Experiences of a Schoolteacher

The sweetest boy, Bilal

Sat absolutely still and silent.

Said nothing for weeks.
By no means healthy, well-fed or happy.

He had the face of an adult.  
Posture shrunken, dull expressionless face, 

Bloodshot eyes sunken in,
Big eyes that looked up even when his head still bowed down.

Teeth brown and stained...
Scabs always dotted his knees
Some upon his face...
Some peachy pink and raw, stood out
Ugly and naked,
Against his chocolate colored skin.
My heart reached out to hug him 

Every time I saw the face of Bilal.
Where a smile rarely made an appearance.
Over the next ten months,
I watched him blossom slowly.
The smiles started to appear now.
He even started to speak!
The others seemed repulsed, disgusted 
By his presence.
But his mother cried 

And hugged me "Thank you" 

When the school year ended.

Karen, a girl who had the loveliest smile.
And the heart of an angel
The smile spoke to me
It was a kind, polite smile 

That hid sadness and hints of fear.
Stories from home came much later,
From gossiping schoolteachers that sat behind
Cold tiffin boxes, in the staff room.
Behind bright blue spectacle frames,

Behind coral-red lipsticks that stained their teeth.
Behind piles of brown-papered notebooks.
"A broken home..." they whispered.
The home turned out to be in ruins...
Like a worn and tattered quilt,
That was pretty and enviable a long time ago.
When it was crisp, clean and new.

Not so anymore.
Stories of an affair, violence, long absences 
And her little empty wooden chair.
Worried me everyday.

Star pupil Aria,
Hair oiled in two neat plaits,
Not a strand of hair out of place.
A side pocket in her backpack
Is just the right size
To hold a perfectly packed tiffin box,
That remains untouched everyday.
Her white uniform spotless, 

Starched and ironed everyday.
Her report cards, identical for six years now,
With every column holding up an A
Each in a neat little box.
A grid filled with neat capital A's,
All looking like prisoners in their cells.
Her every waking hour,
Occupied with activities, 

Leave no room for friends, TV, 

Or time to just be.
No...
Only karate, singing and piano
tennis, vedic maths and painting...
Can occupy the neat little slots
That make up a grid
That has sat on their refrigerator for years.
Grids, slots, boxes, time tables and charts
Filled with words and dates, 

Like prisoners...
All trapped, lonely, 

Bored and misunderstood.
Just like Aria.