The Chief Guest
Mrs. Fernandes had given the same speech for thirty years, and the school had kindly invited her to give it one last time. She stood in the spotlight, which loved her, in a sari the colour of marigolds, and let the applause run its full length, because it was hers and she had earned it, and pretending otherwise would have been a small dishonesty.
Then she folded her notes.
“I was going to talk about myself,” she said. The hall laughed. “I’m told I’m good at it.”
In the third row a boy named Imran had his chin tucked into his collar. He had stammered for two years. She had noticed him in a corridor, the way she noticed everything, and she had been planning this for a week.
“But the best thing I did in thirty years,” she said, “I did sitting down. Imran, would you read the poem I gave you?”
He stood. The hall waited. She did not look away, and she did not rescue him. She simply stayed, warm and entirely there, like a lamp in a window, until the first word came.
It came. So did the second.
Invented. No real person is described, and the story is not a portrait of anyone born under this sign.