There was a lot of excitement when Shanta Kassiepershad arrived at our high school. One could have bottled the pheromones that drenched the corridors. Evelyn, the tea aunty, overheard the Afrikaans HOD, Mrs Goolam, complain from the top corner of the staffroom table: “That girl came with a forced transfer from Lower Tugela and now the principal has put her straight into the eight A class.” Mrs Goolam made no bones that Shanta was something of a “naughty girl”. As the unofficial moral guardian of Caversham’s stern reputation, the “Mevrou” as she insisted on being called, searched for allies among the teaching staff.
“Every child deserves a chance, Mam,” Mrs Abraham of the domestic science portfolio piped up from the other end of the long row of government tables wrapped in those matching floral plastic tablecloths historically favoured by Durban Indians. Miss Lazarus, the music mistress, who played the Steinway in the Anglican church on the corner of Road 322 and Florence Nightingale but was forced to inflict the ubiquitous “recorder” on her local charges, spotted the gap to nod in a manner that was so odd that it was unclear whether she was for or against the motion being tossed across the tables.
The mathematically inclined Mrs Gounden sliced through the momentary silence that had the assembled educators uncomfortably adjusting their butt cheeks on the padded chairs. “As the 8A form teacher, I must tell you that my initial impressions are that we can make an upstanding citizen of that child. Being popular should not be a crime.”
And was Shanta popular! There was a near riot at the assembly when the principal summoned her one bright Monday morning to read the Lord’s Prayer. She tiptoed to the podium, smoothed the pleats on her indigo skirt and puckered her Vaseline‑lined lips. “Our Father …,” rang out over the uniformed class regiments first in middle C and then she seized the moment of asking forgiveness to pitch at full soprano on C6. Miss Lazarus went from demure to bashful inside 60 seconds.
“Encore,” hollered doe‑eyed Kenneth Gonzalez Naidoo from the back of the 10A line. There was a raucous chorus of “More, more!” from the six rows of Standard Six who eventually thinned to two matric lines every five years. Shanta pirouetted to glance at the principal. He lowered his eyelids with a cheeky smile. She launched into Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean”, then Irene Cara’s “What a Feeling”. As the closing bars of The Police’s “Every Breath You Take” had every foot stomping and hip gyrating, Mrs Goolam cleared her throat like Mount Vesuvius about to erupt.
Ever the diplomat, the principal was not going to antagonise the school’s sole disciplinarian. He raised his arms in messianic fervour and calm descended on the faithful. Everyone knew that a star had been born. Zululand’s loss was Chatsworth’s gain. Kenneth insisted he had a new girlfriend but Shanta spread her affections as widely as the days of the week and the hours on her wristwatch.
At the tea and lunch breaks, the tuck shop thronged with orders for Fritos, Kit Kat and the new fad for Wippy Bar. Shanta stuffed the sweet tributes into her blazer pockets as her armies of admirers filed past in obeisance. It turned out that she was a distant relative of the principal. Malicious gossip had riveted the wider Umfolozi region that Shanta was a bad influence on the children of the conservative farming community. She had to be sent away.
Caversham welcomed her with open arms. Even Mrs Goolam warmed to her when she aced the Taalbond exam and was flown to Paarl to receive her certificate. It was there that she defiantly refused to sing “Die Stem” and hummed “Nkosi sikelel iAfrika” to the consternation of the organisers and establishing her credentials as a radical. Evelyn volunteered to toast her lunch sandwiches on the staffroom thawa. Shanta was the mascot for the leader board’s Padvatan House at the annual sports meeting, prancing in ice‑white thigh‑high boots borrowed from a drum majorette. At every awards ceremony, she took armfuls of book prizes and engraved egg cup trophies.
Mrs Gounden was convinced that Shanta was “medical school material”. But alas, just as the matric trials were about to begin, Shanta was taken out of school and hurriedly married off to the pundit’s son.
Kiru Naidoo is a local writer preparing the second edition of his bestselling memoir, “Made in Chatsworth”, due for release in August.