Beauty Seen is Never Lost

The girl with the lopsided smirk- I remember her. Always dressed in a traditional Jalabya; her dark black hair tied in a high ponytail. She was my closest mate at that intensive-long, excruciating summer school we attended in the British Council. She’d pull her chair right beside me in class and sit on the edge; as close as possible, her workbook almost overlapping mine. She’d watch me scribble letters on my workbook, and try to distract me with the glittery stickers encircling her page. Odd, the things that find their place around my memory now. Her name, I cannot recall, but I can almost sketch that smirk of hers, and the prominent mole above her lips. I don’t remember what school she came from, but I know with foreign intensity how much she idolized her older brother. And, most of all, I remember how she taught me the art of stealing books from the ‘walking library’.
“ It’s Okay,” ,she’d say “ They want us to read them anyway,”.
And I bulged, and I believed, and I stole.

The concerned High school English teacher- I remember her. Walking into class, starting her lesson by asking for our daily journals. Her voice stern; laced with expectations and genuine concern. Always, trying to keep everything intact, always trying to peel off that cavernous immaturity which plagued us at the time, Always trying to extract that single quality that outlined each one of our characters, making them distinguishable, in hopes of envisioning a change in the future. Her grammar lessons had evaporated, but her “ How is everyone doing this morning?” still rings in my head. I cannot remember her ways of teaching, but I recall her reply to every work I submitted, always repeating “ One day, I’ll hear your name somewhere, and it’ll be somewhere big”.

The boy next door – I remember him. With his light brown hair, round face, raspy voice and stuttered speech. How he loved to play ‘pretend’. He’d be the fish, I’d be the fisher, he’d be the eagle, I’d be the snake, he’d be the judge, I’d be the criminal. I don’t remember when he moved or where he moved; yet I recall his absurd obsession with Ketchup. I don’t remember how many siblings he had, but I remember vividly how he hid a knife in his pocket one afternoon and taunted me with it.

The black-haired girl of the driving school- I remember her. With headphones in her ears, and grey eyes wandering about. She had a detached aura about her, which seemed odd in a driving-test waiting room. I don’t remember if she had an accent, but I recall our conversation about “ Sophie’s Choice” with haunting accuracy. I don’t remember if she passed the test or not , but I know of her fascination with Orchestras and how music could move her to tears. I don’t remember what she was wearing, but I remember the peace sign charm dangling off her bracelet.

Somewhere, along the line, they subtly come into your life ; molding some parts of it, reshaping some future outcomes, giving away shards and pieces of themselves here and there ; a word,, half a lifetime, a tug at a heart, a moment, a memory. And as swiftly as they came, they leave. And Somehow, you become; because of them.

Posted by Diddlina at 7:33 PM