Olivia wove through the classroom, winding between the desks and benches, peering over her students’ shoulders as they hunched over their work.
She could not believe how far she’d come in a matter of a few weeks, how comfortable she’d grown with the routine here at the school. Remembering that first day, how she’d been stricken with anxiety and self-doubt, fully believing herself unable to offer these children a thing, she smiled at the little surge of pride that swelled in her chest. She’d done it. She’d quelled that doubt and figured it out. And now she had memories of faces brightening with understanding, children learning words and phrases, hugs and smiles.
A hand shot in the air. “Ms. Montag! Teacher! See me!”
Lakshmi. No longer teary and terrified, the girl proved to be nearly as sharp and advanced as Aishwarya in this class and Aditi in the older group.
See me. Olivia couldn’t stop a smile from curling her lips. The girl meant, “Look at my work,” but considering they all bent over construction paper renditions of themselves, the phrase actually applied nicely.
She squatted beside the girl’s seat. “Let me see.”
She’d been up quite late last night, cutting out forty paper dolls she’d sketched and traced onto brown paper. She gave the children construction paper so they could cut out and label clothing for their paper people. She drew examples on the board along with the word for each—shirt, pants, skirt, socks, shoes—and instructed them, “You can design your own, but cut out one of each and write the name of the piece of clothing on each one.”
Every student had immediately started working, not a confused face in the group.
“Lakshmi, this is beautiful. Good work!”
The girl to Lakshmi’s left crinkled her nose. “She made boy pants.”
Olivia frowned. “I wear pants.” She stood and held out the sides of her loose britches. “See?”
“That is kameez. She made boy pants. You can see her legs.”
Brow furrowed, she looked again at what might offend the girl about Lakshmi’s paper person. The bottoms of the pants reached the knees, leaving the paper doll’s shins exposed. Boy pants. The girl meant shorts. Olivia sighed. She knew the importance of ensuring clothing covered her limbs. Short sleeves were acceptable on women, though she’d noticed long sleeves in the market, even though this was the hottest part of the year. Exposing a leg was completely taboo.
“Well, we are only pretending today. Lakshmi won’t wear boy pants, will you?”
Lakshmi hunkered down, shoulders scrunched to her ears, and giggled. “No!”
Olivia shook her head and continued around the room, reviewing their work. Boy pants. She may have adapted and settled in, but she knew her time here was finite. She loved wearing shalwar kameez, fancy and formal without wearing a dress. But she also felt as if she wore a costume and missed the comfort of a pair of jeans. Though women might wear the Western option in big cities, rural India did not accept them. Olivia wanted to be accepted and not seen as offensive. After all, she was a guest in the country, here to quietly help, not stomp around offending people with her Western ways, attempting to change beliefs.
She paused by a little boy named Dev, his paper person catching her attention. He had dressed himself in blue pants and blue shirt on which he’d colored a red S inside a red shield. A red cape hung behind the doll.
“I think I know who Dev is dressed as,” she announced. She reached for his paper person. “May I share?”
Dev’s face split into a grin and he thrust his work at her with a nod.
“Who is this?” she asked, holding it up for the class to see.
“Superman!” one of the boys answered.
“Yes! Do you like Superman?” Heads nodded. Last week they’d studied colors, and this presented an excellent opportunity to revisit and reinforce.
“Superman wears what color pants?” she asked.
“Blue!” the class yelled.
She walked to the board and wrote the word as a reminder. “That’s right. Blue. And what color shirt?”
“Blue!”
“Yes. Very good. Superman wears something we didn’t talk about. He has a cape. C-A-P-E. Cape. What color is his cape?”
One little girl spoke before the others. “Rose!”
“Well, a rose can be this color. But the color is called . . .”
“Red!”
“Very good! Good work today, boys and girls.”
“Auntie!” One of the girls waved her hand frantically.
“Yes?”
The girl held up her own paper doll, dressed as Superman too.
She smiled. The girl must have hoped for some extra attention like Dev and quickly modified her doll’s clothing. “Priyanka is Superman too.”
“No!” the class responded forcefully. “She is a girl. A girl cannot be Superman.”
Gender separation again. “Well, okay. Priyanka is Supergirl.”
“No!” The children laughed, sure they’d caught her being silly. “Girls are not super!”
The quick and certain responses sobered her. The kids weren’t playing. This no longer had anything to do with using the correct gender. These kids were telling her what they wholeheartedly believed—that women weren’t anything special. No woman could be a hero.
