Framing the Truth

The staffroom smelled faintly of chalk dust and cardamom tea. Outside, the trees rustled in the afternoon wind. Mrs. Kaur sat on the edge of a low stool near the bulletin board, flipping through a folder of sketches.

Mrs. Mrinalini Borphukon entered, her dupatta trailing behind her like a quiet breeze. She set down her files and looked at the younger teacher.

“You’re thinking of showing his daughter’s work to the father?” she asked softly, already knowing the answer.

Mrs. Kaur nodded, her brow furrowed. “I’ve seen too many children fold into themselves because the adults around them didn’t notice the cracks. Aanya… she’s been bleeding silently through every line she draws.”

Mrs. Borphukon sat down beside her, her voice lower now. “I should’ve paid more attention earlier. I knew something was wrong. I kept waiting for it to become visible enough to act.”

“She didn’t want it visible,” Mrs. Kaur said. “She wanted someone to ask before she broke.”

There was silence for some time.

Then Mrs. Borphukon reached over, gently touching the sketch on top—Aanya’s self-portrait with her mouth stitched shut.

“She reminds me of a student I once taught years ago. Silent, brilliant, slipping through the cracks. I promised myself I wouldn’t let another child drown in plain sight.”

Mrs. Kaur looked up. “Then we make sure this time… she is heard.”

They both stood.

Mrs. Borphukon smiled faintly. “Let’s set up a private showing. No noise. No crowd. Just the right people in the room—and her art doing the speaking.”

Mrs. Kaur exhaled slowly. “And if the father still doesn’t listen?”

“Then he wasn’t worthy of the truth to begin with,” Mrs. Borphukon said gently. “But at least the girl will know—she wasn’t invisible to all of us.”

The art room was quiet, lit only by the late afternoon sun slanting through the glass panes. Chalk dust floated in the air like memories.

Aanya stood at the display wall, clutching a few of her bookmarks and a sketch she hadn’t shown anyone before—her mother, drawn from memory. Long hair braided, a smile curled like sunlight on water.

Her art teacher stood beside her, hands folded, silent.

“She told me to speak my truth,” Aanya said finally, her voice low. “Even if no one listens. Even if it scares me.”

The teacher nodded. “Then let’s help them listen.”

Aanya turned. “How?”

“I’ve been thinking…” the teacher said, carefully. “There’s an open house next week. Parents will be around. But that might be too chaotic.”

She paused, then smiled gently.

“What if we do something more personal? A small showing. A few of your works—just for him. And maybe someone who can hold the silence with you, if he doesn’t.”

Aanya blinked. “Mahi.”

“Yes.”

The teacher moved closer to her desk, pulling out a small black portfolio.

“You’re not just confronting lies, Aanya. You’re showing him what he’s missed. What he’s overlooked. Let your art speak the parts your voice can’t yet.”

That evening, Aanya and her teacher drafted a short, simple invitation.

To: Mr. Rajeev Sharma

From: Mrs. Mrinalini Borphukon (HOD, Art Dept.)

Subject: Private Student Showcase

Dear Mr. Sharma,

I would like to invite you to a brief, personal showcase of select artworks created by Aanya Sharma, whose talent, art, and emotional depth have been significant in our creative community.

I believe this show will offer a unique perspective into her recent expressions and experiences. A small group, including her maternal aunt, will be present. We hope you’ll consider joining us.

With warmth and respect,

Mrs Mrinalini Borphukon

Aanya watched as her teacher hit “send.”

Her hands were cold. Her heart? On fire.

That night at her maasi’s, Aanya paced the small veranda.

“What if he doesn’t come?”

Maasi wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. “Then he loses more than you do. But he will come. He may be blind right now, but not heartless.”

Aanya looked at the moon, pale and round above the trees.

“I don’t want to hurt him. I just want him to see.”

“And that,” Maasi whispered, “is exactly why you’re strong enough to do this.”