A Small Talk

Let me give them some classwork, Ghimire Sir said through a sheet of snow. On the board, he wrote in his impeccable hand: Why does Devkota compare Nepal to the pupil of the eye? The Moustache barked, Students, write well! Make your sir proud! We felt ridiculed. When he smiled, we took comfort in the missing half of his lower lip. Ghimire Sir gave the chalk to Porcupine and, without looking at us, walked out.

The Boy led, our ball in his hand. Moustache and Rifle flanked Ghimire Sir. Once they crossed the barberry bush, we huddled by the paneless window. What’ll we play tomorrow, someone said. The bastard doesn’t even know how to kick it, another said. No teacher stepped outside. When the bell rang at last, the Principal Sir emerged from the outhouse. That afternoon we composed the most eloquent lines: The eye sees everything. . . . The pupil is where the light enters the body. . . . Nepal is no small talk. . . .

The Nepali period was moved to the end, and soon we started going home after Social Studies.