Mrs. Gupta appeared in the doorway and though she crossed her arms, she beamed at the children.
Thank goodness class was over. Olivia wasn’t sure what to do with this latest turn. “Okay, class, you can keep your paper people. We will talk about clothes again tomorrow.”
The children scrambled out the door, some calling, “Goodbye, Auntie!” over their shoulders.
Mrs. Gupta, rather than turning to leave as she normally did, approached her. “Your application said no experience, but you are doing quite well with the children.”
“Thank you.” Her cheeks warmed at the praise. Mrs. Gupta worked with all the volunteers who came and went and had no reason to compliment her if it wasn’t true.
“Thank you for flying here so quickly. We cannot remain open without volunteers.”
The short notice likely had something to do with how amenable they’d been to her, with no experience. They’d been desperate, so desperate that any warm body would do, anyone willing to upend their life and step in on short notice. Perhaps that was the qualification that landed the job for her. She was okay with that. “I understand the previous teacher left very abruptly.”
Mrs. Gupta’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, she . . . became very sick.”
Olivia nodded slowly, silently communicating she understood. Apparently, this wasn’t discussed openly. “I hope she will be okay.”
Mrs. Gupta nodded gravely and turned to leave, but not before Olivia noted the brief sadness that filled her eyes.
The mid-grade students were filing in and taking their seats. Olivia shook off the melancholy the exchange left behind and focused on the children.
As Aditi passed by, the girl held out the copy of Harry Potter she’d lent to her, allowing the girl to take it home. Olivia had already finished reading it, but the class copies on order hadn’t come in yet.
“I finished,” Aditi said.
“Already?” She’d sent the book with the girl only a few days ago.
Aditi ducked her head and nodded.
“So fast!” The girl truly astounded her. “I could not put it down. Did you like it?”
Aditi nodded again. “It is good. I want to read more.”
Olivia made a mental note to return to the bookstore and order the next book. If she remembered correctly, the fourth book had recently released. She remembered seeing signs for a midnight costume party book release event at the bookstore she frequented back home. Perhaps she could get the next three and keep her reading. She could ask Mrs. Gupta if an accelerated school existed for advanced children like Aditi. But even if it did, that type of school likely wouldn’t be free, like this one.
This school had intentionally been located in a rural area, built entirely with donated funds and staffed by volunteer teachers, allowing children from impoverished families the opportunity to learn English for free to prepare them for better opportunities—and perhaps the chance to break out of poverty.
Though Olivia read articles complaining about the homogenization of the world and losing cultural identity, the best jobs required fluency in English. If these kids wanted a shot at them, this was their best start. Their parents knew that and sent the children, hoping for better futures for them. In the few weeks she’d been working with them, Olivia had grown fond of and attached to these kids and wanted the best for all of them too.
The children took their seats while she erased the board from the younger group and wrote JOBS at the top.
“Did everyone think about what they want to be when they grow up?” she asked.
Heads wobbled in tiny figure eights.
“Did everyone write about their job?”
More wobbling.
“Good! I’ll go first. I am a teacher. I help boys and girls learn to read and write English. Who wants to go next?”
One of the boys raised his hand.
“Go ahead, Kunal.”
He stood and read slowly from his paper. “When I grow up, I want to work at a hotel. I want to help people when they come to India. I know English and can talk to the tourists in English.”
When he sat back down, she clapped. “Very good. Kunal wants to manage a hotel. Wonderful!”
She called on one after another, listening to their dreams of being teachers, taxi drivers, shop owners. One little girl said she wanted to be a nurse and help sick people in hospital. “Aditi, what about you?”
The chair scraped the floor as the girl stood. “When I grow up, I want to be a doctor. I want to go to university in England and then go to the United States. I want to help people when they are sick. I want to give them medicine and make them feel better again.”
That was an excellent goal for this brilliant girl. She knew Aditi would have to work hard and even then, so many things would have to go right for her. But she wanted a bright future for Aditi, and all the others. She beamed. “Aditi will be a doctor and Surithra will be a nurse. Maybe you can work together.”
The class giggled.
“All wonderful jobs. I’m so happy you are thinking about your futures and that you are here at school learning, working hard toward your goals. Let’s talk about some other jobs people might have.”
She turned to the board and began writing various professions she thought would be fun to talk about and prompt discussions with the children.
