The girl who just walked past us, trailing a sharp scent of foreign perfume (though probably made-in-Zinzira), I kept staring after her with unblinking eyes. A sixteen-year-old beauty, grace flowing through her body, her face lit with an inexplicable hint of a smile, every curve of her form seeming to pulse with the rhythmic meter of modern poetry.
What extraordinary beauty! I couldn't tear my eyes away. When I slowly turned my gaze, craning my neck until I could stretch it no further, I had to reluctantly—and very unwillingly—pull my eyes back. My friend standing beside me threw out a sage observation.
: That girl must be studying economics.
I was amazed.
: How do you know? Is she someone you know, or some sort of acquaintance?
My friend dismissed my suggestion with a laugh and continued.
: You're a complete ass!
I was dumbfounded.
: I've been known as a human being for about twenty-two years. And now you're turning me into a donkey? What's this really about?
My friend smiled and replied.
: Couldn't you tell from the way her blouse is cut according to economic principles?
Bewildered, I said, "Meaning?"
In response, my friend opened his mouth again.
: Look at her once more. See how her outfit is arranged. That sleeveless blouse makes every line of her body distinct. The neckline is cut in a 'V'. The front and back of her neck show at least an acre or two of bare skin. The effort to reduce the width of her blouse is far more thought-provoking than your struggle to get a degree. And what about the thickness of the blouse fabric? The girl is from a respectable Bengali household. Haven't you heard of Pabna handloom? The thinner it is, the cheaper it gets. From this angle too, the girl has saved her father's money considerably. She bought cheap Pabna handloom. Look at her feet. Even if not Everest, her sandal heels must be as high as Kanchenjunga. Those sandals could last at least twenty years of regular trips from Rokeya Hall to New Market. So this also proves her natural thriftiness. And have you seen that sari? I think the thumb-severed weavers from the British era have grown their fingers back and started making that kind of muslin again. Now look at her hair. There's no doubt that the waves of Hollywood and Bombay have reached the women's circles of our country too. With the active help of a hairdresser, her bun has become wider than the plateaus of Tibet. Now look at her face. Broad forehead, arched eyebrows, two kohl-dark enchanting eyes, smooth rosy cheeks like apples, a sweet smile-touched face, and then a chin worth caressing. How beautifully her flawless neck descends and curves forward!
I was listening like someone under a spell.
My friend began speaking again, "Have you seen how she wears her sari? There's a Teknaf-to-Tetulia distance between the sari at her waist and the blouse on her chest." Then bringing his mouth close to my ear, he whispered, "And have you seen her from behind?"
There was slight excitement in my voice.
: Yes yes, her hips...I mean...
: Hey, stop!
My friend interrupted me midway and continued.
: Did you look further behind?
: No!
...I replied in astonishment.
...I replied in astonishment.
My friend then asked...
: Didn't you see a boy behind her?
I started and said...
: A boy? Not her brother, is it?
My friend replied.
: From the looks of it, he's probably her boyfriend.
My face fell. With a dejected expression, I somehow swallowed and said: Oh!
My friend burst out gleefully.
: What's wrong? Why did you deflate like that?
I felt embarrassed. I didn't give any answer. Just suppressing a long sigh, I said, "Come on, it's gotten quite late. Classes start at 8 tomorrow morning again!"