At times I would bump into her as she would be going with their maid, who was also around our age, towards the market to fetch groceries. Several times they would walk out together while we would be playing cricket, and many times I had misfielded and let the ball trail off towards the boundary for I was preoccupied elsewhere.
Luckily the boys did not catch on otherwise they would’ve teased me forever. There were times when we did bump into each other earlier in the day, before the sun had reached its peak. I would be practicing on my own with the ball when I would hear the gate unlock and there she would be, walking with the maid. They would be giggling together, talking about things that girls talk about: clothes, shoes, jewelry.
Initially I just stood rooted to the spot, watching them go past, staring but trying not to. As they would walk by me they too would stop talking and walk along, conscious of my stare. They would not look towards me but walk past, with an almost slow pace, as if to torture me with their presence. I tried to muster my courage to say something but almost every time I was just left gaping, as they would disappear around the corner. I felt she despised me, for giving me no look of acknowledgement.
Or so I thought that was the case, until one day, after what must have been the hundredth time this was happening, she looked over her shoulder as they turned the corner, and then, just as I had known the first time we locked eyes, that she liked me back. From that day on, I would say hello to them whenever they crossed, in the long consciously drawled out manner to seem pious, and trustworthy: “assssallaaaaam ooo alaaaaeeekummmmm”. They would respond rather briskly, without lifting an eye out of humility, but after a few paces around the corner I would hear them giggle away, the way girls do their age.
Over the course of the following weeks I started walking along with them, addressing them but directing my questions to her. At first I felt awkward around the maid, but she was quite supportive in a minxy kind of way. Egging us on to talk to each other, she would linger a few paces behind us, as if watching over us like a teacher does over her students. Eventually I won her trust enough to let the both of us stroll alone together in the nearby park. By then she was no longer the girl from 104-B. Her name was Zara.
We would talk about school, sharing stories about our least favorite subject and teachers. She hated geography, complaining that it wasn’t going to help her since she wasn’t going to become a farmer. I voiced my hate for mathematics and history, claiming they were so irrelevant. Frowning at what I had said, she told me I was just being stupid. We talked about our activities at home. What we liked to do. I told her I loved movies. She said she found them to be sinful with all the unabashed candor depicted in the banners. I vehemently opposed her ideas explaining how all the characters were pivotal to the story and made it more realistic, even though in all honesty I was bullshitting. We talked about our favorite music. What she liked to read. How her elder sister was extremely nosy. But before we knew it, she would be glancing at her watch and briskly walking back towards the market, where the maid was waiting with the groceries.
Several weeks had passed and my attempts to get in touch with Zara were as unsuccessful as an alchemist’s attempt to turn things to gold.