perhaps, perhaps, perhaps...

I sit there staring at the never ending oblivion of people’s faces passing me by. A face, all too cute and pink in the glow of the winter sun catches my eye. The eyes glaze over to mine. Eyes meet. A look, lasting perhaps a fraction of a second is shared. An understanding created and lost all the same. In the seas of people from everyday you don’t make meaning out of every look, do you? Except the next second the person is on my table, hunched over my shoulder and whispering to me, “Could you guide me to the loo, please?” I look at those doe eyes, the innocence’s lush and pouring out. “Straight down left, and the left after that,” I say with my widest smile intact. “Erm, sorry? I couldn’t catch that,” the nervous voice crackles. I smile a bit wider, eyes meet; sink in deeper in an unsaid conversation. “Straight down, left and the left after that and you’ll be there,” I try to be as informative as I could be while using the only words I could, with all my strength, trying too hard not to smile with my heart in my eyes. Dazed, the eyes flutter about a bit. Craning the neck, the eyes look for the left I talk of. Unable to find it the yes wander back to mine, they speak of the language of a known timidness of the fear of being lost in a mirage of the everyday seen. “I... erm...”

“Allow me to take you to the washroom?” My most earnest smile displaying my affection at my behest. “Please?” I walk ahead, the peering face trying to arch its way through the new lanes. “Are you an intern?” I ask. “Oh no no...” “Are you here for a job interview? Why are you fidgety about loitering around here?” I realize I might’ve already asked a tad too many questions for the 40 second walk when the eyes lock into mine and preen, “I don’t want to be seen...” I wonder what that meant, when we are in the restroom. “Well, here we are,” I say looking at no one in particular and make my way inside one of the loo gates, only to find those utterly cute, inquisitive eyes peering at me while I shut the door. “Gosh!” I blush to myself. Get out of there, back to my workstation, absorbed in the mundane in a blip, trying not to give it too much attention when a tiny hand, pink at the knuckles, wrapped in mittens reaches out to me, “I’m Pankhuri, it was nice meeting you.” I’m flaying, I’m flying, what do I tell anyone. Before I could muster a response I let go of her the tiny palm, and whisper to myself, “Am Anandi, hope I get to see you around here sometime soon?” as I watch her amble away, making her way out of the office building. Will I ever see her again?