Those Blue Eyes

Those Blue Eyes

The new director has joined the office. On the exit of the previous director, his secretary also resigned. Therefore, we needed to recruit a new personal secretary for him. And today, the interviews were scheduled for that post. Only five candidates were called after the preliminary scrutiny by the placement consultant. I was on the frontline of the process as I had to receive the candidates, get the required forms filled and send them to the interview board after knowing preliminary things about them, and checking their papers. In that scrutiny, the first and third lady did not qualify and the directors rejected them on my notings itself. The second and fourth ladies, both were more than 35, and their experience and was visible in their communication and body language. Both were told that the management will get back to them in two days. The fifth and last candidate came to the office a bit late, and it was sufficient reason for me to express my irritation. I said to myself if she cannot come on time for an interview, even if is just 10 minutes, what she will do if she gets a job. As the fourth candidate was still inside the interview room, I called the fifth candidate and commented dryly that she should be careful about time. 

I handed over the form to her and she started filling the form sitting on the other side of my table. Before taking her seat, she softly spoke to me, apologized for her delay, and said that it was not intentional, and she was late as she had never come to this area. The girl,  wheatish skin, still far from reaching her 30s, I felt she was a bit afraid. Her eyes were symbols of depth, blue-eyed, with dark black lines marking the under the eye, which was possibly indicating the existence of some struggles which might be ongoing in her life. Her face was radiating with a sort of unique inner softness. 

Different, substantially different from others! That is what I told myself. While examining her form, I asked her whether she would be ready to accept some other job if she did not get the one she was called for. She replied in affirmative. 

Interviews were over and she was rejected. I might have interviewed or managed interviews of thousands of candidates and never remembered anyone, but there was something in that blue-eyed girl that I was not able to forget her. Her voice was a very low pitch as if it was a soft Raga coming from a distant radio in the amid the night, making you get lost in the tranquility of a night, and the sleep. While leaving the office, she thanked me in a low voice and asked whether we can call her for any other vacancy. I gave her a consolation answer, though felt that my mind was regretting this lie. She was not that inviting, she was not in any kind of costly and branded clothes, nor more beautiful than normally beautiful girls, but she had something that anyone will look at her once more. 

Reached home in the evening. Mother was sitting in the living room and her bedroom door was closed. I asked her why the door was closed? She said the daughter of the friend of your father, Mr. Sharma of Bhopal has come. She had come to look for jobs in the city and came to see us. I did not allow her to go and told her parents that she would stay with us. When she has come here, let her try for more jobs. She should not feel any difficulty when we are here. This was an almost regular feature in my house so I did not pay any attention and dashed to my room, took a bath, and came to the living room to have tea and evening snacks. I closed my eyes, stretched my legs and the blue eyes came on the canvass of my mind, her soft and deep musical voice was echoing in my ears.

 

I felt as if I was hearing her voice in person. With eyes closed, I was relishing the voice in a dream, when I felt as if I was hearing the voice. 

Mother called in a louder pitch, hey, what are you doing just sitting with the teacup in hand, not even drinking it? Have you slept? Look, Smita is addressing you so many times and you are not replying.

I opened my eyes, and wow, she was standing in front of me, wearing a saree which mother might have given her, those blue eyes, a dark black spot under eyes. It was my turn to get shocked. 

Oh, you! Here?

Yes, I thought that I will meet my uncle and auntie and go back today but could not go. Auntie forced me to stay here. Only after reaching here, I came to know that I have met you during the day. 

Smita, mother said, see my child, once you have come here how can I allow to return just like that? And just look at your face, and the blackened under eye! You will stay here for at least one week.

I kept silent, with a blank mind. The feeling of her presence has engulfed me like a large wave covering the rock on the beach. And somehow, without talking on the subject, mother came to know that I was overwhelmed with her presence. 

My mother agreed to her request and allowed her to leave after three days. I went to the interstate bus stand to see her off. We did not speak anything special, but when her bus left, I kept on looking at the bus for a long time, and I was feeling that she was also looking back towards me. 

We did not speak much, but Mom and Dad took the subject, started talking to her parents. They were already friends for a long time. And my marriage was fixed with Smita. 

Today, that interview is now a story, eight years old. Our marriage is also six years old. And Smita, Mom always tried to take her care and ensure that her dark under-eye can go. but she failed in her attempt, in the same the manner as Smita's mother had also failed. 

Today, it is one year since Smita has gone to her final abode! Today is her first annual rites. Her soft voice was lost, sacrificed on the altar of her unknown disease. 

But today, her soft voice was echoing in my ears. I was hearing from all sides, the soft, deep voice, Good Morning sir, I am Smita Sharma, and I have come for an interview. I apologize that I am late by ten minutes.

One year ago, we had offered those blue eyes on the altar of fire, the burning pyre. She was late in the interview by only ten minutes, but in the race of life, she was so fast that she had left everybody behind, even all the elders. It was too fast. And I was at Gangasagar, to perform her annual rites. The blue ocean, in front of me, as if the last drops of her tears from her those deep oceans like eyes, which were stuck and dried on her cheeks, have come out of her eyes to mix with the vast ocean, and lend the color of her eyes to the ocean. As if, the ocean was created out of the two drops, the drops which were also symbolic of her unbearable pain, the pain of her body, the pain of leaving everything.

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