The Shades of Spring

Learning from your juniors

She watched Hamza out of the corner of her eye. He had been ignoring her for days on end although she had apologised the very next morning after the fight. She tried all methods of coaxing; chocolates, offers to do his homework, small talk about school, an extra helping at dinner...all to no avail.

With the opening just around the corner, Sidra truly did not have the strength for this. But she knew none of it was Hamza's fault. Her misdirected anger had hurt him, and pushed him away just when she was beginning to get closer to him to fill the shoes of their older sister who married and left.

Hamza leisurely ignored her existence and went on with his crossword. She scowled at his back and stuck her tongue out. Her shoulders sagged, then she blew her cheeks and went to his table.
He continued to ignore her, talking to himself, "Wise men..Four letters. Second letter A. What....?"

"Magi," she offered, passing him another chocolate. He drew the sweet in and scribbled MAGI without looking up.

"Look, the least you can do if you're taking my chocolates is to say thank you."
Silence.

"Hamzaaaa..!" she whined. "Come on. I said I'm sorry. Sorry. Again. Talk to me."
Silence again.

She pressed her palms to his head and made him face her, but his eyes refused to leave the crossword. In a weird pose, he continued to write.

"Look here Mister Hamza Abdul Haq Jameel. I'm sorry," she pouted, "Also, your neck will snap if I hold it like this any longer so you better talk to me before your ego gets you killed."
He relented. Apparently people as young as twelve have an aversion to snapped necks and dead hearts.
"What do you want?"

"Your attention. Hamzo baby, I'm sorry. I was angry that day. You know that some fat idiot broke into the library, right? And I was upset about it and I came home and I took it out on you." She pointed to her busted lip, "You see, you also injured me. That would have made me angry anyway."

"No," he countered. "You would have fretted for a while and then laughed it off. I've hit you enough times to know that." Sidra winced at the statement. Now my pride hurts more than my lip.

She quickly plastered a nonchalant smile. "But not always. People have moods. And it swings. And sometimes it gets brittle and it snaps and we shake little boys and throw away their footballs."

He turned back to the crossword, and she snatched the book away. "Hamza can you please listen? It still burns when I drink coffee, okay? You hurt me. And I apologised for my part although it is kinda normal to react like that."

"An apology with an inbuilt defense isn't really an apology," he sang.

Sidra tried to place where she had read that line before. "Where did you read that?"

"Screenshot in your phone."

Her eyes positively widened "Since when do you know my password, now?"

"Since you changed it last month."

"What!" she gasped in disbelief. "That's....that's wrong! You can't use people's phones without permission!"

"You left your playlist on. It was blaring Surah Kahf when Mama was on the phone with Uncle."

She bit back a thousand replies because they all sounded stupid in her head. Composing herself quickly, she set about salvaging what she could
"Wait, wait. This took an unexpected turn. You can't use my phone ever again. I want your word for it. And I was apologising for my fault. So..?"

"I'm sorry too," he conceded, "For using your phone. I promise I won't do it again. Now leave me alone."

She was tempted to bring up her busted lip again but figured she couldn't stand to inflict more pain on her pride lest he said meh. Instead she settled for a small backhanded slap to his back before returning his book.
She heard him remind her to change the password as she took the stairs up.
She wondered if myobhamza was a good enough password.

__________

Sidra was now living a triple life. Three personalities for the three aspects of her life. Each one bled into the other until it all became one continuous highway with signposts and she switched between them like switching lanes.

It was a slow day at school with Hammad's absence. Whatever respite that would have granted to her schedule, was rudely plucked away by Mrs Pastor being Mrs Pastor. God, did she harbour grudges!
She had gone from lingering patronising to underhand insults. Just that morning, she had made a joke about young female teachers in boys' schools. Sidra being Sidra had laughed along and replied that it probably took one to know one.

While her class was out for PE, she seized that time to go over the lesson plan before going to her next class. She heard a soft rap on the door and found a lean, nervous looking kid with a blonde mop of hair.
"Yes?"

"May I come in?"

"Yes," she waited for him to reach her before questioning, "What is it dear?"

His name was Dawood and he was a Senior Prefect "Miss... I. Erm..I came to apologise?"

She smiled, "What have you done to apologise for?"

"It's not something I did as much as I didn't...." He coloured immediately, "oh God, I sound like an idiot now."

"No, go on. I'm curious, Dawood."

He drew a sharp breath and plunged ahead "It's about what Mrs Pastor said. I'm sorry she spoke to you like that. I should have ducked away when she came anyway, and given you privacy. But I didn't. And I stood there being an idiot, intruding in your very private, very uncomfortable exchange of words. For that I'm sorry."

Sidra couldn't hold back the laughter. It spilled from her mouth, turning Dawood redder than he was. Collecting herself, she spoke to him in a very assuring tone.
"What Mrs Pastor said to me is not your fault. I saw that your shoe was missing and you couldn't very well leave without it. That being said, you've made my day, my child. This was definitely the most thoughtful, sweetest and most uplifting thing to be spoken to me all day. I'm sorry for laughing. I wasn't laughing at you. I'm sorry."

"No, Miss. Don't apologise. Allahu Akbar, that's not necessary. I just....guess I just felt guilty for intruding. And my apology stands." Dawood was more relaxed, more like the level headed Prefect and less like the blubbering, nervous boy.

"JazakAllah khair, son. What lesson are you having now?"

"Barakallah. Science, but the teacher's in a meeting. Thank you, Miss."

"You're welcome. Now run along."

She watched him go, smiling to herself. All teenage boys weren't as macho and unemotional as they were portrayed to be. That was a lesson she had learned after joining Wisdom. Hailing from an all-girls school, she often questioned her decision in the early days. But no more.
Now, she felt a motherly love and responsibility over the boys, the ones she taught and didn't. The oldest boys were three years younger than her, but she meant it when she called them son.

It's not how a child enters this world that matters, it is how he is released into society. And teachers were pioneers in the making of compassionate, smart, intelligent beings.