My sister and I, we talk about the perfect nose- not too long like mine, nor bulbous like hers. The perfect one that gives symmetry to one’s entire face. The one that he has- the man of Science.
My most peculiar memory of the man of Science is that of him standing tall in the lab against the backdrop of blinding rains- those that make everything fade, even the shiny gurdwara dome, painted bright gold.
But rains or no, that is what the man is capable of- making the background fade.
The more I watch the man of Science, the more I realise that he is instead that man of Life- of life’s struggles and lessons.
The erectness of his back, a habit now, from the constant dose of discipline.
The chiseled abs of a 45 something, after the incessant whiplashes from life straight in the gut.
Skin clear yet porous, having absorbed it all- auras of men and women and places.
Eyes searching, ears twitching; reading.
Always only a white shirt and black pants; like there’s no in-between, only good or bad.
And you know now, that I watch him, needless to say; like he does everyone else- I notice him noticing.
I notice how lovely cufflinks he owns; how many rings he dons; his ears pierced, devoid of a stone. And I notice how his black pants have changed to grays and blues; how the hem of his trousers just miss the heel of his shoe- this man.
The more I watch,the less I understand, this man.