The stifling afternoon heat had baked the classroom into a heavy, suffocating oven by the time Master Jalal finally returned from his extended lunch hour. The boys had been sitting in terrified, sweating silence for nearly forty minutes, their eyes darting between the empty iron chair and the peeling walls.
When the heavy thud, thud of Jalal’s leather sandals echoed in the corridor, the boys instantly stiffened, grabbing their pencils and hunching over their notebooks.
Jalal filled the doorway, his immense 130-kilogram frame momentarily blocking the bright sunlight. His mint-green kameez was slightly wrinkled from his midday rest, and a fresh wave of arrogance seemed to radiate from his very pores. He did not greet them. He merely lumbered toward the front of the room, his eyes scanning the English vocabulary words left on the faded chalkboard: goat, mango, tree, parrot, table.
With a familiar, straining groan from the metal frame, Jalal collapsed heavily into his iron chair. He didn't even pause to look at the students before falling into his habitual routine. He kicked off his sandals, grabbed his loose black shalwar at the knees, and hoisted his massive, bare legs onto the desk. His thick heels settled onto the patterned tablecloth, entirely indifferent to the fact that his bare feet were now the focal point of the entire classroom.
He picked up a red pen, uncapped it with a slow twist, and let his heavy hand rest on his thigh.
"The rewritten essays," Jalal rumbled, his deep voice slicing through the thick, hot air. "And they had better include the English vocabulary I graciously provided on the board. Tariq. Stand up and read your masterpiece."
A small, thin boy in the second row instantly scrambled out of his seat. Tariq approached the desk, his knees trembling so violently that they brushed against each other. He held his open notebook up with both hands, trying to keep his eyes on the page and away from the headmaster's bare toes twitching just a few feet away.
"S-start, Master Ji?" Tariq squeaked.
"Before the sun sets, if you please," Jalal drawled lazily, his head resting back against the wall, eyes half-closed.
Tariq swallowed hard. "'Our village is... is very old. My father sits at a wooden table under a big tree. He... he watches the goat eat the grass.'"
Jalal’s eyes snapped open. The red pen twitched in his thick fingers.
"He watches the goat?" Jalal interrupted, his voice deathly quiet.
Tariq froze. "Y-yes, Master Ji."
"Singular?" Jalal mocked, slowly leaning his heavy head forward, though he did not lower his legs. "Your father, in all his peasant glory, spends his afternoon watching a single, solitary goat? Or did you completely forget the lesson on plurals I forced into your thick skull yesterday?"
"I... I forgot the 's', Master Ji," Tariq whispered, his eyes welling with tears. "Goats."
"Carelessness," Jalal spat the word like poison. "You treat the English language like mud beneath your sandals. Sit down, Tariq, before I lose my temper. Zaman! Bring your book here. Now."
Tariq practically fled back to his seat. A slightly older, round-faced boy named Zaman nervously approached the desk, handing his notebook directly to the headmaster.
Jalal snatched the book, squinting through his wire-rimmed glasses at the page. His jaw tightened. The handwriting was a smudged, erratic mess of graphite.
"What," Jalal breathed, his voice vibrating with absolute disgust, "is this?"
"I tried to write fast, Master Ji," Zaman stammered, his eyes glued to the floor.
"You tried to write fast," Jalal repeated slowly. He tossed the notebook carelessly onto the desk, letting it slide against his bare ankle. With his left hand, he reached for the thin, pale wooden cane resting beside his mobile phone.
He still didn't put his feet down. He merely shifted his vast weight, gripping the cane tightly.
"Hold out your hand, Zaman."
Zaman squeezed his eyes shut and extended his right hand, his small palm facing upward, trembling like a leaf in the wind.
The sharp, cracking sound of the cane against flesh echoed violently off the bare walls. Zaman let out a sharp gasp, biting his lip to keep from crying out, his hand instantly turning a furious shade of red.
"Carelessness is a disease of the poor, Zaman," Jalal lectured coldly, tapping the cane thoughtfully against his own thick palm. "It is the reason your fathers are breaking their backs in the dirt while I sit here. I demand perfection, not because you deserve it, but because I deserve to look at something other than mediocrity."
He pointed the tip of the cane at the terrified boy. "Go back to your desk. Tear out that page. Write it again. And if I see one smudge, one missed plural, or one letter out of alignment... I will give you a reason to truly cry. Am I understood?"
"Yes, Master Ji," Zaman sobbed quietly, clutching his stinging hand to his chest as he hurried back to his seat.
Jalal let out a heavy, disappointed sigh. He settled his massive frame back against the wall, wiggled his bare toes on the desk, and twirled the red pen in his fingers. The classroom was dead silent once more, save for the frantic, panicked scratching of pencils. Order had been restored.
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