The girl wears a white polka dotted kurti—the dots in black, long straight hair tied in a ponytail at the top of her head, and kohl smeared eyes. She’s a lover of plants, all kinds—flowering, conifers, cacti, mosses too. Pikachu’s her favorite fictional creature, and has a sweet tooth for a weakness. Her name’s Surekha, something that’s beautifully drawn.
If I would have met her earlier, I would have praised her name in continuous sequences but I refrain. I ask myself to behave. Maybe in a more polite manner. And I miss out on the only chance to converse with her. So I reach out to my bag, and pull out a piece of paper and a marker pen. And I write. I write in small but legible characters. I write to her, a note. A note to meet me the next day at the exact same spot where she stands right now. I walk up to her, extend my hand, with the piece of paper in it. But don’t say a word. Reluctantly, she takes it from my hand and starts to read it out loud. And I suggest against it, through my eyes, telling her that it’s not yet time. She understands and returns it to a pocket in her handbag. And then, I walk away.
I wait for her at the exact same spot, the next day, all set and prepared with my opening lines. After a while, she arrives in a red dress, hair blowing in the wind. She walks up to me and says, “Hello there, I hope I’d be able to hear you today.” And I can’t bring myself up to say the very lines I had been practicing in my head for the entire previous night. I stand there and smile like a fool.
And then she says something like, “You know if this is gonna continue this way, with you not saying anything and me being the only one who speaks, you’re gonna be in a bit of trouble, real soon. I can go on and on and then one fine day I’ll find you scratching your ears in search of a better place to go than listen to me.” I smile inwardly. - 56 minutes ago