This morning, as I crossed the road to catch an auto, I saw an exquisite woman. She stood in the shade of a mango tree. I think I found her remarkable because she was so comfortable in her own skin. Didn’t seem rushed. Didn’t seem uncomfortable without any of the modern-day accoutrements we use to avoid eye contact with strangers – mobiles, magazines, i-pods. She just stood there, simple and beautiful.
She was fairly tall, and her straw-colored linen dress fell a few inches above her knees. Her calves were sinewy and her arms were shapely. Her arms were toned, sure, but they didn’t look like the overexercised walnut-crackers that some women have. She had shoulder-length hair that seemed to glint of honey-hues when the sunlight shifted through the leaves. Everything about her seemed to have the delicate fading of timelessness – like the edges of a beautiful, heirloom sari, maybe. Her dress was almost white, her hair was almost brown, her eyes were cappuchino but again, almost so. From head to toe, her seasons in the sun seemed to have lightened off some of her demeanour, but admirably so.
The only thing that seemed to be in stark contrast to this bleached perfection was her complexion. It was strong and beautiful and…in some ways…emphatic. She looked like she bathed in the finest cognac to have the color softly coat her skin and make it glow. There was such a gorgeous sheen about her.
As I left in my auto, I turned back to see her again. Around her, the world had gotten busy, and the Monday had gotten manic. But this lady just turned this crazed little lane a background for her portraiture. There she stood, with a wonderful glisten reflecting off her – in the shadows, in the spotlight.