I walk into the classroom unsure
Whether the remnants of our relationship
Still lingers, to be savoured again.
I am surprised that it is so!
Is it my imagination? Who knows?
It won’t matter, not today.

The desks are arranged like
They used to be.
A wonder, really!
The same old furniture, fans, board,
Charts and windows that were
The epitome of our innocent delight.

I sit on the bench which
Was caressed by your presence
I put my head on the desk and
Try to feel the softness of your cheeks,
The aroma of your skin and hair.
You know? You used to lie with your
Cheeks on the desk, espying me
With mischief in your eyes.

I think I can still feel your touch
On the porous wood.
Where your hands with bangles,
Jingled my consciousness
Whenever you moved.
You know? I used to wait
For these distractions just
To look at you again.

I can see the faint blotch of ink
Where you threw away the pen
When it refused to write.
I touch the faint indenture
On the desk, created by the nib.
It’s curious that I still feel its sharpness!
You know? The pen is in my pocket now
And the blotch, a blue on my soul.

I put my fingers down into
The recesses of the desk, feeling
For the tiny nook betwixt the joints.
Ah! There it is. The small note
You had wedged with precision.
‘Ready for the treat today?
Your purse, no jokes
And don’t brood so, on reading this.
Its not often a guy gets to dine with a lady!’
You know? Often do I brood
On these little nuances, little bits
Of education.

Did you know? I made a note too.
It said, ‘I’ll miss you a lot.
I can’t say thanks for all
Those moments you made life rich,
Your studied smile, gentle chiding
And glorious companionship.’
You never saw it though, because
I feigned impetuosity, bravado
And left you only with half a wave
Of ineffectual goodbye.

‘Why did I do it?’ you may ask.
I can tell you why.
Longfellow was supremely right!
“The leaves of memory make
A mournful rustle in the dark”.
I didn’t want to burden us
With that last sentimental look
Around the corner whence your
Bike doth disappear.

I slip your note into my case,
To be treasured and revisited
Many times over.
Mine, the note from the past that
I then didn’t dispense with,
I slide into the same secret nook
Hoping you’d visit our sanctum,
Find my note secure and know that
I thought about us, our warmth
And our parting.

If you do visit, I know that
You will understand it all now
And feel the pangs I felt years,
Half-a-score, before.
I also do know that
You will too treasure my note
And our unrequited vindication.