THE SLATE | P.X. Vayalumka

The girl looks at the broken pieces of her tiny chalkboard scattered on the red earth. Its shards are spread amongst the small, green thottaa-vaadis that have closed their leaves in response to the tactile stimuli. From the age of four, she has carried her chalkboard daily to and from school. For eight years, her mother has brushed her thick, black hair with coconut oil, outlined her eyelids with a black pencil, and placed a small circular pottu in the middle of her forehead. Every day, the girl has put on her uniform — a short navy-blue skirt, a white button-up shirt, green ribbons tied to braids on either side of her head — and walked the two kilometers to the Chevarambalam Lower Primary School and back.

Now, after falling in the pineapple grove on her way home, her slate is in pieces — the slate on which she learned her English and Malayalam alphabets. ABC, and ah, ah-ah, e, e-e, oo, oo-oo. She learned her numbers, math, and geography, but most importantly, she learned how to draw on that slate. Her father taught her — how to see perspective, generate shadows, how to imitate the divine by creating something from nothing.

At twelve-years-old, she can draw life-like depictions of what she sees around her — the lotus flowers on the pond, the rubber trees around her family’s small home, and the rice fields that stretch for miles in this land of many coconuts. Yet, her creations are erased daily in preparation for the next school day, transient like her dreams. All she wants now is a new slate. She lifts herself off of the ground, brushing the mud and leaves from her knees, picking up the largest fragment of what remains of her slate to use for school tomorrow.

When she arrives home, she presents the broken board to her mother.

“Ayo! You are bleeding!” her mother says.

Bleeding? Her mother points to her leg. The girl didn’t notice any cuts or scrapes when she fell. She feels no pain in her arms or legs. She touches her thigh and sees blood on her finger tips. Her mother lifts her skirt up to try to find the source of her bleeding and only sees her blood-stained underwear.

Her mother had warned her this day would come. It had happened to other girls at school too. Some stayed home for days, while others came with napkins and cloths hidden away beneath their undergarments.

“Tomorrow, you don’t walk to school,” her mother says. “I will give you money to take the bus when you are bleeding.”

She is taken to the outhouse, where her mother cleans her and explains to her the changes she is undergoing now and the new social rules that she must follow. The girl interrupts her mother to ask about a new slate.

“Not possible,” her mother says. “Your bus fare is an added expense now.” The girl nods. Primary education will not be free in Kerala until next year after the Communist party takes power in the democratic state election of 1957. Her drawings will have to be smaller now — her chalk dreams confined to the jagged borders of her broken slate.

The next morning, she walks to the bus stand. The men stand in one group, the women and girls in another. She joins the older girls, with shawls thrown across their shoulders. They all carry black umbrellas that form a small canopy. The umbrellas shield them from the morning sun that will give way to rain by midday, as it always does in June. The bus pulls up with a plume of smoke. She watches as the people file in, passing the driver, giving their fares to the conductor, who is marking and tearing tickets for each passenger. She is the last to board the bus, but stops before entering.

The driver yells at her to hurry up and get on. She holds her broken slate in one hand, and her bus fare in the other. She keeps her eyes on the ground. Other passengers yell at her to get on. She keeps her eyes on her feet and steps back. She hears the doors closing as the bus accelerates away. Despite the insults being shouted her way, she smiles. She pockets her bus fare and begins walking to school. Her bleeding stops after three days — three days of bus fare she has saved for her new slate.

The next month, the bleeding stays for five days. She needs to use more napkins and cloths than last time, but she is able to save more. Each month, she hides her coins in a small tin, where she keeps her rosary. Other girls tell her that the bleeding should come regularly each month, and although it returns, it is too erratic for her to predict. By November, when the monsoon season peaks and her cycle returns, she trudges through the mud and rain. Her upper legs chafe from all the extra cloth napkins and moisture. One day, when the cramping and bleeding are so heavy, she relents and takes the bus to school. She regrets the decision that evening when she cannot fit her drawing onto the damaged piece of her slate that still remains. She vows she will not take the bus again.

As Christmas approaches, her family prepares to celebrate. Her bleeding arrives just before the school break. After another month, she should have enough to buy her slate. They receive many visitors for the Holy Days — her father’s younger brother, who she calls Chittappan, her mother’s younger sister, Peramma, and Peramma’s husband who she calls Ammavan — all without children of their own. Her Ammavan gives her a glance that feels unpleasant. That night, when he leaves her room, her pain and humiliation are immeasurable. She mentions it to no one. There is blood on her bedsheet, so she expects her bleeding to continue the next day, but it doesn’t. She withdraws into herself. Her only escape is the ethereal world she creates on her slate.

She returns to school in January and her period doesn’t return. In February, she misses a few days of school because of vomiting. Her mother tells her the milk must have gone bad. Another month passes and her savings do not grow. Her body betrays her, keeping her from saving for the one small dream she has. As the rainy season approaches again in May, she knows something is wrong. When she bathes, she sees changes in her body. There is a faint brown line down the middle of her abdomen, something the other girls in her class do not have. She says nothing to her mother about this. After what happened, how can she?

The girl dries off after bathing when her mother walks in. Her mother’s voice and instructions startle her. She is frightened, but understands. Within minutes, mother and daughter flee from their home with a few belongings to hide their own shame for someone’s else sin. The girl leaves behind her coins, her rosary, and her dreams, which are now just as broken as her slate.