A loud booming noise startled her so badly she jumped and dropped her chalk, which broke to pieces on the floor. She spun around to find twenty pairs of frightened eyes looking to her for reassurance and guidance. She stared back, no idea what they’d just heard.
“What was that, Auntie?” The fear on Aditi’s face rallied her, forcing her to maintain a calm demeanor.
Some of the boys stood, but no one knew what to do.
She took a deep breath and went to the window, trying to keep her voice steady. “Goodness. What was that? I think I felt the building shake.” Could it have been an earthquake? The ground wasn’t shaking. Other voices in the building indicated she wasn’t the only one confused and alarmed.
Heads swiveled to stare outside with her. No additional noise assaulted her straining ears.
Darkness rolled over the school, thick clouds blotting out the sun’s bright scorching rays. The sky opened up and torrential rainfall pounded against the buildings and parched dirt courtyard. Rain was good, surely, but this had blown in so suddenly. And the noise she’d heard had sounded like an explosion, not thunder.
Something seemed off about this storm, about the rain itself. She couldn’t pinpoint what it was but felt certain something strange was happening. She walked along the entire length of the wall, staring out the windows, transfixed by the storm. The outside world appeared discolored by a filter, strange hues twisting into shadows while the rain tapped on the roof and windows. When she got to the door, she saw other teachers amassing in the hallway.
“What’s happening?” she asked.
Tisha shook her head. “That’s what we’re wondering.”
“Did you hear that noise?”
Melanie nodded emphatically. “Crazy, right?”
Mrs. Gupta appeared. “Is everyone okay?”
“Yes. Just shaken,” Delilah said.
Chris joined them, forehead creased in confusion. Aubra hurried to his side. “What’s happening?”
“Come on, guys.” Chris gestured outside. “We’ve all seen storms before. It’s not monsoon season, but a tropical storm can happen out of season.”
“But that noise,” Aubra said. “That sounded like an explosion.”
“And maybe it was. A transformer blew once, and I remember it made a loud noise.” Chris spoke with such authority. Olivia wondered how long he’d been here. She would have to remember to ask him.
“Not like this,” Mrs. Gupta said. “Not like this.”
“‘And in that moment, like a swift intake of breath, the rain came,’” Delilah said.
“What’s that one from?” Chris asked.
“Other Voices, Other Rooms. Truman Capote.”
“Strangely applicable,” Melanie muttered.
The children, apparently unable to control their curiosity and excitement, streamed from the classrooms in wiggling, giggling torrents, bobbing and jockeying for position to peer out the doors. Eventually one of them burst through the door and stood in the rain, holding his hands out. The others followed.
Olivia stared hard at the water. Something was off, something . . .
A tub sat outside the buildings, intended to collect rainwater. Though she and the other teachers didn’t drink anything but purified bottled water, she knew the staff used rainwater for cleaning and for laundry. The water collecting in it wasn’t right. She bent low, trying to determine what she was seeing. She glanced up at the children playing chase in the courtyard as the rain continued to pelt down. The children’s uniforms included white shirts—white shirts currently turning red.
“What in the world?” She ran out into the tumult, droplets pelting her skin while wind whipped her hair violently. She grabbed the first boy she encountered, Dev, by the shoulders. No question. The rain was staining his shirt red.
Dev held out his hands and grinned at her. “Teacher! It is raining. It is raining red!”
The children laughed and joined him. “The rain is red!”
That’s what was off, what was wrong with this storm. The rain fell blood red. She turned to the other teachers. “It’s red! The rain is red! What is this?”
Chris ran to her side, clutching at her shalwar, streaked with crimson rivulets. “It is! It’s red. What would cause this?” he asked, as if she had any insight into this bizarre storm.
She shook her head. The tubs and jugs in the courtyard filled with the red-hued rainwater, shimmering like containers of blood collecting from a bleeding sky.
She had no idea what was happening, what could cause this, but an eerie shiver started at the base of her spine and traveled all the way up, filling her stomach with dread. What were these children being exposed to? What was drenching them as they dashed about playing? Chemicals? “Children! Get back inside! Now! You cannot play in this. Go! Inside!”
The other teachers joined her, scrambling around the mud, corralling the grinning children.
Utter fear clutched Olivia once they’d successfully ushered them all back inside and stood staring at the red rain pummeling the earth.
“I think Cormac McCarthy described this best,” Delilah said. “‘Shrouded in the black thunderheads the distant lightning glowed mutely like welding seen through foundry smoke, as if repairs were under way at some flawed place in the iron dark of the world.’”