School Hours

The building is old, the architecture of an abandoned era. Pale, high walls. No paintings, no art. Spider webs in unattended closets. The furniture painted blue. Only when you look out the oversized windows does it seem like there is life. Noon. Children on swings. Voices of teachers in floral dresses, fingers raised, scolding. And I must be thinking of February because I remember orange cotton saris. Kites in the sky. The crows calling, still unaware the sun has risen, and we are well past the beginning of the day. My school years make me think of breakfast because after breakfast I see Partho. I stand outside of myself when I think of him. I see him and I feel my cheeks burn. "We could walk together" he says. He is always on time. Conversations are so easy. I try to understand his voice and his words and where they might be coming from. These emotions are new. And before anyone else can tell me what they mean, I let my mind define things for me. My testimony of the wind on my cheeks when he is around. I think of the gates at the entrance of the school, open to strangers walking in and out. The strangers who walk in have the impression of the school yard simply being a deserted field without inspiration or resourcefulness. Most holy lands are deserts it seems. A sandy area for children, a softness for their falls. The school yard is next to windows leading to the music room. At the assembly, the national anthem is sung on a harmonium on this yard. After the bell rings at the end of our lunch break, students return to their classes while Partho and I stay behind. In the dull and empty yard, next to the fading building, his lips are on mine. Our heads are clouded with the lilting voices from the music room.