‘Teacher, Teacher, Teacher …’ each echo retains the timbre of remembered voices. Twenty-five years ago I had not thought I would reach the end of the line so soon. The old masters, the old servants had stayed, stayed on, becoming part of the walls of the classroom until they died; and then the funeral was held in the College hall and the altar servers with their candles, led by the Bishop and priests, came in a procession chanting softly, and the boys filed round the coffin and the mourning family stood weeping on one side. Twenty-five years of service celebrated with a special assembly, a special dinner, a special photograph and an empty bank balance. No, I will not let myself enjoy the farce, I will not allow them the chance to forget; I will take a quiet walk outside, never to return.

‘Teacher ….’ Mad Suriyapillai who has been a student in College walks about the pavement in dirty clothes.

‘Teacher …’

‘Yes?’

‘Teacher, I am spoiling the name of the College. Everyone is telling me that I’m letting down the College.’

Why don’t I have the courage to tell him: ‘Go in peace …. you’re free.’ Instead I say, because the whole world is watching: ‘Yes, Suriyapillai, you must think of the name of the College. You must not let down your school, your teachers … wear clean clothes, I’ll bring you a shirt. Go back to your parents ….’

‘Yes, teacher, I must change.’

But he won’t; he will suddenly disappear off the streets, no one will know where. Both of us to our anonymous graves. Someone, somewhere, has let him down. One does not question guilt on a pavement in a crowded street. We cannot even speak the truth because the eyes of the world are upon us.

Why am I still here?

You must go away, you must go away, my friends tell me. You are wasting your time here.

My answers had come out pat in the past: I don’t want to be a second rate citizen anywhere; I don’t want to be in a country that is politically unstable; What I earn is enough for me. I have peace of mind here; my father is old and alone, my brother and sister are out of the country—who will care for him if I go too?