I
still remember those gone-by days, feeling Anjali’s innocent dance steps. Her
slim little body would dance to the beat of the music like a daffodil in the
breeze. She was the queen of our school, and even the bees would wander in a
daze over her fair face, her beauty comparable to that of the most stunning
blossoms.
When
she was on the school stage, glittering like a sunrise, everybody would cheer
up and become excited, admiring her. For me, I was hopelessly addicted to her
performances since I was in fifth standard. She performed a nursery rhyme, ‘Dancing
Butter’, in 1997 when she was in third standard, a landmark moment in her
dancing life.
Our
fathers were classmates, alumni of Jakar High School. In school, my father was
an academically gifted child with great leadership skills. He’d received a number
of awards and certificates for his excellence in academics and leadership. On
the other hand, Anjali’s father, Rajesh, was less academic, but he had shown
himself to be an artful student on many occasions.
My
father gave a welcome dinner party when Rajesh and his family first arrived in Ura.
He got his transfer placement at Pangkhar Forest Check-post, a branch of Thrumshingla
National Park. We spent a most agreeable evening, and it was there that I first
saw Anjali, Rajesh’s daughter. When the moon cast its white light on the warm
tones of Anjali’s face, I went dumb, gazing in admiration.
That
night was the first time that I suffered insomnia. Anjali’s beauty consumed my
mind; even when I closed my eyes tightly, I would see this young girl, in the
full bloom of childhood. A real cutie. Her thin dress made her look like a
glamour girl, her silky hair dancing in the breeze.
Later
that night, I fantasised about proposing to Anjali. My negative thoughts
disturbed the cheerfulness that I had enjoyed for a while, albeit only in my imagination.
I fished my poetry notebook from the basket and translated my wild dreams into
rhymes and rhythm, a poem:
‘Your face beats the beauty of the moon’,
I said,
But she blushed like a loon,
Letting my heart bleed.
‘Your lips beat the beauty of a rose’,
I said,
But she stared with a pose,
Letting my heart bleed...
That
night, I realised that words come easily when our feelings are sincere. I
enjoyed the breezy manner of a poet for a while. I remember my father once said,
‘A doleful expression makes a good poem’. I never fully agreed with him until
that night. I had always believed that we become true poets when we are in
love.
Sometimes,
I felt like I was inviting disgrace into my life. I worried that admiring an
eight-year-old girl could be disastrous. Nevertheless, if there was something
to be blamed for that, it was her exceptional beauty. I’d never witnessed such
extreme loveliness.
In
school, we used to stay together most of the time. She was in third standard,
and I was in eighth. On the way to and from home and school, Anjali used to hum
the nursery rhymes that her teachers had taught in the previous classes.
Sometimes, she used to pose questions like,‘Do you like my voice? Do you think
I will become a singer when I grow up?’ I used to exaggerate, comparing her
voice with that of the skylark,saying that people would prefer her voice once
recorded.
My
father once read me a poem, ‘Ode to a skylark’by P.B. Shelley. He said the skylark
is a small brown bird that sings as it flies high up in the sky. Ever since then,
I’ve always thought of the skylark when appreciating sweet voices.
My
father was an English teacher at Ura Primary School. He is an aficionado of the
poetry of Keats, P.B. Shelley and the Shakespearian cannon. His friends
sometimes refer to him as a walking encyclopaedia. He often uses the phrase ‘the
milk of human kindness’ from Shakespeare’s play ‘Macbeth’. Perhaps, the phrase
inspires him to be good and kind to other people. Today, he spends his time
reading the works of the most illustrious Poet Laureate, Alfred Lord Tennyson.
Sometimes, he even tries his hand at poetry, but I now realise that he is a
little selfish. No matter how good or bad his compositions, he keeps them in
his folder, refusing to share them with the world.
Anjali’s
early interest in dancing developed into an abiding passion. Even at home, she would
often play Hindi music on the radio and start tapping her leg with the pace of
the beat. I would remain quiet, silently admiring her dungkhar akhel, her right-turned conch-shaped hands that
would swing in the air.
Her
father, a tall man with a sharp elongated face, is the strictest man I have
ever seen. My father calls him Rajesh Dajo, meaning Brother Rajesh. As
soon as he arrives, the room goes silent. He gets mad when he sees Anjali with
her songbook or in her dancing dress. Her father has never watched herperform
on the stage.
I
remember once, the school administration invited Rajesh as a chief guest to the
annual school concert. He rejected the invitation after learning that Anjali was
to perform, admonishing her for participating.
That
evening, I was with Anjali, holding her, consoling her. She cried the whole night
and refused to dance. She cried and cried bitter tears, as if she’d lost the
most important thing in her life. It is really painful to see someone so close
to your heart shed tears. I couldn’t do much to calm her; instead, I cried with
her until the end.
In
spring, she’d pick the wildflowers that would bloom all along the paths and
make bouquets of daisies. She used to stare at the flush of the flowers and
shed tears of admiration. ‘Flowers have to live’, she used to say. Sometimes,
we’d completely lose ourselves collecting various flowers and belate for
school. When we would realise that we were late, Anjali used to go pale with
fear. I’d feel a sudden chill, aware of the scoldings and beatings ahead. But
I’d try to remain dry-eyed in front of Anjali.
