The Block

It had struck two. The third hour had commenced. The drawing teacher stepped into the class room. The general chatter faded away into a significant hush, and the drawing books were promptly produced. The teacher distributed the pencils as also the rubber pieces. Some pencils wanted mending. The boys started on them with their pen-knives.

The teacher placed a wooden block upon the table: a square block. He tilted his head a little and considered its position. He went near and altered it just a little. His face beamed with satisfaction.

"There! You have now to make a sketch of this block. Look well at it. Close one eye and measure the block with your pencils: . . . Thus! Take care. No thick lines. No erasing. Foot rules not to be used. Free hand drawing. Now, be quick about it," said the teacher.

The boys shut one eye and held the pencils before their noses. They tilted their heads and began measuring the block. The teacher stood in a corner and proudly beheld the position of the block. Now and again he also cast a vigilant glance at the boys.

"Teacher, may I draw a flower?" a weak little boy got up and spoke. There was fear in his voice.

"Who said ‘may I draw a flower?’ Who was that? Did I not ask you to sketch the block? There the matter should end! ‘Flower’ indeed! Sit down and do as you are told."

The teacher's eyes were wide with offence; his brow was knit. The weak little boy sat down in utter submission. He knew his teacher when his eyes rolled so. Quietly he held his pencil before his nose and began to measure the block. His hand was shaking.

"Sir, he is not sketching the block. He is drawing something else!" complained the neighbour of that weak little boy.

"Who is not sketching the block?" thundered the teacher.

"Sir, this fellow, this Dattoo Sane." The culprit was pointed out.

Dattoo Sane looked about. His heart was beating fast. With quick instinct he hid the picture before him between the pages of his drawing book, held the pencil before his nose, and fixed his eyes on the block.

But this sleight of hand did not escape the searching glance of the teacher. A sinister look stole into his eyes as he approached the boy. Deliberately he picked up the sketch book and dislodged the picture from its guilty retreat.

"You did this?" The teacher gave the boy a fair chance to tell a lie.

"No," said Dattoo, availing himself of that chance.

But his head was bent with shame. It was indeed his doing, and mighty proud he would have been to confess it, under different circumstances. He had spent the whole morning over it. There was the parrot perched on a leafy branch, there was the green lawn spread below, there were the flowers smiling here and there, there was the streamlet rushing through all this beauty . . . and behind, peeping over the broken wall of mountains was the Rising Sun: that was the subject of his picture. Dattoo had painted it from memory. Such a picture he had never drawn before. Such a joy he had never felt before. How often during the first two hours had he stolen a glance at it! His entire mind was filled with one vision, the vision which he had so eagerly tried to record.

"You naughty urchin, you liar!" the teacher went on, "you were asked to sketch the block, and what is this that you have done? Who on earth asked you draw this?"He viewed the picture with undisguised contempt. "Using your silly head again? Oh, you just wait and I shall teach you to obey!" With which he tore the picture into little bits and flung it into the waste-paper basket.

Dattoo shut his eyes. He was choking within. He felt his heart was being twisted. He sat down, crushed, and started sketching the square block . . .

Father had liked the picture.

Mother had liked it too.

Everyone had liked it.

Why had not the teacher?

Dattoo was at a loss to think.

Somehow he finished sketching the block. The teacher gave him nine marks out of ten. But he did not smile. He did not even look up. His face remained just as sad, his look remained just as anguished as before.

The gong struck again. The teacher left the class. Dattoo picked up the discarded bits from the waste-paper basket and began to piece them up together. Tears welled up in his eyes. He could hardly see . . .

(Adapted from the original MARATHI of P. K. Atre, Poona)