I was walking back to the classroom for AECC lecture when I first saw her. Peach tunic and black leggings. Her pitch-black goggles glittered in sunlight. A few stray tufts of her hair struggled for flight. Her lips had suddenly broken into a smile, at something her friend had just said. For the tiniest fraction of second, I wanted to stop and see her some more. Maybe the smile on her lips, or maybe the eyes behind her goggles. But AVS was tugging at my arm and Kammo was already ten feet ahead of us, earpieces slotted in his ears, and so I kept walking. Just when I decided to turn my head to take one last look at her, a trio of hot girls appeared before my eyes and so I didn’t.
The thought of her didn’t cross my mind again as I’ve already got quite a few girls to worry about. My life has always been a mess, kudos to all the females, including my dear mother, who have been a significant part of it. I couldn’t afford another stupid story, no matter how alluring its prospect seemed. And so, for a long time, RJ Heena was my only dream girl in this nightmarish world.
It was going fine till I saw her again through the glass pane in a classroom door. 109, I noted the room number. She was seated in the middle of the first row, her fingers softly tapping on the desk, as if trying to recreate a forgotten melody on her old piano. She seemed carefree, as though the world wasn’t unfair to her, and it made me wonder if his dad had black money or something. Then I saw the goggles, the same pitch black glasses veiling her eyes, and it struck me like a sledgehammer.
She couldn’t see.
It was the day I started thinking about her. You can never honestly put yourself in place of a visually impaired girl without collapsing into a rubble of misery. I remember how I had closed my eyes and stood outside the classroom, trying to see the world in her way, imagining the door and 5 meters of space between us that, to her, were nothing but a sea of infinite blackness. It was so scary, the thought of living like that for more than a minute, for days, for years, that I threw open my eyes and felt the blood rush back to my organs.
I started stalking her after that. I would walk upto room number 109, stand outside the door, and peep through the glass pane. I’d always find her in the same seat, wearing the same black goggles, sometimes talking to her friend, sometimes sitting in silence, still as a statue. Sometimes, she’d tap at the desk, her fingers following the same rhythm. She was beautiful, and so, it felt unfair that she couldn’t see herself anymore. The mirror, the people, the world – nothing but black.
Sometimes our paths would cross, and I’d see her face lit up with felicity, or her forehead wrinkled in a contemplative expression, or her lips stretched upwards, her hair fluttering, or her thoughtful silence – a profound quietness amidst a bewildering cacophony.
I wasn’t in love with her, but she was fascinating and delicate, and it felt like watching her was all I needed to do in those moments. I asked one of my classmates, who also shared a class with her, to get me her name.
I was back to my room and I was still thinking about her. This is how it happens, right? You start thinking about somebody and you don’t stop and suddenly, it’s too late.
My mind was like a battleground, where two different ideas were clashing like infuriated battalions. My memory spooled back to the beginning of 2016, and it felt wrong. My motives weren’t noble, either.
I just wanted a great story, and thus, the prospect of a blind girl seemed fascinating.
This stupid wish has fucked me big. Insensitivity and hatred now runs in my veins. Exploitation has become my inherent nature. This is certainly not how I expected life to turn out. I’d watch her, I’d write about her and mould facts, I’d word my interpretation of her to sound artistic and great. I’d never understand her, like I haven’t understood any of the females, including my dear mother, who have been a significant part of my life. I’d benefit from her misery and I’d spit out my frustration on her. It won’t be fair to someone who’s alone in her suffering.
“Hey! You wanted to know her name? “My classmate asked me the other day.
“Nah! I’m after some other girl these days. “I said and walked away as he stared at me quizzically.
Our paths still cross each other, and I still want to stop and watch her some more, but I don’t. She deserves somebody who would do more than just admiring her beauty and writing a blog about it, somebody who would stand with her in her abysmal infinite darkness.