The things she drew

The short girl just stood there, with her hair falling over her eyes. She shifted from foot to foot, and squirmed endlessly as her teacher unloosed shaft after shaft from memory and accumulated grievance. Her classmates stood around, their lunchtime football match featuring a bedraggled butta quite forgotten. One boy picked up the butta and chucked it at her in an experimental sort of way. It bounced off her head, and then hit the teacher in the nose. Miss Ramamani stopped in mid-flow, her mouth now opening and closing wordlessly, and goggled at her and at her by-now shamefaced parents, as if this were all their fault.*

“Draw your house,” Miss Ramamani had told them in class that day. It was the hour before lunch, and they were drawing for an exhibition in school. The notice boards were all to be filled, neat lines of perfect houses in the same colours—cream walls and brown doors were to be painted. The roofs would be triangles—more than one, because one would look too simple. The houses were big and belonged to someone rich; there would be a long driveway, and green trees.

Shorty had taken coloured pens, pencils, and paints to the table next to the wall in the last row. She set down her paper, drawing a room with large windows that overlooked the rest of the small house. She dipped her fingers in green paint, leaving behind impressions of the tips of her fingers as leaves, a dark green over a lighter green. Then she painted the bark in a solid block of brown colour, before running her pencil along the wet paint, and scratching out lines. It would have been rough to touch. The walls of the room were a light blue; just under the window was a potted plant with small leaves. It was the nicest house he had ever seen.

Miss Ramamani walked by. She squinted at the paper from over Shorty’s shoulder as though making a decision, but he could tell that her decision had already been made. She snatched it, waved it around for the class to see, crumpling its edges.

“Call your parents, I’ve had enough,” she snapped.

At ten, Shorty was quiet. There were occasional moments when she would remember something and feel the need to say it—she would get along fine with people, but never spoke in class. When she did, things around her seemed to catch their breath; the sound of her voice remained for longer than the words she said. He had always noticed this about her—not the oversized clothes she wore, or her large eyes that she seemed to try so hard to hide—it was the sound she made, and the things she drew.

“Today you must all draw your favourite class,” Miss Ramamani had said last week. Everybody knew she expected her class to be drawn, her face round but not as round, and her sari plain, but not as plain. The math sums on the black board had to be drawn clearly; she was after all, teaching them so much.  But Shorty drew the pottery class. There was one wheel with a pot on top, and he was sitting at the wheel. It had to be him because nobody else used the wheel; the others sat on low wooden stools at the long stone tables, their clay on breaking rectangular boards before them. She was making a girl reading a book; the boy next to her was making an elephant. The classroom was in a shed, and the banyan tree was just outside. The pale green leaves, and the roots they used to hang on—they were all in the drawing. She had picked up wet clay and rubbed it on the paper, colouring the stools in an uneven brown she would never have been able to create otherwise. Everywhere else she used colour pencils, occasionally using water to blur the lines.

“I asked you to draw a class,” Miss Ramamani said.

Shorty did not reply.

“This is not a class,” she continued. “Do you understand nothing?”

But the butta had been thrown, and he could not take it back.

“You, come here!” Miss Ramamani barked a moment later.

School for Miss Ramamani had been a succession of quick, well-placed knuckle raps; the sound clear, like branches that snapped underfoot in a single, clean break. He shuffled over, passing through a group of laughing friends, saying “Shhh” softly as he passed them.

“Have you no shame?” Miss Ramamani demanded.

He did not understand what shame had to do with any of it.

“I spend night and day trying to help you all. Is this how you treat your teachers?” Miss Ramamani shouted.

So easily she forgot that she got hit by a rebound. He had been aiming at Shorty.

Shorty’s parents slipped away from behind him, as though no loud, accusatory conversation had ever happened with Miss Ramamani. He wondered what they were like—if they cared, or if they thought like her, if they constantly interfered, or just let her be. He wondered if Shorty ever needed rescuing at home like he did, when his parents did not let him read the books he picked. Their footsteps died away. Shorty was still standing in the corner.

“Do you have nothing to say for yourself?” Miss Ramamani asked.

“Yes, miss. Sorry, miss,” he said, looking down at his feet. That’s what he had seen Shorty do when she tried to look guilty. This was only his first time.

“Go sit on the floor in class and face the wall,” Miss Ramamani said.

If only they could still give quick raps, they’d all be set right. He was sure that this was what she was thinking. He bent his head further, till his chin touched the bottom of his neck.  Lunch break was over.

By the time they turned fifteen, he and Shorty did not talk much. She would draw on the margins of his book with her blue ink pen, and he would sit and read. Occasionally, she would let him fill in some colours, if he promised not to ask questions about which colour went where. He generally agreed.

*This story was written for a children’s fiction contest. The first paragraph was given to us; it is not mine, and I do not know where it is from, or who has written it.

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I thought they were the same

I was supposed to be home by five.

We were sitting on some abandoned slabs of stone that

looked like they wanted to be sat on. He was standing, she was talking,

I was listening but not responding. It was a quiet street;

some old houses, an older man, a slowly moving car.

I was picturing a staircase.

I was scaring her, she said, but I didn’t mean to. I was just picturing a staircase.

An upward-moving escalator that I got on but walked up anyway, just like Appa did.

What’s the point of an escalator then, she had once said, standing as I walked up.

I was walking up the black and white moving staircase when he spoke.

We’ll read your blog tonight, they said; those words would talk to them.

Even then I knew I wouldn’t write that night; the black and white constantly moving staircase

looked like it had been drawn.

I got home; it was around six, the figure at the dining table rose to go inside.

In my room, I opened her drawer to find something to draw with; there were oil pastels I hadn’t used for years.

I turned off my phone,

Coloured a large blue square leaving no white spaces. Satisfied, I covered

the blue with a purple, and then the purple with a darker blue, there was an urgency that I couldn’t place.

Five times I coloured.

An hour later I scratched out a staircase in the coloured square, what colour the square was, I cannot tell.

I wanted it to be like the one in my head,

but it was another.