He is dead. Joseph, our maths teacher. The news whizzed through our town's TVs, newspapers and mouths all week long. In the markets, the tea stalls, the air-conditioned grocery stores, the dimly-lit cafes, the brothels above the photocopy and printing shops, the alleys where we played cricket and the alleys where others played football. Everywhere we went, it was all we could hear. That Joseph, our maths teacher, was dead. We think the crows and the dogs have become sick of hearing the news by now, so we wouldn't be surprised if they have been visiting his grave and pushing aside the fallen leaves on his mound with their beaks and snouts, whispering to him, "Sir, you have become viral!"
From day one, Joseph was an odd figure in our school on account of his strictness. We don't think there was any teacher in the history of our school who was as strict as him. Even the way he looked and dressed echoed his strictness. He was clean-shaven save for the thick, dark moustache that nearly obscured his lips. His bald head reflected the lazy fan whenever sunlight crept into our classroom. He wore thick glasses with brown frames. He wore either a sky-blue or a grey shirt with formal black trousers. All spotless and pressed to perfection. He could be seen polishing his shoes at least thrice a day in the teachers' room. No wonder they were always so sleek.