“I need wood to cremate my mother, sir”

“Please, sir, I can work till the cost is covered”

“Sir, please let me have some wood.”

“Please sir, let me have some wood.”

“No.”

“No.”

“Remove the Untouchable’s boy.”

On the zamindar’s lands, he hacked at a small tree;

Night provided no protection when the guards heard it fall

(If a tree falls in the woods, the guards will hear it fall)

And they beat him with wooden rods, careful not to touch him.

“My mother is dead, Lord, I need a little wood.

She died asking for a smoky carriage to bear her to Heaven, Lord,

I need a little wood. They called her Aubhagi,

Lord, since my father left;

Let her have her dream of death, my Lord,

Let me have some wood.”

The zamindar considered the young boy

Begging on his knees, hands folder in either prayer or plea

His rigid body trembling slightly; he seemed too brittle to be.

“You may have sticks and twigs that lie scattered on the grounds.”

The sticks were meagre; they barely covered her body

And the smoke came in wisps

But the furling lines of white

Curled round and round the skies

And he thought he saw Aubhagi in the carriage, on her way.’

The reactions were mixed. Some people repeated the advice Hatch gave Andrew—too detailed, too much like a story, comes off belaboured. Others felt the diplomatic need to appreciate a different culture regardless of merit.

Hatch said, ‘That was interesting,’ with a giveaway inflection to the last word. Whatever, I wasn’t surprised. He was bound to hate it.

Nicole was the last to read. And I think it was fitting—what is a finale if it’s not grand?

‘this chair is blue
and this bed is bare
and this floor is cold—
to my touch

this is a small table
and this door creaks
and this sink holds capillaries—
the breath and the blood.’

Nicole’s words were bones. Spare, but dense. Unembellished and honest. Heavy.

I liked what I had written, but after hearing Nicole read her piece out, mine rang untrue. My words circled and weaved and tried too hard to find big truths in little things. Heavy-handed.

As we were packing up, Andrew stopped by my chair to tell me he really liked my story.

‘It was a poem.’

‘I know. I’m one of those jerks who thought you should try your hand at prose.’ He smiled, and okay, he really was very good-looking, so that endorphin rush was not voluntary.

‘Um, yeah, maybe.’

‘Listen, I think you’d make a really good fiction writer. I know I’d buy your stories.’

He smiled again and left.

From the head of the classroom, Hatch called out, ‘Ms Mullick.’ Instinctively, I panicked at being addressed directly by an authority figure. ‘Kindly bring a copy of that poem to my offi ce.’