The Wound of Words

We were boys. We were in the seventh form. For a week now a new teacher had been giving us literature. He was reckoned exceedingly serious, exacting and learned. He did in truth have a cutting tongue, he knew a great many poems by heart, he spoke without a book in front of him. Nobody had the nerve to say a word to the boy beside him, or to busy himself with anything idle. That day the subject was the aruz metre.

The teacher questioned every one of us. Plainly he was labouring to make us all know the essence of aruz. Perhaps he supposed that in the years to come not a day of ours would pass without it. My classmates answered as far as their strength went, understanding or not understanding. It was Valijon's turn. He rose from his place.

"I don't know."

"Why?"

"Because I don't understand it."

"You are meant to study."

"I studied. But I don't understand."

"Have you got a head on you?"

"I have. All the same, no poet is going to come out of me. I don't suppose knowing it is required."

All of us, who went in fear of the teacher's presence, were astonished at Valijon's daring, and we only sat and watched the exchange between the two of them.

"Where does your father work?"

Valijon dropped his head. We knew the reason for it, and the teacher did not. Otherwise he would very likely not have asked. The silence was broken by one of the boys at the front desk.

"Watchman at the hospital for diseases of the mind," he said in a whisper. But everyone caught it.

"I see. In that case, if you can't grasp the aruz metre, you'll be going off to join your father."

Tears stood in our classmate's eyes. He meant to say something. But he could not.

The bell for the break brought us back to ourselves. With one heart the whole form wrote out a petition addressed to the headmaster. They appointed us a new teacher of literature.

The years went by. We classmates gather now and then. I call to mind our childhood and the school and the teachers. We speak the name of the teacher of the aruz metre coldly.

The moment I see him in the street, my classmate's tears come up before my memory, and I find I cannot greet him with any warmth.