Plight of Literacy in India - Short story

A short story Originally published in Malayalam as Saksharatha by B.M. Zuhara. Translated into English by Dr. R. Krishnan (Sasi). Edited by Mini Krishnan (Editor, Translations, OUP). I found this in Hindu and wanted to share it with u all.

MAMMAD was woken up by the commotion on the seashore. Dawn was just breaking. Would there be any fish left for him, he wondered. All he had was 140 rupees. Yesterday's profit had been 25 rupees. When he reached home, his son had a raging fever and he had rushed the boy to Dr. Salam next door. The fee and medicines had cost him that 25 rupees. There was not a grain of rice at home. He had dipped into savings to feed the family. God knew what lay in store for them today.
Amina seemed to have left her bed early. All the three children were asleep on their mats. The child's forehead was cool: mercifully the fever had dropped. The salt-laden air from the sea swept through the little thatched hut. He found an old rag and covered his son with it. He had for long wanted to pull down the thatched roof and replace it with wooden planks. Their daughter was 10 now: the feeling that the hut was no longer safe for her was now a source of perpetual anxiety. For two years they had lived under this thatch. The land was bought after selling off Amina's earrings and drops. They had sold belongings and borrowed heavily to put up the hut. But repairs had become impossible.
Abject poverty was the only thing they had known in all these years. They knew no other trade. If only he could find another vocation, he would have given this up long ago. After dragging around in the blazing sun from morning till lunchtime, he couldn't even buy a little rice with what he made..
It was very late; he would be lucky if he got mackerel or some other fish. Samikutty would have got around to his regular customers by now. He had a Luna and could get around faster. Mammad would have to return without selling anything: his customers were getting impatient with the poor quality of his fish. And the prices were so high. Most days he ran up a loss. He could not afford to keep his regulars dissatisfied and so was forced to under-sell or accept whatever they offered him. A basket of mackerel would cost him 140 rupees; even if he sold at 50 paise per fish, it was still a loss. Samikutty would compete with him and sell at rates less than his because he could afford to do so: his brother had a boat and net and could get fish at a considerably lower rate.
He placed the bicycle on its stand and went in to put on his shirt. It had become quite tattered. He had hoped to buy a new one this year: but now it was unlikely that he would be able to afford one. He could of course ask "Vakil"-sir's wife, one of his regular customers: she would most certainly get one of her husband's cast-offs for him. But he was reluctant to ask. He found it embarrassing to ask a favour of anyone. Yesterday, she had remarked while he was giving her the fish, "Isee your shirt is torn Mammad. I'll get one from `sir' for you."
He tied the dirty cloth around his head. What had happened to Amina? Why was there no sign of her? Where was she? She normally brought him some black tea before he left for work. Wasn't he getting even that today?
"Amina, where are you, you wretch...?"
"Here I am. Coming..."
"She appeared with the tea. He took it from her and drank it. It tasted foul. There was no sugar. He said nothing. Yesterday there had been no money to buy sugar. Amina looked at him and seemed to want to say something.
"Why are you staring at me like that?"
"I want you to give me five rupees."
"Why?"
"To buy a slate and some books."
"But I had given the boy money last week for his books."
"The money is not for him. It is for me."
"Why do you need a slate and books?"
"To study."
"Who got you admitted to school in your old age?"
"Oh, you know nothing about it: there are some people who come here to teach us. All the women in the neighbourhood have joined. They'll come by 11 o'clock. The women all have slates and books; I'm the only one who doesn't."
"You'd better not waste your time. Try and get the little fellow through school, instead. If he learns to read and write, he'll at least be able to keep the accounts of the fish. What's the good of you trying to learn anything?"
"All he has to do is to go to school every day, and he'll pass, whether or not he learns anything there. I hear he'll get up to the 10th that way. That is the rule. So he refuses to study. I will help you with all your sums once I learn to read and write. Yesterday he held my hand and made me write with my finger on the sand."
"Who was it who held your hand? Was it a boy or a girl?"
"They are big boys who come to teach us to read and write."
"Which one was that?"
"Our Saidalavi's son, Avaran. There were two or three others with him."
"You...B****! Now I know why you are so keen to go to these classes. You let those boys hold your hands when the men-folk are away and no one is around, will you, you wretch? I'll stop all the lessons today, right now!!"
Mammad was trembling with rage. He slapped Amina again and again before thrusting her aside violently. When he raised his arm for the next blow, Amina cowered, defended herself and screamed, "No, please, aiyyo, don't! Don't kill me! I won't go for Ri - te- la- cy Drive again."