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Sangay Chhoden comes up to my desk. Beneath her thick thatch of hair, her delicate features are screwed up in concentration. “Miss,” she says so softly I can barely hear. “House going.”

“What do you mean, Sangay?”

“Yes, miss.”

I start again. “House going?”

“Yes, miss.”

“Your house?”

“Yes, miss, my house going! ”

“Now?”

“Yes, miss. House going now, miss.”

“But why, Sangay? Why house going now? Now is school. Are you sick?”

“No, miss. House going now.”

I sigh, exasperated. “Are you coming back?”

“Yes, miss. Coming.”

“Okay, go.”

Dorji Wangdi, the office assistant, tea-maker, and general all-round helper whose official title is “peon,” knocks at the door. “Chit from Headmaster, Sir,” he says, handing me a notice. It has been noticed that some teachers are “biasedly motivated” and all staff are kindly requested to follow the rules and regulations of the school and to attend to each and every duty including morning assembly without prejudice to their utmost ability for the smooth functioning of the school. This notice is for our “kind information and necessary action, please.”

Sangay Dorji puts up his hand. His “stomach is paining,” can he go to the toilet? Norbu’s hand shoots up. His stomach is also paining. So is Sonam‘s! So is Phuntsho’s! I tell them to wait until Sangay Dorji comes back, but Sangay Dorji does not come back. I am so intent on explaining the difference between long ‘a’ and short ‘a’ that I do not notice until another student calls out, “Miss! Sangay Dorji is playing outside! ” I look out the window, and yes indeed, there is Sangay Dorji, playing outside.

I send Karma Dorji to get Sangay, and we get all the way to long ‘o’ before I look out the window to see Sangay and Karma playing outside.

Mr. Iyya, Pema Gatshel’s self-proclaimed bard, knocks at my classroom door. Originally from Madras, Mr. Iyya has been at the school for more than ten years. His curly black hair is slicked back with hair-oil, and he sometimes wears a spotted cravat. His everyday speech is a garbled mess of malapropisms, misquotations, and flights of fancy, and his poetry, which he pastes on the school bulletin board, is even worse. He is in charge of all English extracurricular activities—the school magazine, debates and plays. Underneath the genteel-poet guise, though, he has a terrible temper. Yesterday, I was horrified to see him break a stick on a class III boy’s hand.

“Yes, Mr. Iyya?” I ask.

He bows deeply and says he would like to apologize to my ladyship for this untimeless interruption but he would like to most humbly request me to borrow him my cane as he has the gravest misfortune of a broken one.

“My what?” I ask.

“Your ladyship’s cane.”

I stare at him. Mr. Iyya is definitely unhinged. I turn to class II C. “He wants one stick for beating, miss,” one of them informs me.

“I do not use a cane in my classroom,” I tell Mr. Iyya coldly, and close the door with a bang.

Dorji Wangdi knocks at the door. Another chit for my kind information and necessary action. There will be a puja at the school in a few weeks for the benefit of all sentient beings. All teachers are invited to attend.

Mr. Tandin, the class VIII history teacher and Store-In-Charge, comes to tell me that the School Store will be open for one half-hour. I go up to the Store and bring back twenty-three boxes of crayons. Class II C falls silent at the sight of them, and then erupts in a cheer. “Miss, I am very happy to you!” Sonam Phuntsho crows jubilantly. The crayons are magic. Class II C is very quiet as I explain that these are their own crayons, and they have to look after them, as it is highly unlikely that I will be able to persuade Mr. Tandin to release twenty-three boxes of crayons from his paltry store ever again. I tell them I will read them a story and then they will draw me a picture of the part they liked most. “Once a long time ago there was a mouse,” I begin, but there is another knock at the door.

After school, I go up to the library and fling open the window. Everything is covered