The Flower Boy by Karen Roberts

didn’t know if he had ever had a real name.
    He glanced indifferently over his young charges, who jumped up, put their hands together in the traditional form of greeting and chorused, “Ayubowan Teacher.” Teacher mumbled something back, picked up a piece of chalk and started writing on the blackboard.
    It was the same every day. He’d write a sentence or a sum on the board, sit in his chair, place his hands together in a steeple, rest his chin on them and go to sleep.
    Often, they wouldn’t even know what the lesson was, not that they were really required to. All they were supposed to do was copy it down into their books and take it home.
    No questions were asked, because no answers were given.
    Teacher took all classes except Religious Education, which was taught by Father Ross, and English, which was taught by Mr. Aloysius, who had recently retired after twenty-five years as a secretary in the railway headquarters in Colombo.
    When he was younger, Mr. Aloysius had been a voracious reader and had toyed briefly with the idea of becoming a writer, but harsh reality in the form of his large, domineering wife had fast laid that idea to rest, and he had sadly resigned himself to a life of shorthand and typewriting.
    When he finally retired, he resolved to satisfy the yearning in his soul by helping to mold young minds.
    He had not exactly had the first grade of the free church school in mind, but apparently they were the only ones to want his somewhat limited teaching skills.
    If Chandi was indifferent to Teacher, he was intensely interested in Mr. Aloysius, who took time to explain the intricacies of English grammar, patiently correcting pronunciation, and even telling strange stories of English kings and battles.
    Today, he sat patiently through Teacher’s lessons, thinking about the dream he’d had. He didn’t bother to copy the sum on the blackboard into his book because he had only two more pages left in it, and Teacher had given them the same sum yesterday.
    Chandi had written it down then.
    He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t notice Teacher leave and Mr. Aloysius arrive until the class sprang to its feet.
    â€œGood morning, sir,” they chorused this time. English was the only language spoken in Mr. Aloysius’s classroom.
    Mr. Aloysius beamed. “Good morning, boys and girls,” he boomed. He had a loud, carrying voice like the siren at the factory.
    He was dressed as always: black trousers shiny from too much ironing, a not-quite-white shirt and his usual red bow tie. When he had first come to teach, the children had found the bow tie fascinating. Like a red butterfly sitting at his neck, said some. Like a present all wrapped up, said others. Like a lady, said the young boys, sniggering behind their hands.
    Chandi personally thought the bow tie looked very nice, and had long ago resolved to get himself one exactly like it when he went to England.
    Mr. Aloysius looked at Teacher’s squiggly writing on the board and sighed. In his opinion, Teacher had no business undertaking the task of molding young minds when his own still needed so much molding.
    That was, if he didn’t die before then, which given his present derelict state was a distinct possibility.
    He picked up the duster and wiped the squiggles away, then, in his large rounded handwriting, which looked like perfectly formed curly snails creeping over the blackboard in a military formation, he wrote VERB.
    â€œWho can tell me what a verb is?” he boomed, beaming at the twenty-something earnest faces facing him.
    There was a pin-drop silence. No one even dared to cough in case Mr. Aloysius’s hopeful gaze zoomed in on him. No one scratched his head or dug his nose in case Mr. Aloysius thought he was raising his hand with the answer. No one wanted to be wrong in front of the rest of the class.
    Mr. Aloysius looked at the carefully blank faces and the rigidly clasped hands and sighed. He