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I don’t know her, though I wish I did. It would have made me a little more accustomed to the silence which greets me. It is not that cold silence that strangers offer you on an empty dark street. It is warm, sunny and almost overbearing in its shine. It is anything but cold. But then, I am not used to silent greetings.
I guess that is the way she is. Beautiful, graceful, silent. It adds a lot to her mysterious attraction. I am not the only one to notice it. The entire class does that. She blushes, still silent. No proud knowledge flashes on her face. Vanity does leave a few angels alone, I guess. Thank god it does. Imagine a world where everyone is conscious of his/her prowess. You remember the last time you saw something and wished it would remain the same. I see it everyday. She sits. Oblivious of the entire class. In her own world where she has to answer no one.
She is not pretty. So say my friends. But there is something interesting about her. And since when has prettiness been the defining factor in interest. She wears the oddest clothes with the utmost carelessness. It’s beautiful. The way she lets her uncombed hair down, not caring if it’s broken at the ends or oddly curled up. What perfection could offer this beauty! I’ll probably never tell her how I feel. It doesn’t matter. There are some things where the experience is purpose enough. There is nothing to accomplish. Moreover I have a fear of destroying the entire essence of the poetry. I’d much rather watch from a safe distance than destroy the entire thing.
I should not even have said that. Like my friend told me, ‘you fall in love once a week.’ Maybe.But to live is to love and to love; live .I am not saying this is love. I am not saying this is not. I don’t know what it feels like. I’ve had illusions of it. Its like I’ve seen the shadows, but never stood close enough to the real thing to feel it. All I am saying is she is pretty, in a mysterious sort of a way. She is one of those people you begin admiring from afar, then adore, then like. Soon even though you yourself deny it, everybody else knows it. And you keep wondering about the next step
WINE comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That’s all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.