Some beauties are special. They are not only carved in beauty, but also move with beauty. Through their mannerisms of body movement, constantly add a new dimension to beauty. These mannerisms have a special effervescent charm, they enhance observer's sensitivity to beauty. Like alcohol, they fuel thirst for themselves. It is their soothing effect on body and mind that does so. Like fragrance rides the breath and disperses in whole body, they are a delight not just for eyes but whole being of a man. They trigger the virtuous cycle of sensitivity to beauty in the man.
Word " delicate" is constantly floating in my head, tied to an emotion which gently but persistently keeps nudging me. I am wondering about the source of this emotion. Perhaps it is the perfume that she is wearing, subtle, sweet, and alive, this essence of flowers slowly merging into my breath and my vitality, of which this emotion is born. I am in thrall of this, struggling with two confronting urges, of breathing fast or breathing slow. The greed of taking, through her fragrance, whole of her quickly in me versus slowly, very slowly, savouring this sublimate of her beauty and extracting every atom of her being from this charming air in to my blood stream. "Whole of her" versus "all of her". And I suspect word "delicate" is my cue for going slow.
Or perhaps it is the "delicate" movement of her long beautiful fingers. Those supple fingers crowned with black nail paint, except for index finger nail which is painted silver. It is in embrace of a silver beetle with two shining dark green eyes-a ring in beetle shape and two small rubies that made up the eyes of the insect- which keeps on riding the gentle movements of the finger when she plays with her phone. Finger moving like painter's brush, moving in divinely fluid movement, with complete lack of stiffness but with total control, on food tray, on handle of fork, on the neck of water bottle, on her phone. She touches the app icons on her phone as a master gives final touches to a masterpiece. God, in a moment of unbridled generosity, has moulded her hands in pure elegance.
With corner of my eyes, I steal these looks. My eyes, riding a perfect wave of her finger movement, are so lost that they lose their footing, and yet smoothly glide up another wonder of her being. Her arms. Flawless, like a snow covered field, shining under the mild sun- of her orange sleeveless top. These arms, like mother, are watching over those playful fingers; proud and unobtrusive and yet in perfect harmony with those elegant fingers allowing them their scope, with minimum of movement or guidance; and perfectly worthy of bearing such beautiful fingers on accord of their own beauty. These arms appear so well trained to cut down on all the unnecessary movements that the symphony played in the rhythmic dance of fingers is elevated to a new level.
Or perhaps it is her hair which are fragrant. Of shoulder length, with a tinge of brown- or rather gold, thick and smooth. So neatly untangled that one of the romantic thoughts that is constantly suggesting itself to me is of counting them. One by one, each time running down my finger on their length to feel the texture of soft but firm fragrant fibre. And when she moves those fingers in her hair it hits the limit of poetic imagination leaving me in frustration of failure to capture the moment in words.
And, a few time when she say ' thank you' or 'its ok' those words are no less fragrant to my ears than her perfume, or her hair. That is a new dimension added to sense of hearing, the fragrance.
-Frequent Flier's Notes:(Chandigarh to Mumbai flight)
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