She Notices Me

Nidhu Bhusan Das : She notices me even to-day. She is younger than I, by seven years. I am 57. Mother of four, Jharna has still those profound eyes though the moderate wrinkles on her face betray her dream remains unfulfilled. Her hair is graying. Five feet four inches, she does not have the grace in movement she had in her twenties. She smiles only when we are face to face, and feels free to talk to me. In fact, we often meet. We talk about the days when we were in our twenties. The other day, we had the same nostalgic stance during the routine tryst. ‘You are so nice, madam’, I said. ‘Don’t try to pamper, I know what I am. You didn’t care --- to know my mind.’ I would not say she is wrong --- accusing me unreasonably. During my university days I would come from time to time to our village to meet my widow mother. She would live alone at Ghagra, our village, two hours away from Dhaka by train. We have the same family tree, and the district board road separates our house from theirs. Jharna would regularly cross the road to visit my mother in the afternoon. In one such afternoon she came to my study with a cup of tea. She would make tea for my mother. Sipping , I said , ‘ Your tea is so intoxicating.’ ‘Is it? ‘she asked , taking interest. ‘ I am not lying ,girl --- it is true’, I sought to assure her. ‘ Let me see’, she said taking the cup. She sipped and smiled betraying her joy at sharing the cup with me. We dwelt on the tea for some time, and this led to what you would say philandering and amorous advances. Meanwhile, she was leafing through my Shakespeare, leaning forward close to me. We were breathing hot and quick. She broke the spell of silence: ‘Will you take mother away from the village when you have a job once university study is complete?’ ‘I have the mind’, I said candidly, and noticed her smile had vanished. She rose to leave, eyes brimming with tears. This happens in case of a village maiden that cannot hold back emotion. I began to rub her head embellished with long dark hair made into two neat and tidy buns. In a moment, we were kissing and cuddling on the couch. How long, I cannot remember. But the memory lingers. I postponed my return to Dhaka the next day. Jharna came to know about the postponement. She heard I had bathed at noon and swam across the river as we did during our school days. Many of my school mates are now working men but our friendship remains. After lunch I was lying on the couch. I was brooding over the closeness with her last afternoon and its significance when she crept into the study and planted a kiss on my forehead, desperately. I reciprocated. ‘Why have not gone to Dhaka?’ she asked, smiling, triumphantly. I felt ashamed and said laboriously, ‘I thought I should stay with my mother one day more.’ She chuckled and softly said ‘Is it? An obedient boy, indeed! When will you return then?’ I asked, ‘Are you eager to see me away from the village? ‘Do you think so?’ she snapped, her cheeks swelled. I pulled her and kissed indiscriminately for a few minutes. She gave in and lay on my lap, holding my stooped neck with two hands. I said, ‘Tomorrow.’ She said, frankly, ‘I love you. Will you remember?’ I smiled and kissed the village girl, saying ‘I shall remember and be with you for ever.’ She was assured. But the parents of the girl would not like to see it happen. The next 25 Baishakh ( 8 April) wedding songs greeted my classmate Rekhan who exchanged garland with reluctant Jharna and reddened her forehead with vermilion the next morning. It was a negotiated marriage in which the bride did not have any say. I dared not go and take her to me for life. We did not forget the tea party that afternoon and what followed . I remember, she said, ‘ I love you.’ Last night we met and again vowed , ‘ We love.’ On Facebook regarding status our profiles read : In relationship with --- .’ We are in dream. Though in different countries, we dream and love.We go back to our twenties.