Stare out the window,
sensing innumerable eyes staring at me.
Someone taps me on the shoulder.
The khaki-clad bus conductor.
He’s seen me in his bus nearly every school day.
I wait for him to ask
the question.
He only says, “Good to have you back.”
Hands me my ticket and moves on.
I want to hug him.
The bus jerks onto the road.
A temple elephant lumbering along in a procession
obstructs traffic.
I’m thankful it slows the bus down
at least for a short while.
Soon the bus is hurtling madly
through crowded streets.
I press back into my seat,
clutching my schoolbag.
Sweat plasters my skirt to my thighs.
My stop feels light-years away.
By the time we arrive, the bus is packed.
“Let the lame girl through,” a lady shouts as I struggle to push
through the crowd.
She sounds as though she’s trying to be helpful.
My face flushes
hot with shame
as I navigate carefully
down the steep steps
and out of the bus.
LOOKS
Clunking along the bleak school corridors,
I must look as asymmetric
as a heron balancing on one leg.
I wish it wouldn’t take Jim so long to make my prosthesis.
I hate announcing my arrival on crutches
—stomp, clomp, stomp, clomp—
loud enough to make every head turn in my direction.
When lessons are over
everyone pours out onto the sports field.
“You could coach us, Veda. Please? Come?” Chandra pleads.
So I go.
The other girls from the cricket team gather around me.
A few mumble that they’re sorry,
their nervous eyes politely stuck to my face,
wary of accidentally straying too low and catching a glimpse
of the space beneath my right knee.
Some welcome me back in extra-bright voices,
saying it’s nice I’m back
though they hardly know me.
Silent, shy, following Chandra,
at school, I was her shadow.
Only at dance did I shine in my own light.
Listlessly
I listen to girls whack at the red cork ball with willow bats.
Mekha, a vicious girl, who plays so well