Young Writers Society

“So, my dear House Peons, how are you people?”

“Fine, sir!” The six House Peons, two assigned for each of the three Houses, utter the words at once with feigned conviction. That’s what the rule is; when the Principal asks you ‘How are you?”, you say “Fine, sir!”, aloud.

“Good.” Mr. Rohan Majumder, the Principal, starts scratching his arms.

That stupid asshole always does that, Mahmud thinks as he looks at the Principal. What’s wrong with his hand? Some kind of skin disease?

“Well, gentlemen, these are difficult times. Our entire campus is locked down. We’ve sealed the gates. No one is coming in or going out. You know all that. Now,” Mr. Rohan takes a deep breath. “I understand that you are anxious about your family. I understand it very well. But you see, you have to stay within the boundaries of the Houses now. It’s an order coming straight from the Headquarters. The headquarters believe that you gentlemen, House Peons, need to be kept isolated at all cost. Because when you are on duty, you stay with the Cadets all day. You are the ones Cadets have most contact with. So, I think you understand why we had to keep you within the boundaries of the Houses. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir!” Another demonstration of feigned conviction.

“Good. Now, about your families. We are trying everything we can to keep them safe—”

You’re not doing shit!

“and we will keep doing so. Don’t you worry about your families—”

Oh, don’t worry! Why do you have your two sons in your bungalow then? Why did you bring them home right before all this began?

“now. Remember, the Cadets’ safety always comes first. Even before your families’ safety. We are in a war, gentlemen. We are fighting to protect the Cadets against COVID-19. We all have a role to play in this war. Your role is to stay within the House boundaries, mix with as less people as you can, and of course, don’t come in any sort of physical contact with the Cadets, or any outsiders. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir!”

“And now,” Mr. Rohan leans forward, “I have heard some bad news, gentlemen. Some fourth-class employee—not you, of course—have been caught in the act of fleeing from the campus climbing over the fence.”

What? Now who could that stupid asshole be?

“He is going to pay for this. Indeed, he will. But I don’t want any of you,” he points at the House Peons now, “to repeat this stupidity. Or else, I will not be as polite with you as I am now. Could I send my message home?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Okay then, gentlemen. Off you go.”

Six House Peons say “As-salamu alaykum” altogether, and then leave the Principal’s office.

***

“Ma, you’re coughing again?”

Rahmana Begum is having one of her fits at the moment. She’ll keep coughing, her face will redden, it'll seem as if someone is squashing her heart, until the coughing slows down.

Barsha Chowdhury rushes to her mother and takes her hand in her hands. She strokes her mother, because she knows it helps.

It does. The coughs turn into gasps now.

Barsha takes the glass from the bedside table and brings it to Rahmana’s mouth. “Here, ma. Have some water.”

She drinks. The gasps trail away.

Rahmana Begum's heart is weak. It’s not that serious. Not any disease, thankfully. But these fits come to her every week, almost like a reminder of her aging.

“You’re okay now?”

She nods.

Every time Barsha sees her mother coughing, her mind goes entirely blank. She can’t think anything at all. Only when the coughing ends can she begin to feel herself again.

Or maybe she doesn’t want to think. Maybe she doesn’t to face the fears.

“You really scare me sometimes, ma.” She strokes her mother’s hair. “This shitty job! Duties and duties and duties. No time to rest. I came here to be a teacher. Who knew I was gonna have to do all these?”

Teachers, especially those who newly join the school, have these moments of frustration, when they realize their role here is more than educating the Cadets. They are here to watch over the Cadets as well.

Rahmana takes Barsha’s hands in hers. “Look at me.”

She looks.

“I’m not weak, Barsha. I might be sixty-three, but I still have a lot left in me. I won’t break so easily. Did I break when he died?”

The unmentioned male is Barsha’s father, Ibrahim Chowdhury. He died of a heart attack nine years ago. Barsha was twenty-two at the time. She can remember how she fainted every time she looked at her father’s lifeless face lying in the Khatiya, the bed that carries the dead. But her mother didn’t faint. She cried, but she didn’t lament. She didn’t break.

“No.”

“So you’re wrong if you think this virus is going to break me.”

“Ma, I know you’re not like those pathetic old women. You won’t lose your strength. But this not about how firm one is. Corona doesn’t give a damn about that. It spares no one.”

“Oh, it’s going to spare me. You’ll see.”

Barsha wants to believe her mother, but she knows the truth. Her half-educated mother’s assumptions are largely superstitious.

Her mind goes blank again.