| Infatuation: Her hand held one glass Bangle and some red wine |
[Oct. 10th, 2005|02:01 pm] |
Infatuation: From his dreamy Bengali eyes
by ME
She lost weight, more than she needed to. I wanted to tell her how beautiful she would look if she ate just a few extra plates of rice a week, how her skin would glow, how her hair would give an extra shine perhaps. Like the faces of Durga or Laxmi, her body with some extra curves still would look like an idol, she would be perfect. Perfect for me. Her body wrapped in sari, her hands working fast in the kitchen, our kitchen it will be, I will sit and watch her do the daily chores, cooking, cleaning, hanging washed clothes, pearls of sweats on her forehead, and she would look back at me and perhaps smile a tired smile and I would want to hold her forever, but I wont, or maybe just a temporary careful touch. I want her to be mine, and mine only. The girl who leaped to westernization before she fulfilled her easternization. I want her to come back to those cement courtyards lacking grass, but with flower tubs of gardenia and beli, looking up to the square blue sky labeled Bengal. I want her to be mine.
I want to pick her from her work, drop her off in the morning as well. No, not because I am possessive but because I want to be with her as much as I can. Okay maybe I am a little possessive, but in a protective way. I do want to know who she talks to during the day, who is in her list as chat buddies, I want to hack into her email and read from the past and the present and about any future bonds. I want to test her loyalty, her limit of jealousy, her patience, her good manners, her bad habits. I want to taste her chicken curries and fluency in Bengali culture. I want her to be mine.
From his awed blue eyes:
Her skin reminds me of the beaches, like the wet warm salt. Her eyes dark as night swallows me in. She will be a forever mystery to me. Will I ever solve it? Do I want to? I don't know. My friend asked me the other day if this was just a phase and that made me think. Is it? Is it my brown phase? A phase where the east is more intriguing temporarily, when the smell of hair oil still prominent in newly shampooed hair is addictive, when strands of black hair in my very white hands is exciting, it's so different, so different than all I have experienced. But does unfamiliarity reign once familiar loses its zing? And then we all return to our original familiarly based on similarity and not differences?
I tell her things, I don't spell out the word "love." Love is tough, she says where she comes from love is easy, or easily mentioned, easily gotten, and then easily lost. I am not in love, love is hard, love is binding, love is permanent, and I think a hundred times before any permanency. I don't want to lose her unless she wants to be lost, I don't want to ruin her mystery unless she wants to be an open book, I enjoy my freedom like she enjoys hers, our worlds mix when we wish and part when we want, and when I catch the hidden tear in the corner of her eye, I rather wonder why it's there than wipe it off… is this is a phase or is it love? |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Oct. 10th, 2005|05:17 pm] |
prothom-alo 10.10.05 |
|
|
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small}
bangladeshi