Sunday, September 28, 2014

Milk And Rose


Her lips were the brightest of pink, a sharp contrast to the fair blush of rose and peach melded over in silken layers and dissolved into the milky white complexion of her plush cheeks; her eyes, a glowing dark yet translucent shade of chestnut brown glazed in honey. She had a perfectly proportionate nose situated at the center of her face: straight but not too jutting, petite but not abnormally tiny, with a tubby tip at the end – an underrated feature most certainly. Funny how humans have developed the most audacious and impudent of names and phrases to delineate perceived deformities and abnormalities of the basic mammalian anatomy: an oversized or flattened nose, tennis-ball eyes, thick and leathery lips… we devise these as if they are just mere combinations of alphabets to be thrown around indiscriminately. But once it comes to appreciating the true glory of all that exists around us, no words suffice and we are left dumbstruck. I find myself the same as I look at her.

Our minds have been polluted, corrupted and twisted away to the point that we can longer picture a mental image of natural splendor within ourselves or anything else for that matter without some form of perverted connotation obnoxiously rearing its ugly head into the image. This, I fear for her. As I write this, I do not wish her to be the victim of a deviant cognizance; to be pictured as an object of lust rather than the symbol of true beauty that she is.
She is way above it, and deserves much better.

Her aura – angelic; a pastel green scarf framing her face, veiling her ears and hair, except perhaps a few minute strands of curly black escaping the confines of the cloth over her scalp. Her smile was charming and amicable, no assemblage of florid letters and sentences would ever do it any justice, revealing a fine set of pearls lined seamlessly next to each other on the upper half, the lower case delicately crooked, majestically serpentine, twisted onto one another. The aroma of her presence lingers over me. It wasn’t perfume, she hasn’t worn any… never around me at least. It was an organic scent, enchanting and mesmerizing.

Her body was lithe and supple. She stood around a little over five feet… or perhaps shorter. I rarely find myself towering over anyone in regards to size and physical stature so this was news to me. She was so small. She tells me her friends back home used to jokingly call her a smurf. I can see why. Sometimes it feels like waddling like a penguin… or a duck.

Anyways, moving on, I see the fabric of her headscarf extended across the nape of her neck and the front of her torso like a majestic mane of diffidence and modesty. She was introverted, rarely engaging in small talk, her energy reserved for those she deemed worthy and special enough to speak to. And when she did speak, her voice was… well, honestly, it was quite ordinary. Slightly cloudy, rasp, a bit broken, but very faintly. It was distinct. And the words she spoke were the nicest things ever. I specially find amusement in recalling her conversations with her mother over the phone. They spoke in placid whispers – Arabic, Egyptian dialect. She is Egyptian. The words fluttered under her breath like soft, tender kisses. It had a calming, tranquilizing effect on the nerves. Soothing. Hypnotic.



— Fahim Ferdous Promi

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