I see her everyday.
Reading a book, on the bus I take. On the railway platform opposite to the one I stand on, talking animatedly to her friend. At the side of the road with her outstretched arm desperately calling out to an auto-rickshaw.
Morning or evening, she appears fresh and bright like she has just walked out of the bath. Her movements are never without grace and have a geometry of their own. She dresses meticulously and never a garment or an accessory is out of place, often adding delight to her delicate features. She appears more colourful than the colours she wears. But it is the face at which my eyes often stop. To appreciate beauty you need a closer observation but even from a distance, her face can be an antidote to all my weariness. I have never seen porcelain but I have seen something better, her skin.
On the bus when she opens a book to read, I shift in my seat to get a view of the cover. I want to know the book she is reading. I want to know the stories she likes. When she is talking to her friend, I imagine the stories about herself she must be telling. From yesterday; from last year; from past. From the emotions her face brings up, I figure, she must be telling an interesting tale. Even when she stands there staring at nothing, I feel she is thinking beautiful things, for somebody as beautiful as her any other kind of thoughts don't seem possible.
One day I will go and talk to her. I tell myself everyday. Courage is not missing. When the heart has a plan, the head often surrenders. I fear for a different reason. I want to know her but I don't want to know her. In my head is an image. She has created an impression of her choices. I'd be heartbroken to know that she hasn't read a book that I love. I don't want to know that she doesn't like traveling and food for her is only a fuel. What if I don't find her stories interesting?
I live with the image. I love the image.
