Brute Indeed

"You are a brute," she would say. The word, 'brute,' almost spat out. Her eyes, two narrow slits.

Mrs. Gupta, my English teacher, would always pick me out in class and find faults like ticking out from a grocery list.

1. Unwashed Shirt.

2. No vest inside, hence sweating outside.

3. Mud in the shoes.

4. Needs haircut.

5. Homework not done.

6. Doesn't even have a pen.

I could never convince her that I wasn't a brute, and I hated her for it. Today when I saw her, she was bent over a stick and was being helped into a car by her family. The occasion did not warrant me to go and introduce myself. I doubted if she would even remember me.

Later in the day, I had a thought: She used to call me a brute. And now she looked like a chimpanzee herself with the way she stooped and walked. She, a brute herself.

I am ashamed of this thought that found its way into me. Perhaps we are darker than we would like to accept. A brute, like Mrs. Gupta, always said.