At St. Joseph of Cluny Higher Secondary School, Puducherry, India

Because the teacher is reading aloud, because the morning is warm and the ceiling fans whisper a backbeat to her voice, because I sit among the children on the hard wood benches, because the room is a blue like a faded noon sky, because the words are soft in her throat and softer in my ears, I forget the seventy students who called out Good Morning, ma’am and God Bless You in welcome. I forget the chair scratch on concrete, the sweat, the shifting to give the guest a seat directly underneath the ceiling fan. I forget the notes I’m supposed to take about how she is teaching the poem. Only her voice, her pink-flowered sari, her posture, her the-teacher-is-reading-to-you lilt. Only the room full of fifth standard girls in plaid uniforms, all listening. Only the listening. Listening so strong that I shrink to my fourth-grade self, and when she asks, Are we ready for the next stanza, children, I almost say Yes, ma’am.