The Last Ferry

The last ferry from Neamati leaves when the boatman decides the light is good enough, and not a minute later. Mr Saikia knew this, and still he was late.

He ran down the sandbank with a bundle of answer sheets under his arm, waving. The boatman, an old man everyone called Kokaideu, looked at the sky, looked at the teacher, and sighed. He waited.

"Results tomorrow?" he asked as the engine coughed into life.

"Tomorrow," said Mr Saikia. "I promised them."

Halfway across, the wind picked up and the river turned the colour of slate. Mr Saikia held the bundle against his chest as if it were a child. Kokaideu steered without a word, reading the water the way the teacher read handwriting.

On the far bank, a small crowd of students was waiting with torches, because word travels faster than ferries. They cheered when the boat touched the sand.

"You could have checked them tonight and come back tomorrow," Kokaideu said.

Mr Saikia smiled. "A promise to a child," he said, "should not wait for the next boat."