There he was, sitting in the same place in Shahab Garden again, reading the same paperback.
Roona sat on the stairs outside the English Department, peering at him through her glasses. She wondered how someone could be so calm and content in solitude, so aloof and utterly unconcerned, alone as a little growing plant in a dark forest or a leaf lying on a stagnant water, disconnected from its surroundings in its singularity. He never uttered a single word, and no one ever seemed to be talking to him.
“He won’t even look at the beauties around him,” she mused, cradling her face in soft contours of her palm. He sure fit the description; self-indulged, nothing seemed to attract his eyes. Poised and uninterested, his line of focus never strayed from the words stamped on the yellowing pages of his book. There was not a single glimpse of misery or vicissitude in his face, and that was why he’d completely entranced her, compelling her mind to run blank and making her sit there and watch him every day, catching glimpses of him from the corner of her eyes.
She knew he sometimes looked at her too, eyes skimming over the edge of his book as he lowered it, glancing at her through his thin lashes. But he never ogled like everyone else; his gaze penetrated through her skin, and sometimes she felt like as if he was seeing inside her, into her very soul, whispering a thousand words to her heart, leaving her electrified in his wake. She knew she would never admit that he had been the reason behind the sprightliness on her face since the last four days.
Everything was same about him like any other day; he was still sitting there, engrossed in his novel, eyes flickering smoothly across the words. Nothing out of the ordinary, or so she thought, until she noticed his clothes. She stopped close; he was wearing a blue shirt too.
She blinked, a little surprised: I always dress in blue on my birthday.
“How could he know that I’ll wear blue today, I’ve never spoken to him,” she thought. “Well, that could be a coincidence. Of course, that would be a coincidence,” she convinced herself. “Just a coincidence.”
But she knew. She knew like she knew the earth orbited around the sun and that night came after day; this was no off-shot chance ball that had hit home base. This was planned.
She suddenly noticed a handmade card beside him and then a pregnant pause prevailed, the silence of which persuaded her that all this- his solemn face, his shirt, the card.
He knew all about her. There was nothing hidden from him.
She stood firmly, took a deep breath, exhorted herself and started walking toward him, her heart pounding in her ears. But she had to make it clear today; she had certain things to say and certain things to hear from him.
A few steps later she was standing in front of him, so close that she could read ‘Happy Birthday Roona’ on the card. He put his novel down on the bench and raised his eyes towards her. She stared into his brown eyes; they were clear as water, so serene and shining, like the eyes of a newly born baby that had yet to glimpse upon the world’s oppressions and afflictions.
Moments passed, without an echo. He didn’t say anything, and she was unable to understand the language of his silence. So finally, in an agitated voice, she broke the spell. “Ahmad?”
She did not know why she said that name, and there was no intentional meaning behind it; it was like as if she had been uttering that name since childhood. But he said nothing. An alluring smile came on his visage like he was just there to listen. It made her nervous.
“Roona?” that was a familiar voice. She turned back saw her best-friend coming, “Let’s go to the café.”
She moved a step forward towards her and whispered, “I can’t.”
Looked back at him, Roona gave a little smile said to her friend, “I have to talk to him”.
“But Roona,” looking around, her friend blinked at her, astonished, “Talk to whom?”…
