I hate it.

I simply hate it.

Each morning in Kolkata is full of the same expectation. "Would I see that smile?" Each day, as I walk down to the bus stop, I am sure to see her there. She stands there, well dressed, a bag residing on her shoulder, a sweater resting on her folded hands, amidst the humbug of early office-goers, a bit lost, but fresh like the morning dew.

Her face is attractive, though not strictly beautiful. Large black eyes lending warmth to her face. Sometimes a faint trace of lipstick betrays the only sign of make-up. And the smile that caresses her lip ends just at the edge of her dimpled cheeks captivates me to remember:

Acchi surat ko sawarne ki zaroorat kya hain?

Saadgi bhi to qayamat ki ada hoti hain.

At times, she wears a bespectacled look with her hair tied in a bunch, carelessly made up, showing the least intention of dressing up, and a shawl wrapped tightly around her. It just doesn’t suit her. I wish, I could tell her, “My dear, you look at least ten years older. Smell the beauty of the wind in this early January morning, let it romance with your body and you will feel the blood gushing down your veins like a Vasantsena - drenched in water, rushing out to meet her Charudatta - and then there shall be no more cold.”

What strikes me most about her is that she has a lotus-like ability to mix with people but yet not be ‘one’ of them

‘You walk amongst the crowds but are cursed to be alone’.

Is it loneliness? A person can be alone yet not being lonely. She doesn’t seem to have given a thought to this. Or has she?

The bus comes. We board the same bus. I wait till she gets in. I sometimes sit right next to her. Her place is fixed – just beside the sole acquaintance that she maintains. She is oblivious to me and I feign oblivion lest my eyes desert my admiration. As I attempt to read a book, I find my ears pricked to her voice. Unfortunately, language is a barrier, but the tones vibrate. Sometimes it’s a mature lady talking or a professional discussing the innumerable problems of bosses and colleagues. But generally, it's an innocent girl giggling. That sole action betrays her demureness and portrays her innocence. When she converses in her Banglabhasha, her voice flowing from the pouted lips makes the language sound more mellifluous, than it does otherwise.

Her office is a couple of blocks before mine and as she gets down, sometimes for a fractional moment, her ‘dupatta’ brushes against my shoulders, leaving a lingering innocence that I think of at each waking moment of the day. She gets down, taking small steps to her office – that same characteristic gait which I can now recognise in my sleep - and disappears for the day.

As evening approaches, I look forward to the time when she gets into the bus. Throughout the day, I site at my desk, having nothing worthwhile to do, and as I cut the short distance between our offices - killing the minutes and counting the mosquitoes – the chain of thoughts is broken only by the incessant chatter of my neighbour. When the bus finally starts and reaches her office, I look expectantly – praying that work has not held her back.

Till the moment she gets in, my eyes are fixed on the door, the moment she gets in, I look away - like a thief shying from a policeman - waiting expectantly that she takes the seat besides me. And always, the vacant seat frowns at me, as she disappears in the darkness behind.

Yesterday she sat right in front, on the next row. Her tired face reclining lightly on the backrest – slightly tilted to the left – eyes closed, perhaps! The cold January wind from a half-opened window was playing with her hair, as she lay completely oblivious to the beauty that she portrayed.

As our common destination approaches, I fervently wish we alight at the same time. At times, I have been lucky; sometimes the timing has cheated me. As I walk down with my colleague, I see her walking on the opposite footpath. The road is the same, the same solitary figure; the paths are the same – downtrodden. The light has diminished; the nefarious nocturnal light scares her, perhaps; as her step lengthens. The urge for the security and warmth of her home is calling and the cold wind troubling. She huddles more closely to her bag. The smile is now gone, replaced by a forlorn look, as if the purpose of life has not dawned to her.

As she enters her gate, I sigh. Another day gone -

Kaisei keh doo ki mulaqat nahin hoti hain,

Roj milte hain magar baat nahin hoti hain.

I remember the picnic when throughout the day she could be seen being tugged along by her friends. They perhaps did not understand that she could not be a part of them. Her lost look was quite evident. ‘Tell me, how can I fail to observe people like me?’

And then the disco-floor, where her friends forced her to the dance floor. Inhibitions ruled her mind. For a moment, in between the refusals and persuasions, her eyes wandered to meet mine; and I found myself reciprocating her smile. There was something very magical about that moment; and for that one beautiful moment, I am ready to bear the picnic again. The dance did suit her, though I could sense the immaculate distance she maintained from the motley group of drunken men. She has a sense of music but not a range of dance steps.

The other night, I saw her sitting with me, as we came from my Mumbai to her Kolkata. As the flight took off, she clutched her eyes tight - perhaps, from fear of flying! As the flight progressed, she slept peacefully with her small purse clutched tightly. I smiled as I remembered Marquez's 'The Sleeping Beauty.'

Our flight rumbled; caught in rough weather, waking her up. She took a copy of ‘Jonathan Livingstone Seagull’ from her purse and tried to read. “Dear, people scared of flying should not read Jonathan Livingstone Seagull”

She smiled, as she closed the book. Obviously her mind was somewhere else as Kolkata was fast approaching. As the flight turned into the foyer, a sweet smile spread from her lips. In her face, I saw a small girl returning home from an extended period outside. And as I waited for my luggage, she just walked away and disappeared into the darkness. Fool that I was, I waited that we would share a cab till her place.

As I awoke from my dream, it's late into the night. I lit a cigarette and think of what she would be doing at this moment. The night is dark and the streets deserted. My balcony overlooks a small bungalow, a quad-symmetric old one with lush lawns. An old couple – as old as the house – wait there for their son’s return from across the seven seas. The security guard lies napping beside an extinguished fire, and the stray dogs bark at the occasional pimp.

I tell myself, she is all cuddled up in bed; a book lying on the bedside table - half-open - a page folded carelessly indicating the moment where sleep took her away; the pages fluttering as the overhead fan continues to whirl, nonchalantly. A content smile is spread on her lip, as she thinks of her prince in shiny armour. As I return to the bed, I dream of seeing her tomorrow morning, fresh, her tiny feet leave telltale indications of mud; as she returns from her ramblings on the watered grass.

The thoughts continue as a new day dawns…

I rush to the bus stop…