Satyajaya

The storm had made the muddy path up the hill treacherously slick and the path was almost impassable. The elderly Kripama finally had to stop and catch his breath. He set his briefcase down on the grass and felt his shirt. The light cotton kurta was wet with sweat, and the white dhoti wrapped around his waist was spattered with mud, its pleats in disarray. The puddles had forced him to leave the trail several times, and each time he’d had to fight his way through the brush. His seventy-five-year-old body was a mass of aches and pains. Not only had the walk been strenuous, but his rheumatism was acting up, as it often did during the rainy season. And then, there was the lack of sleep. All night long, bright blue jets of lightning had flashed across the storm-driven sky, blasting the valley floor with rolling shockwaves of thunder. By dawn, the old man’s nerves were shot and he’d risen from his bed utterly exhausted. But he was not one for making excuses, and the thought of taking a day off was never a serious consideration. He just needed to rest for a moment, to allow his heart rate to return to normal. After that, he’d rearrange his dhoti, and be off again for one final push up the difficult incline.

Kripama hated tardiness. He considered it a sign of a defective character. He was determined not to be late, for he knew only one way to teach character—by example. Half marching, half stumbling, he struggled up the slippery slope until he crested the hill and was greeted, at long last, by the mercifully flat surface of the schoolyard. He pulled a silver watch from his shirt pocket and stared at its hands—six minutes late! Even though he was late, he took a moment to admire the watch. He relished the beauty of its case. Though made of an inexpensive alloy and not real silver, it could not have been more precious to him if it had been made of pure gold. Some former students, some from as far back as thirty years, had given the watch to him as a gift of gratitude. These were common folk: farmers, shopkeepers, and local craftsmen, along with two minor civil servants and a mid-ranking army officer. His former students had presented the watch to him on his seventieth birthday to honor his forty years of service in the district. It was a most precious gift, and he wept sometimes to think of the watch’s real value.

As he navigated his way through the puddles in the schoolyard, he cupped a hand over his eyes and squinted skyward. The storm had passed, and the sun was about to burn through the thinning clouds. Soon, the muddy schoolyard would be baked as hard as a clay pot. It was while surveying the sky that he noticed the hole in the schoolhouse roof. His heart sank. The wind hadn’t been particularly violent down in the valley, but here on the ridge, it had ripped yet another hole in the roof, which had been repaired only a month ago. Kripama shook his head in disappointment. “I will have to find better workmen,” he thought to himself.

The local patrolman had already unlocked the schoolhouse, and seeing the door wide open, Kripama quickened his pace. His students would be wondering what happened to him, imagining all sorts of things—that the old man had been arrested by the army, or had finally kicked the bucket! The students were a high-strung lot from three different villages. For them, the slightest deviation from established routine was an invitation to riot. Knowing this, however, did not prepare Kripama for the scene that greeted his eyes when he stepped through the doorway. The students were jostling with each other for a better look at two boys fighting in the center of the room.

“Stop! Stop this instant!” Kripama shouted as he rushed into the room. The startled students turned and stared at him in disbelief, apparently astonished to see their teacher. Perhaps they thought he really had died, or perhaps they simply could not believe they’d been caught misbehaving yet again, caught in exactly the behavior they’d promised to renounce only a week earlier. The little mob of unruly students parted as Kripama advanced to reveal two fighters still grappling with each other on the dirt floor of the classroom. Kripama stood over them, watching them roll about in the puddle that had formed under the hole in the roof.