Silence engulfed the classroom. Patri’s mouth hung open. Surya’s eyebrows furrowed. Devi scooted her chair, causing her pen to roll off the desk and drop to the floor.

“Students,” Madam Grover said, touching Deepa’s shoulder. “This is a poem. This is how poetry sounds. This is how poetry feels. Very nicely done, Deepa,” she said.

Madam Grover removed her glasses, pressed the frame against her chin. Her voice was so soft, only Deepa could hear it. “I had no idea you were a poet,” she said.

The bells rang out. Students shoved their books inside their bags, burst into conversations across aisles. Deepa darted back to her desk, collected her belongings.

“Read the next two sections for tomorrow,” Madam Grover announced as they filed through the doorway. “There will be an exam at the end of the week.”

A collective groan echoed through the room.

“Excellent, Deepa,” Patri said, lifting her school bag to her desk. “I could never write anything like that.”

“Sure you could,” Deepa said. “Just keep practicing.”

“Deepa,” Madam Grover interrupted. “Can I speak with you for a moment?”

Patri shot Deepa a look, shrugged her shoulders. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she mumbled under her breath.

Deepa slung her satchel over her shoulder, slunk toward her teacher’s desk. The muscles of her face tightened. There was no way Madam Grover could know what the poem was about. And yet, she worried that her teacher might have figured out something.

Her teacher wiped the blackboard with a wet cloth, rinsed her hands in a large glass bowl of water, sat in her chair. “Are you well?” she asked.

“Fine, Madam Grover. Thank you for asking.”

“I wish your classmates could write poetry as thoughtfully. I don’t think some of them have even cracked open the Gitanjali yet. Actually,” she said, “I was hoping to talk to you about something unrelated to your beautiful writing.” She removed her glasses, set them on her desk.

“Yes, Madam Grover?” Maybe she’d performed poorly on her last maths test. Madam Grover hadn’t given them their marks yet. She bet Surya bested her again.

“I saw you at the market last week,” her teacher said, tilting her head. “With Laila and her older brother, Amir.”

Deepa broke eye contact. She tried to keep her breath steady. She had no recollection of seeing Madam Grover that evening.

“Laila was one of my students last year, when I taught the five-year-olds,” Madam Grover continued. She replaced the cap on an ink bottle, twisted it shut. “A bright little girl. I was very sad to know she had to leave school. I’ve had the pleasure of talking with her brother Amir a few times too.” She leaned forward. “What a nice young man.”

Deepa could not figure out where this was going. She fidgeted with her notebook, itched the side of her face.