She had a unique way of wearing sari, she plucked the sari’s loose end together into folds and ran it all the way up, from the right side of her pale white and fragile looking skinny waist across the wholesome breasts covering them fully and over the shoulders, where all the folds were gathered and pinned up over her left shoulder delicately on to the blouse and quite charmingly rested the extreme end of the sari’s loose end over her left hand rolled up. She playfully dropped the loose end all by itself at times, other times; she would pay attention to the lonesome warrior and pay homage by carefully rolling it up her left wrist. This unique way of wearing sari gifted on the students a rare view, of a feminine quality that was waiting to be expressed; a woman’s encroachment on a naïve teenager’s psyche, a desire and wanton that met halfway behind her back while she turned over to jot something on the board, something infinitely unimportant, for the beguiling features of her stiff naked flesh kept the students in a trance, of beauty that curved, of curves that looped , and of loops that met somewhere beneath the elegant sari work. By now, everyone knew that she wore a white bra, for her unique way of wearing sari left the blouse uncovered by the sari on her back, and the features were impossibly clear for all the students to watch and be suffused with the promising beauty, of a back that was caught up covered mesmerizingly by a piece of transparent cloth and a guarding thick strapped bra that was supportive. And, the bra furthered the desire equation by wholly converging from the top of both the shoulders and meeting in between with a length of thick rectangle blotted out in the middle, for the straps were hooked and the hook position stood out in the whole architecture of subtle nuisances. The hook reminded one of the hidden qualities that were guarded, the hook also reminded one of the perimeters of conquests, one only had to gain access to the hook and the whole piece of majestic beauty would unfurl in one giant heap and the waves of desire would thoughtlessly, effortlessly undulate in the field of students’ mind. The outlines of bra straps on her back hung on to her shoulders so picturesquely that it titillated one and every student’s mind, the tickling sensation that began by her posture found catalysts in the naked flesh of her nape behind the neck, above the bra straps. The nape was refreshingly penetrating, the color of the skin was becoming, and the soft pale yellow flesh tormented one’s capacity of administering grips on oneself, and one ceaselessly fell prey for the standing lascivious lass with nape that stood so straight that it would put a swan into shame, breasts that bosomed relentless beauty in them put all the known species of birds at shame, a waist that converged into frolicking folds of timeless aggregation of softened skin put even the most voluptuous bodies at shame, and an arise that was so great that it appeared immobile in its mass for one with the eye for mass, small and cute with affirming postural stand embodiment for one with eye for skinny inclinations, that it put the giant horses with big bare backs at shame.
Such was the poise she took that even the most reluctant and indifferent mind fell prey to the elegant poise. She stood firm and on heels with the heaving bosom covered beneath the sari, and an enchanting tongue that she encircled words inside her mouth before leaving them into the open, ‘end’ sounded ‘end’ with stress on ‘t’ that was so shattering on already pent up nerves that one helplessly hung up beside himself. And she spoke, she walked, she adjusted the rim of her glasses, so fine and delicate that the skin of one’s teeth slipped over into the mouth. When she talked, everybody listened, when she walked, everybody gaped at her, when she paused all the eye lids paused as if earth paused at once in its orbit, when she turned her back, everyone frothed and gulped the spit back into their throats. She was an oasis of desire, a sand dune of elegance, a prima Dona, and the Greek goddess. Every day, she wore a new sari, a matching blouse, matching bangles, matching slippers, and matching hair clip, but the bra remained the same, the white one. It was her trademark style, one that she defined and only she was ever able to pull off so elegantly that nobody doubted if she was the proud owner of her style, perfection in person, character and an attitude that differentiated her. She stood out, she was unique and the only one who earned that respectful adoration ever taught in our school. She never ceased to exist, she was always there on everybody’s mind in the school, it was as if, she existed in waves and disturbances that rippled over the students, teachers and the principal as a giant wave that broke into the shore, wave after wave, she came and she gone. She broke on our minds with suddenness that we were blenched with fear of apprehension; she broke on us in a wave of lustful admiration like a wave in sea broke into white froth. She impaled our minds with a perpetual pattern such as the waves that cleansed the rocks on shore and left them soft and streamlined. Such was the force of her presence that the mind wavered into the verge of exploding, a desire un-quenching, an instinct unbridled such as the sun rose from a blank and grotesquely wholesome darkness to expose the blue sea everyday at dawn.
She was an epitome of a structure left to the beholders of beauty to gape in awe and admiration. When she walked, she rolled her sari’s end on her wrists, and the sari fell over feet in urgency, the folds so stiff and current, embroidered her already statuesque picture with a concurrent force, and she seemed dragging the weight of expectation with every passing day. And so it happened, one day she turned her back to write on the board, which nobody cared really, that I noticed her bra strap on the right shoulder displaced away from her shoulder and slipped on to her hand. Thanks to the transparent blouse as always, and thanks to the unique way of uncovering her back as always. I remember the day so clearly, with every passing second, I got increasingly aware of the situation, it never happened before, she dressed so conscientiously that she could only have existed in books, or in pictures on every piece of drawing board in this world, the real world was so utterly incompetent and beauty ridden, barren in existence that she should never have been let out of the books and pictures into the real world in the first place. The right strap unsettled the configuration so vast that the hook was now inclined at a good five degrees to the horizontal where it was hung up with no room for error for so long. Every time, she faced the class, I tried to read her face and was hoping that she would excuse herself from the class for a while and push the strap back into its original place thereby attainting ordered symmetry. I knew that she knew it, she felt the strap on her upper hand and the void it left on the shoulder was also palpable, it was unquestionable that she knew it, but she stood there and endured the pain, suffering and humiliation of a disturbed symmetry on her back for a good thirty minutes. Out of desperation, I hoped that she would begin dictating something out of the book and when everyone dug their heads into the books to jot it down, she could use that momentary minutes of near nothingness of gazing into adjusting the strap, to put us all out of our individuals’ episodes of restlessness. But she never did, she never relented, the frame of stroking arrogance did not bend down. I remember the day as the day that the beauty suffered all by herself, lone and in her person, she showed no signs of trouble and that added dignity to her figure.
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