His shirt was a square peach, on which there were rail tracks, dropping sharply down the shoulder blade towards the cuff playground. Blue stitched rail tracks. Or, were they electric wires from which trams dangled? A double-queue of blue hem adored the peach landscape through which Bhavya's gaze longingly lingered on what lay underneath. It was Yohaan's hair which had first distracted her. They say smugly on his temple, like a stack of precious hay waiting to be grazed upon. And as Bhavya looked on, he blinked. Those felt like sun-kissed waves -- ones which invite you, and send you back with a warning that too much of the glance was harmful for the observer. She could not go beyond his hair and his eyes, and in exactly one week, this Monday, she reached on time to not allow him a moment out of her sight. Yohaan was new here, and she was already a legend. She knew how to handle the delicate measure of her desire and her reputation.
He was not there and the passing moments felt like a caged occasion. Strange, Bhavya thought, the last seven days passed in delightful patience and dedicated planning. For the next hour, Bhavya was at her juvenile best, lost about her next step, almost shuddering at the thought of not being able to see Yohaan ever again. She scooped her sentiments out of a rich mudpie and drowned in the notoriety of a calorie-dense coffee, when suddenly she sighted the square of Yohaan's peach shirt. Desire comes walking home.
As she longingly lingered on the possibility of what could lay underneath his shirt, not for a single second did she have to counter between the philosophical corrects and the comical wrongs. And I am a neat meat myself. He will recall this episode and retell it in heroic valor. She went forward and touched his wrist. "Nice watch, Yohaan." He blushed with the immediacy of a peeled watermelon. He fell short of words. Bhavya touched him from cheek to chin. "Tch, may be you would like to say a Thank You?"
"Yes," Yohaan braved up. "Thank you. My parents got it for me from their visit to Dubai."
"Dubai, nice. And where were you?" Her hands had swiftly unbuttoned his cuff-buttons and folded his shirt up. Yohaan was at a loss between what he could do, what he should do and what he would like to do. "Attendance will never be a problem. I am glad to welcome you to the Privileges of the Bhavya Goodwill Club. Not many are lucky to win an entry into it." She paused to close his exercise book and sat herself on the table. She touched his arms in a firm grip and commanded, "Please me."
The distance between Yohaan and Bhavya later that night was more than a seven hundred metres as in hostels, boys' wards and teachers' houses are located. If one could however encrypt their heartbeats, it would speak of a connection at the same source, the shine of a new excitement. Yohaan lay on his stomach, writing the details of his successful encounter to his older cousin who had attended the same school. This was the first choice for everyone's 11 and 12th. He had won himself not just the rights to drive around in the Audi of his cousin when he was next home, but also a semester worth of the blindingly beautiful adventure of being the subject of Miss Bhavya's interest. Several metres away, Bhavya lay content on her back, with her serene sense of understanding of her own smartness. And as such, silence will look after us. She closed her eyes and was sun-kissed by Yohaan's thoughts -- his delicious eyes all over her body.
The ancient holy books spoke of an incident about two birds. While one ate happily, the other was happy to see it eat. It was left upon us as a question, as to who was happier.
Who, do you think?
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