transferred from http://almostfamous.rediffblogs.com]
The seating style always perturbs me. For that matter, the little wooden channels in the flooring trouble me too. There is always a perennial fear of twisting the ankle in unfortunate directions. The ladies seats seem to exist all over the place and all the puny Kolkatians are in a constant struggle, gently edging their way into the little spaces between your feet. It is pretty easy to give a hefty push and lodge yourself on those “window seats” - Window seats? You can neither look out, nor hold on to some rail. Your back enjoys the view of the tram-infested roads, while you constantly get flung sideways into the frowning uncles.
Surya and I were on our nth ride to some location, uncomfortably seated, facing the front entrance. The bored expressions of the passengers were no longer an amusement. Yes, it was boring. There was a lull in the conversation, both of us mulling over something I can’t recollect.
The girl embarked with her classmate. Both found a seat on the bench perpendicular to ours. She was captivating, the other pretty pretty too. But she stood out, while the other blended unnoticed with the other passengers(why? no idea). The two didn’t talk at all. She wasn’t lost in her thoughts. The eyes usually dilate when your thoughts aren’t related to what you see. (Catch yourself doing the same when you drink your morning cup of tea and when you ahem...scratch yourself). Hers found a convenient spot, somewhere up there, not looking at anything specific- A confident and calm look of a seasoned traveler.
The skirt hemline drew a clean line over the knee. It was coloured dull blue. The knee-caps surprisingly didn’t have a distinctive defining patch over them. Her shirt, created by some ambitious designer, selected by a further eccentric headmaster, had a peculiar feature. Crisp pleats, seen on the most formal trousers, existed from the shoulders till the waist. It was devoid of pockets. Both of them had schooly ribbons twisted and pinned on the left side. Again, I remember the ‘blue’ colour of the first girl, not the other. Surpise...
Surya was saying something. For once, I didn’t pay attention to him (not a nice habit. Don’t nod when you aren’t listening). I was careful to look interested (in the talk) and not to appear lecherous (to the girl). It wasn’t a big deal. I found a convenient spot too. The conductor soon came over, flicking his stapled tickets. I paid the sum of 8 rupees (I remember the amount, not the stop. Surprise2...). I stuffed them into some pocket (always feel like throwing out the silly pieces of paper). In case it bothers you, yes, there is always a sexual undertone to all this (term courtesy Sigmund Freud). But this time the compulsion to gape was dissimilar to the one for the maals/babes. I successfully fought over the silly guilt and went back to the thing.
The hair length was in a transition phase - Too short for a pony, too long for the Mithun hairstyle. It was neatly parted into two pigtails, tied up by two inconspicuous black hairbands. The skin was flawless and glowing, undoubtedly what makes the bongs the prettiest of them all. The eyes are indescribable. Not that there were heavenly. I’ll just do a bad job of it – black, round, standard B3 size eyelashes, no spots, eyebrows unobtrusive...
The crowd soon filled up the bus again. I lost my subject’s view. Concurrently, Surya and I rediscovered each other’s company. I never knew where she got down. More important is when - both useless scraps of info. After a few bus rides, two business deals, a metro journey, a single train ride and a bumpy rickshaw ride later, we came back to our rooms. I typed, and slept off....zzzzz...Happy Ending.
The seating style always perturbs me. For that matter, the little wooden channels in the flooring trouble me too. There is always a perennial fear of twisting the ankle in unfortunate directions. The ladies seats seem to exist all over the place and all the puny Kolkatians are in a constant struggle, gently edging their way into the little spaces between your feet. It is pretty easy to give a hefty push and lodge yourself on those “window seats” - Window seats? You can neither look out, nor hold on to some rail. Your back enjoys the view of the tram-infested roads, while you constantly get flung sideways into the frowning uncles.
Surya and I were on our nth ride to some location, uncomfortably seated, facing the front entrance. The bored expressions of the passengers were no longer an amusement. Yes, it was boring. There was a lull in the conversation, both of us mulling over something I can’t recollect.
The girl embarked with her classmate. Both found a seat on the bench perpendicular to ours. She was captivating, the other pretty pretty too. But she stood out, while the other blended unnoticed with the other passengers(why? no idea). The two didn’t talk at all. She wasn’t lost in her thoughts. The eyes usually dilate when your thoughts aren’t related to what you see. (Catch yourself doing the same when you drink your morning cup of tea and when you ahem...scratch yourself). Hers found a convenient spot, somewhere up there, not looking at anything specific- A confident and calm look of a seasoned traveler.
The skirt hemline drew a clean line over the knee. It was coloured dull blue. The knee-caps surprisingly didn’t have a distinctive defining patch over them. Her shirt, created by some ambitious designer, selected by a further eccentric headmaster, had a peculiar feature. Crisp pleats, seen on the most formal trousers, existed from the shoulders till the waist. It was devoid of pockets. Both of them had schooly ribbons twisted and pinned on the left side. Again, I remember the ‘blue’ colour of the first girl, not the other. Surpise...
Surya was saying something. For once, I didn’t pay attention to him (not a nice habit. Don’t nod when you aren’t listening). I was careful to look interested (in the talk) and not to appear lecherous (to the girl). It wasn’t a big deal. I found a convenient spot too. The conductor soon came over, flicking his stapled tickets. I paid the sum of 8 rupees (I remember the amount, not the stop. Surprise2...). I stuffed them into some pocket (always feel like throwing out the silly pieces of paper). In case it bothers you, yes, there is always a sexual undertone to all this (term courtesy Sigmund Freud). But this time the compulsion to gape was dissimilar to the one for the maals/babes. I successfully fought over the silly guilt and went back to the thing.
The hair length was in a transition phase - Too short for a pony, too long for the Mithun hairstyle. It was neatly parted into two pigtails, tied up by two inconspicuous black hairbands. The skin was flawless and glowing, undoubtedly what makes the bongs the prettiest of them all. The eyes are indescribable. Not that there were heavenly. I’ll just do a bad job of it – black, round, standard B3 size eyelashes, no spots, eyebrows unobtrusive...
The crowd soon filled up the bus again. I lost my subject’s view. Concurrently, Surya and I rediscovered each other’s company. I never knew where she got down. More important is when - both useless scraps of info. After a few bus rides, two business deals, a metro journey, a single train ride and a bumpy rickshaw ride later, we came back to our rooms. I typed, and slept off....zzzzz...Happy Ending.
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