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Sitaram · Site Admin Joined: 14 Sep 2005 Posts: 1079

Flowers, flowers… red, blue, white, yellow… random wild flowers and fancy
ones filed in rows peopled the lawn which fell from the windows and
milled as the wind rolled through them.

A slight breeze rustled the open blinds, the classroom was filled with the
quiet of thirty people breathing in and out, the girls with their hair piled
above their heads, or braided in buns, or smoothed out straight and long
across their backs and shoulders; the boys with scalps, sat quietly in their
chairs, or squirmed and scuffed their shoes restlessly, and thirty pens and
pencils scratched and hummed across the sonorous desk tops, and
papers smacked and crumpled under thirty hands gliding over them,
bracelets tinkling and rings tapping and sweaty palms squeaking over
plastic-finished tops, sped by the teacher’s gaze rolling through them and
the electric drone of the big hand erasing minutes from the face of the
clock. She made thirty-one, but she was not writing. Three giggles and
the brassy tones of a chair leg broke the surface tension of the sound,
and her eyes shot quickly to the source. “Is that paper in your hand so
funny?” she said, smiling, “Bring it to me and I will show it to the class so
that we may all enjoy the joke.”

Her young face drained and her skin turned pale and tightened against
her cheeks. She held the paper between her fingers as though it were a
dirty napkin that she wished would disappear. Hesitating, and then
drawing in her breath, she stood up cautiously, her legs sliding her chair
into the knees of the boy behind her, and walked solemnly to the waste
paper basket by her desk, crumpling the paper in her hand as she
walked.

“No, no,” she said, still smiling, stretching out her hand, “How can we read
it if you crumple it like that?” Still smiling, she took the paper ball in her
hands and unfolded it slowly in the puddle of sunlight which shimmered on
her desk. As her eyes rolled up and down its crease-lined surface, she
caught her breath in surprise. Blood rushed to her face and her smile fell
limp and drooped about her cheeks.

She caught a glimpse of the sketch on the paper in her hands before she
folded it in half. She let out a sigh of relief.

“Did you draw this?”

“No… no, I found it in my desk.” A sarcastic cough from somewhere
singed the air.

She cast a sharp eye in the direction of the cougher and then returned her
attention to the folded paper in her hand, its inky lines had seeped
through the porous paper and had made a faint image on the underside.
She sniffed the cleaning fluid fragrance of the magic marker ink. “This is
fresh, and look, there is some on your hands.”

She looked down at the red smudge that her lipstick had left while she
was biting her finger (she had a nervous habit of biting her finger), and
then looked up again.

“Step into the hall with me for a minute.” She stood up rapidly and her
leather cushioned seat rolled up against the wall behind her.

They marched in a line, one leading, the other following, the sharp clicking
heels punctuating the silent padding loafers. The door closed smartly
behind them and the rush of wind rustled the open blinds; patches of
whispers sprouted in the sunlight.

She leaned in a relaxed fashion against a locker door, her clean, white
fingers unfolding the paper, and, with a sarcastic smile, turned it, flat
open, so that the back side faced herself and the front side faced the
young girl standing before her, shifting first to one foot, then the other,
chewing the lipstick smudge on her finger.

“Do you know what this is?”

She stared back blankly.

“Ha, don’t tell me! I just bet you don’t!”

She shifted to another foot and deposited another layer of lipstick on her
finger.

“Don’t be afraid. I’m not mad at you. I’m quite fond of you. I’m here to
help you to grow up nice and clean. A nice young girl like you should be
thinking of other things… nice things… flowers; not this! Nice girls don’t
think about these things! This is dirty!

When you’re a woman like me, you’ll understand.” She slipped for a
moment into her natural voice and the young girl raised her head in
surprise.

The young girl started on another finger, the other being quite happy and
content.

“And take your fingers from your mouth; that’s a dirty habit,” she said,
fingering the paper which she had nervously rolled into a tube (she had a
nervous habit of rolling paper into tubes while she talked,) and was
gesturing with it, for emphasis you understand, to one side of the young
girl’s cheek. “Nice girls don’t do that. A woman certainly wouldn’t.” ad she
took hold of her hand and gently pulled it away from her mouth.

Well, the young girl didn’t understand, and she never would. Neither of
them would ever really understand, although there was really no
difference, and there certainly was nothing difficult about it. The simply
marched back into the room in a line, one leading, the other following, the
soft padding loafers filling in around the sharp clicking heals. The paper
mysteriously disappeared and was never seen again.

The young girl sat down at her desk and turned around to smile. She
loved the smell of hair tonic and she was very happy; the breeze was
blowing it her way. The pretty young teacher sat down at her desk to
think of all the pretty young faces that she had seen come and would se
go. She looked at the long, slender vase sitting on her desk, brimming
with water and filled with fresh-cut flowers, and with the wind. It was
coming her way. And, it was very, very nice.

- Sitaram

(written 1965)

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