The Word Written in Red Ink

Story One

Shariq Ali
Valueversity

The snow had not yet completely melted.

The first rays of the morning sun had already touched the mountain peaks, but it would still take some time before they reached our valley.

Far away, the faint sound of yak bells was slowly breaking the silence.

As I stepped out of the school building, I was clutching a folded piece of paper in my hand.

The other boys were racing noisily down the path towards the village. Some were laughing, others were playfully pulling at each other’s school bags.

My own footsteps, however, were unusually slow that day.

Halfway down the path, I stopped and unfolded the paper once again.

There was only one word written across it in red ink.
FAIL

A cold gust of wind swept past.

The paper trembled in my hand.

For a brief moment, I wondered whether a single word could really make a human being feel so small, so utterly insignificant.
I folded the paper and slipped it back into my pocket.

Home was still a long way off.
At one point along the path, the melting snow had formed a narrow stream.

A few stones had shifted out of place, causing the water to spill across the trail instead of flowing into the fields where it belonged.

Without thinking, I bent down and moved the stones back into position.

Silently, the water returned to its proper course.

The fields began to drink again.

I stood there for a long time, watching.
Perhaps no one had ever told the water that it had failed.

When I reached home, my father was sitting beside the wooden doorway, staring at an old solar lantern he had dismantled.

There was disappointment on his face.
Without looking up, he said,
“Come here, Stanzin… have a look at this lantern.”

I put my school bag aside and picked it up.
One wire had come loose, and a thin layer of dust covered the solar panel.
A few moments later, the lantern lit up again.

A faint smile appeared on my father’s face.

As always, he said only a few simple words.
“You fixed it.”
That was all the praise he had ever given me.

I never showed him the report card tucked away in my pocket.
I simply did not have the courage.

That night, after everyone in the house had gone to sleep, I stepped outside.

The nights in
Ladakh are unlike anywhere else.

The sky is so clear that the stars seem close enough to touch.

I sat down on a large rock.
I took the paper out of my pocket once more.

Then I looked up at the sky.
Then back at the paper.

For the first time in my life,
I sensed that there was a crack—a gap—between books and life itself. I could see it clearly, yet I had no idea how to cross it.
If I could repair broken things…
If I could redirect the flow of water…
If, every morning before sunrise, I could tell exactly when the snow would soften…

Then what was it that I did not know?
And if I truly knew nothing…
Who had taught me all these things?

Around that same time, word began to spread through our region about a young teacher who had recently arrived.

People said he sought out children whom schools had declared failures.
But he never believed they were failures.

At the time, I paid little attention to those stories.

How could I have known that, only a few days later, the most important question of my life—and its answer—would be placed into my own hands?

That question was nowhere to be found on my report card…

To be continued…