Marzia

Every academic year in school offered some chaotic but interesting episodes. A popular one being parents wanting to see their wards sit on first benches. Although sitting first never ensured standing first in class. Seldom parents understood it. They stuck to the myth. Request notes from them often left class teachers in a fix. A lose-lose situation. Parents were(are) a worried sect. For few fussy fellas in class, any amount of juggling wouldn't settle their case nor put to rest, their demands. (I remember a fat, filthy rich student Piyush Gupta by name, who was notorious for this. Also, when I did well in class he would want to borrow my books and when I didn't lend him he use to have his way complaining to my teacher back in grade-6. In turn that stingy ass never helped. Not even for an eraser. Puraane ghaav you see ! I still hold few such grudges and have scores to settle with him. This dig is one step towards that cause.) For rest of them, coordinates weren't a point to mull over or waste their energies.

But Marzia's was a different tale . Precious tears rolling down smooth cheeks, lips trembling in fear, eyes with a painful look made up for an intriguing story. Marzia was the second or third tallest girl in the class. She was a blonde. This made her look older in the first instance. But there after one would end up appreciating her beauty. I saw her smile only on few occasions. She wept mainly for two reasons- when she was disturbed from her place or when she was left to share the bench with a boy. These events repeated year after year. And her emotions replayed too, in tandem. It turned into an absorbing affair. I always sympathized with her, for, something troubled her.

I never spoke to her. Not even once in my five years of association as her class mate in section-F. Infact, I never dared to. I feared triggering those emotions as it would mean no stopping thereafter. I couldn't bear her emotional turmoil. But had I an oppurtunity, I would have questioned her- what was so odd sitting next to a guy ?

When ever Marzia smiled I felt happy. Don't mistake her to be my childhood sweetheart or crush. I just felt deeply for her. From what I observed, she never gave vent to her expressions. She wouldn't speak much and answered only to the point. Like a caged bird with broken wings, she sat. Back then, I accredited all that misery to her upbringing. I hated her people for that. After grade-7, and some class shuffling I never saw her again. I landed in a new company.

Seasons passed by and during my undergrad, I bumped into her at a bus station one day. Marzia has transformed into a beautiful lass. She walks in grace now. Her eyes are as beautiful as they were, and she- more than ever. She would make for any poet's inspiration. She is any youth's dream girl. Her serene look assured her pain co-existed with her. Nevertheless, she looks lovely.

I was very happy to see Marzia that day after so many ages. But couldn't speak. I feared being mistaken for some romeo. I was sure she wouldn't have recognised me either.

I stared at her in awe and waited till she disappeared in the crowd...

Phir Milenge

.... and thank you too ! for always being there. It was great being in your company for the little things you taught me. For helping me get back to where I belonged. Every bit of laughter we shared was hearty, every drop of tear we shed together has bonded us deep from our hearts. With every smile, we became stronger to face situations neither you nor me ever imagined we would land in. Thank you for being there on Tuesdays too ! You were my angel.

Your's will be a cherished friendship and a special one.

Hope you give things a great start. Wishing you loads of success and good luck. Lots of Love too !

One day, I would like to travel to Lebanon and visit Kahlil Gibran's and his sweetheart - Selma's cinerarium. There is also his memorial about 20 miles away from Washington D.C. Planning to go there sometime soon. Probably at the end of this year. :) :D