If only a sigh could have said it...

I like nit-pickers. I know that’s the most absurd way to begin a post but I do. May be not nit-pickers who are irritating but those who are touchy about small errors, faux pas, if you will. The kinds that love to read a beautiful poem written by an amateur and smile while reading it and suddenly jump and point out their index to the small comma and say, “that is wrong, it should have been a semi-colon!”. The ones who comb their hair/ tie up a bun like it were a ritual and if the sacred geometry was moved by an inch, the gods of symmetry and perfection might never forgive them. The ones who carry two kinds of tissue napkins (course and soft) for cleaning hands and wiping face respectively. I love to watch them clasp their wrists while their eyes move on black words on paper in front of them. Sometimes they look down upon the book in a tone so condescending, as if to say, “be glad I’m reading you, you little insignificant thing” and their backs propped up and neck perfectly aligned to the spine, legs joined at the knees and feet, heel-to-toe, perfectly parallel to each other. Their gorgeous language that can sound sweeter than fresh sugarcane juice and if well read into, can cut like a sward burnished in cold blood of many that fell prey to it unsuspectingly. Fastidious, nastily demanding and still making one feel it were their honor to give them what they are asking for. Those, who can not stand the thought of catching a cold. If the thought does dare to surface, the fortress of cotton ear-buds and socks and mufflers and rugs is built in a matter of seconds. I love them, when they tilt their heads and smile while listening to the most irritating man on the planet and say nothing more than “I see… oh Good God, is that true…?”. The ones who sheepishly laugh at a sarcastic statement they have made and has not hit home as far as the incumbent is concerned. I love their politeness and diplomacy. Ambiguity that is clear and clarity in their ambiguity. Exactly like the sentence you just read. The fact that they wash their face after every three and a half minutes of exposure to five dust molecules that might have settled on their flawless skin, is not only fascinating but so arrogant and royal. They don’t wear perfume but the smell lingering, is their shampoo and conditioner and in all probability, the aroma of the candles that they had lit while having their bath: a two and a half hour one at that. I love to see them sitting out in the sun on a cold winter morning, watching sparrows and other fowl peck on their grains or on the flowers planted in their garden. I love to hear the deep throated sigh when they are actually convinced that the world has a few more nice people than they suspected. When they laugh they sound like little babies chuckling at the bright colors of the world and if you know them well enough, you know that the laugh was the loudest one you heard in a while and that he/she was really, really happy. I love to watch them walk. Their steps are measured as if with a scale and each one resting itself on the floor like it did not want to disturb mother earth while she snoozed on a dull dreamy Sunday afternoon. And when they stop to admire the much forgotten nature, they seem to stop time, dead in its tracks. When they stand with their hands folded in front of their torso and legs perfectly straight, their hair playing with their thoughts and the wind playing with their hair, they seem to be commanding the heavens to descend immediately or the Gods were in deep trouble. Their concern woven in their wisdom and their affection glistening in their eyes like snow flakes on the window sill of a wooden cabin, somewhere in the Alps.

Ah well, I can probably go on forever and come across as a ‘wanna-be poet’, but its true, I have finally had the pleasure of making these observation from someone I am proud to know. Let’s leave it at that now, shall we?