She.

To me , she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I was 15 then and so was she. We often talked about her and some of us had great fun describing her in the most traditional way for talking about the beauty of a bangololona. Her complexion was nothing less than doodhe-alta. She had the eyes of a horini and a perfectly banshir moto tikolo nose. Her lips resembled fresh koyas of komlalebu.........she was no less than a jibanto Durgaprotima. There was no flaw in her except the fact that she had bad hair. We often quipped: Kuchbaron konya tahar jhanta swarup kesh !( instead of meghbaron kesh). Nevertheless she deserved the other praises showered on her. We were never friends - I hardly spoke to her in the six years of secondary education yet she seemed to me a very interesting psychological case study. Our ways were different. We strongly disapproved of each other on every occasion we got to do so. Yet I know not why she did certain things she did! She, through some of her other friends urged me to recite a Tagore poem at a teacher's farewell. I got to know this only after the programme had ended as she feared that i wouldn't recite the poem had i known it was she who wanted me to do so! Another incident was just as weird as this. She was a very good dancer. That year, class 10 had to put up a programme with Pujo as their theme. Our class teacher wanted to do something really innovative so that we could put up a strong fight against our opponent - 10C. So she asked me to do a Birendro krishna Bhadro. I had to start with Ashwiner sharod prate followed by other slokas. She had earlier refused to dance as she hated the idea of wearing a saree but when she heard that just after my Ashwiner........ would begin Bajlo tomar alor benu she changed her mind. She danced really well and needless to say looked stunning in a bluish green saree. I heard she seemed to think herself very lonely. She loved a man who was several years older than her but was never loved back. She waited........ and sometimes hoped that her lover would die and like in Donne's poem his ghost would come to her bed which would serve as a proof that he really loved her but was afraid to say so lest she should refuse her. This horrified me . Can one call this love? But on the last day of our school i had seen a strange thing. She was staring blankly out of the window. I saw underneath her doodhe -alta facial skin layers of ash water laden cumolo nimbus clouds. She felt my gaze and looked at me. I quickly turned my eyes away lest i should see moss green shadows in her doe eyes. I had no desire to start conversation on the last day. Or was I afraid? Did i fear her more than i feared myself?