Blackboard, Chalk, and Duster
Story
Blackboard, Chalk, and Duster
by Saran Rai
Write, erase, be buried in chalk dust. While writing on the blackboard, the fingers turn into chalk themselves. Like snowfall, chalk dust settles onto the hair. Like the dust blown by the March wind, it clings to the face. Beneath the dust-covered face, a pair of eyes circle around the classroom, then return to the blackboard. Letters written are erased; one hand holds a duster, the other chalk. He shouts—louder, even louder.
This is a world—a small world of everyone’s own. Everyone imagines their world as sweet, delightful, and grand. Snow melts away, but just as the Himalayas are never entirely without snow, life can never be without imagination. Snow must melt to become water. The beauty of life is memory, and memory always lives on. The greatest person is the one whom the greatest number of people remember.
Beautiful letters written all over the blackboard are erased. Who could imagine that just a while ago, those beautiful letters were there? Chalk is like life too—sliding and scraping across the blackboard, shrinking little by little to bring alive the meaning that lives in consciousness. The tiny piece, too small to write with, is looked at fondly—like a cigarette butt thrown away before fully smoked. He tosses away the chalk fragment, but feels as if he himself has been discarded like that piece of chalk.
He tries to compare his life with the chalk—feeling certain similarities. The chalk’s purpose for which it was created has been fulfilled, but what purpose was he created for? He cannot tell. In the faces of students—faithful only to the whole of the future—he seeks the shadow of his own creation. He looks at the sketch he himself drew on the blackboard—blackboard, chalk, and duster—and still cannot tell for what his end is approaching.
The classroom, the students, the green fields and trees visible from the window—he gazes at them, lost in thought without purpose. In the garden, the gardener tends lovingly to the flowers, weeding the soil. Flowers are dear to everyone, but the poor gardener’s sweat and toil are hidden beneath the beauty of the flowers. If the scent of the flowers carried the smell of the gardener’s sweat, would people still find them beautiful? From one corner of the classroom, the murmuring chatter of students pulls him back into the reality of the class. The classroom is his world—or, more precisely, his battlefield. His weapons are chalk, duster, blackboard, and voice. The ignorance of students is the enemy; to make them understand is his victory.
He starts teaching again, and while teaching, he feels—he is a leader, delivering speeches to guide thousands toward his ideology; he is a father, giving precious counsel to his children; he is an actor, standing on a stage. His sense of completeness comes only when he stands in the classroom.
With chalk and duster in hand, the blackboard behind him, and attentive students before him, he is thousands of miles away from the painful, deprived reality of the outside world.
"Get me a frock like Sarala’s, Papa."
"I want blue pants."
"Don’t forget to bring the medicine the doctor prescribed."
Frock, pants, medicine—endless needs. A fixed, limited salary, and in a materialistic world, every affection must take a tangible form. He loves his family, but that love must be turned into frocks and pants. Returning home, his sick wife coughs in bed; without medicine, there is no thought of brewing tea. His old father grumbles for not bringing tobacco; the children’s demands don’t even bear mentioning. Will a teacher’s son not be able to study? He must pretend not to understand, though he knows; pretend not to know, though he understands. This is his real world.
The sketch on the blackboard is wiped away with the duster. He can write and erase again on the blackboard, but he cannot erase the fate written on his forehead. His eyes sweep over every student—as if searching for his lost existence among them. Some students are absorbed in note-taking; others gaze out the window at passing young women. He shouts louder to draw their attention—he is used to shouting now, ranting and rambling. He babbles like a madman—like a waterfall, his words rush out in a way he himself barely understands. Laughter bursts through the classroom; he feels like a clown.
He checks himself—what if he truly is going mad? To clarify his subject matter, he keeps giving examples, keeps speaking, keeps shouting. When his voice reaches its peak, he feels there’s no difference between himself and a street hawker shouting advertisements—except that one shouts inside a room, the other in the marketplace.
In his old body, the shouting sends blood surging, making him feel young again. He recalls his own student days. His classmates became ministers, doctors, administrative officers—he is still among students, as poor as a student himself. Even students he once taught have become officers, owners of tall buildings—but his own situation hasn’t changed.
Today he remembers the aspirations of his student life—how high they once soared. His heart aches, but now that he has heart disease, even heartache feels ordinary. Looking out the window, the sky is overcast—rain is likely.
With all his intellect and reasoning, he tries to make his subject clear. If he fails, the students may never understand it—or never have the chance to. The future of the entire class depends on his effort. He is building their future, leading them down the path of knowledge. His own sense of meaning lies in making the students understand; otherwise, his knowledge has no purpose—this he knows well. He keeps shouting, the veins in his neck swelling.
The bell rings. As always, clutching the chalk and attendance register, he leaves the classroom. His throat feels dry—he drinks water. Carrying a few old books, he hurries home. Rain is likely, so everyone walks quickly. But when people see him, they smile. He looks at himself—nothing wrong? His coat and shoes are covered in chalk dust. A quick patting won’t remove it easily. He remembers the frock, pants, and medicine—checks his pocket—it’s empty. He will have to return empty-handed.
He feels as though people are still laughing at him—as if he is a colorful cartoon drawn on the blackboard, or as if he himself is the blackboard, covered with comical caricatures that make everyone laugh. He is the blackboard, the chalk, and the duster…
To hide from the harsh eyes of people, he walks even faster.
Late Parashu Pradhan , Late Krishna Bhushan Bal and me
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