At roll call
each child says present
and something arrives.

Manjunath says present,
a kingfisher lands on the window bar.

Ayesha says present,
the tin roof fills
with the first rain of Monsoon.

Kavya says present
and the mud floor, swept at seven with neem twigs,
remembers it was once a riverbed
and gives up three pale shells.

On the blackboard the teacher writes A.
It will not stay still.
It curls,
it drinks the chalk dust,
it opens one eye.

Thirty-two slates go dark
with spit from thirty-two small thumbs,
and on every slate
the same A
lifts its hood out of a basket.

The ceiling fan turns once, only once,
and the map of India on the wall
slides an inch toward the Arabian Sea.

Midday-meal bell.
Steel plates of rice and sambar
steam in rows on the verandah,
each holding a moon
no bigger than a thumbnail.

Nobody eats
until the moons are counted.

At the door, somebody’s younger brother,
not enrolled, torn banian,
says present anyway.

The kingfisher leaves.
The rain leaves.
The letter stays.

Home along the railway line,
pencils behind their ears,
the rails humming the first vowel
for eleven kilometres
and in the tamarind tree at the level crossing
thirty-two pods split open,
each holding
a slate-grey stone,
still warm.