Tomorrow, I shall meet her. It has been two days- two long
days- since I even caught a glimpse of her. These two days have been tough and
even though the rains have already arrived in this part of the country, I am
still thirsty.
So tomorrow morning, I will position myself near the stairs
which she visits frequently. I will disguise the agitated state of my mind and
the ardor in my blood by pretending to read the outdated notices on the
adjacent notice-board. This may also
help to avoid suspicious glances. And then, if the astrologer’s column in the morning
newspaper predicts that it would be my lucky day, she will make an experience.
I will probably say, “Hi”, feigning surprise, even though
God knows how much and for how long my heart had been pining for this moment. She
will say, “Hi,” too with a smile which is as infectious as flu and as inspiring
as a mirage in a desert.
I will feel emboldened by this small victory and take a cue
from her smile to ask, “How was your weekend?”
My conjecture tells me that she will then say, “ My weekend
was good fun. I visited this place on the outskirts of the city with the
family. I saw that movie….”
I will make efforts to listen with intent, but as much as I
try, I am sure I will be distracted. In fact her soliloquy will give me a
privileged opportunity to observe her more closely. I will notice how her long
scarf flutters in the wind coming from the large windows. I will observe how her
almond eyes shine brightly when she talks about her dreams and her ambitions. I
will compare her with the ideal of feminity
which I have been carrying in my heart for far too long now. In her
words, her gestures and her eyes, I will try to decipher some secret code, some
hidden clue which could give a hint of what she thinks about me, about us.
And then she may ask about my weekend. This is where I will
have to be extra careful. I will have to walk a tightrope. I cannot afford to
look pompous, but I do not want to appear timid as well. I intend to come
across as neither too eager, nor too cold and distant. Not only do I wish to
show that I am not overly scholastic, but also that I am not puerile and
shallow.
May be I will tell her that I thought about her yesterday
while driving on the highway, when the wind ruffled my hair and whispered in my
ears. I will tell her that I thought about her when I got up in the morning and
saw two larks flying against the morning sun, unseparated in the crests and troughs of their undulating
flights, with the nascent sunrays sifting through their feathers in polka dots. I will tell her
that I thought about her when I heard a melodious rhythm as the ring tone of a
friend’s cell-phone, and when I saw young couple in an eatery sitting in a
desolate corner and just staring into each other’s eyes. I will tell her that I
thought about her when I experienced the mundane and the special, saw the eager
and the celibate, heard the profane and the classic, felt the indescribable and
the unmentionable.
It is all set then.
Tomorrow.
Morning.
Stairs.
So today, I am here. It is morning and I stand close to the
stair case, reading notices on the notice board, waiting for her.
And there she comes.
I gather all my courage. I dissimulate a confidence which
does not come naturally to me, certainly not in these circumstances. I put my
best smile forward and say, “Hi”.
She too says “Hi” with a hint of a smile. And then she
leaves. In fact she never stops walking. With the air of a queen, the gait of a
doe and the dignity of a lady, she just breezes past me, blissfully unaware of
the carnage she has precipitated.
And I, bruised, battered, burnt, broken, carry myself out of
that corner, which suddenly seems too tight, before anyone sees me in the most
vulnerable of all my moments.
May be I should I have planned better.
May be we are not eighteen anymore.
May be we will never be eighteen again!
