up for me, and whenever I’d approach her wall, or walk up next to her after maths class, she’d slink away. Her hair was back to a stringy mess even worse than before, and she was dressing in even more sombre clothing than usual. Finally, frustrated and angry with myself, I had the presence of mind to write her a note and slip it into her locker.

“Dear Shanti,

I know it must seem to you that I am making fun of your speech problem, but please believe me that I am not. I used to stutter very badly and was only able to get over it through a lot of speech therapy. When I realised the other day that you thought I was making fun of you, my stutter came back with a vengeance, I guess because I wanted too much not to stutter. I’m sure you understand what that’s like. I think you’re a very nice person and I did not want you to think I was disgusted or amused by your problem. I am not. I’m like you.         
                    Mike.”

        I slipped the note through the crack in her locker door, and the next day I sat on that retaining wall around the flagpole, getting there early, making sure I got there before her.
        She did not show up until well into the lunch hour, and I began to think that she had not believed my note. What more could I do? My folks had noticed that my stutter was back, though only mildly. I felt if I could not resolve this problem with Shanti, however, that it might come back completely, and the thought of fighting with my mouth every time I wanted to speak, again, was horrible to me.
        But she finally did show up. She’d done her hair again, and she was wearing jeans and a light green T-shirt. She had something of a smile on her face; just the barest hint of turning at the corners of her mouth, but for her, this was a major event. She’d found my note. She’d believed me. What a relief! She approached the wall, then stopped a pace away and stood silent for a moment.
        Finally, she drew in her breath, and said: “Do you m-m-m-m-mind if I s-s-s-s-sit huh... huh.... sit here t-t-t-too?”
        “Sure,” I said, amazed at her determination.
        I knew how tough it was for her to do that. Stutterers would rather be alone than face any confrontation that might force them to speak. She’d done a very brave and difficult thing, speaking to me like that.
        We sat for a moment, looking at, then not looking at each other. I took the chance to really see her - she was beautiful. I could not understand how I had not seen it before, even though she usually hid behind baggy clothes and her long hair. Her face was bright and lovely, reminding me a little of Jodie Foster, and her body, finally discernible in her T-shirt and jeans, was shapely and firm. I took her in, feeling the beginnings of attraction.
        “I’m really sorry about last time,” I said. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that. Sometimes it’s so h-h-h-hard to make my mouth work right, especially when...”
        But she held up a hand to cut me off. “I kn-kn-know. Really.”
        She smiled a little broader and handed me a note, then blushed deeply and turned away:

“Mike,

I of all people should have understood what was happening to you. I get so defensive sometimes that I forget to think. Please forgive me for being so rude to you.

           Shanti”

        Not exactly a love note, but it touched me nonetheless. I folded it carefully and put it in my pocket. She turned at the sound of the folding paper and looked stunned that I was keeping it.
        “That’s OK. It was just a misunderstanding.” I smiled, and she smiled back, a little. I was struck suddenly by how beautiful her eyes were made even more brilliant by the soft complexion of her face.
        Maybe I could help her. “Look, “I said, being careful not to sound patronising, “I’ve been through this. Maybe I can help you.”
        She shook her head. “T-t-t-tried bef-f-f-fore. Nobody c-c-c-c-can stop this st-st-st-st-stupid thing.”
        She looked dejected.
        “That’s what I thought, but I was wrong. What have you got to lose?”
        She looked at me, a strength and coldness to her gaze. I knew what she had to lose. Every time you tried to get rid of the stutter and failed, it only got worse. The guilt, the anger, the frustration, all came out in those rapid-fire syllables.
        We sat silently for a while, munching our sandwiches and thinking. After a while, she stood. “Okk-k-k-k-k-kay, Mike. I’ll t-t-t-try, but...”
        But you’d better not let me down, her eyes said, that steel coldness there again.
        “I’ll do my best,” I said, feeling like I was making a big mistake.

        For the next three weeks, we met every lunch at the wall. I tried everything I knew; saying the words in reverse order, translating them into another language and back in your mind before speaking (we both knew some German), reading nonsense poetry, vowel sounding, and dozens of other tricks and techniques that she’d probably seen before. Throughout it all, she was patient and cooperative but got nowhere. There was no question that we were becoming close friends during all of this and perhaps more. But I could not seem to help her.
        At the end of it all, I was pretty frustrated with myself. I felt that I had let her down and finally, I told her so.
        She shook her head, smiling a smile that had probably never seen the light of day before, well as far as I knew, anyway. A broad, real, unreserved smile. “N-n-no, Mike. N-n-n-n-not your fuh fuh fault. N-ni-ni-n-n.... Sweet of y-y-y-ou to t-t-t-t-try.”
        Something happened then. Her sweet face, that real smile, the way her lovely hair framed her face, the subtle curve of her, something propelled me. Had I stopped to think I would never have kissed her, but I did not stop. I leant forward and kissed her, gently, on her soft cheek. I heard her breath catch in her throat, but she did not pull away for the first second. When she did pull away, there was only surprise on her face.
        She blushed again and looked down at her lap.
        “I’m sorry,” I said, quietly. “I couldn’t stop myself, Shanti.”
        “Wuh wuh why?” she said, and I could tell she was crying. I only hoped they were not tears of sadness.
        “I th-th-th-think you know why.” Ah, my stutter again. She looked up at hearing it, her eyes glistening. I still could not tell what her tears meant.
        “Maybe,” she said. “I g-g-guess so.”
        I took her hand, and she did not pull away. When I stood, pulling her gently, she followed. We walked around the gym, to the horticulture projects, around the fences and inside. The fruit trees were blooming and the smell reminded me of her perfume, which she was wearing again. We finally reached the end of the rows, where a small bench was, and we sat facing each other.
        “Will you go out with me, Shanti?” I still held her hand in mine and stroked the back of it with the fingers of my other hand. She could not tear her gaze away from our hands.
        “I d-d-d-d-don’t underst-st-stand this.” Her voice was choked.
        “If you’re not interested in me, just say so....”
        She looked up at me and shook her head emphatically. “It’s n-n-n-ot that.”
        “Then say you’ll go out with me.” I tried to keep my voice even and calm, but I really wanted to kiss her again and the strain was unbearable.
        She was quiet for what seemed like a thousand years. But she finally nodded and said, “OK.”

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Forward to Letter 43 Part B.