I was 14 then. Her father got a transfer to this place and she joined our school in mid session. This is a typical case with govt. employees; they are frequently transferred, to places unheard of. And then you start afresh, making new friends and for a long time feeling nostalgic about the the old place and lost friends.
But then there is one relief. The same old Kendriya Vidyalaya. You are happy that you do not need to remember new prayers again and start over again with new books with half of all your notebooks already full...... But there is more to it.... The feeling of being at home. It's always the same, wherever you go. The same loose discipline, the same style of teaching and the same set of co-curricular activities every Saturday.
She came from a big city perhaps. As she wore blazers against the regular pullovers all of us wore. None of us knew her name and no one dared to ask, for she always kept a mile's distance from all of us. Most of the time she kept to herself. So in the meantime she a got a nickname 'newcomer' till we discovered her actual name "Swati Sinha" , from the 'All India Radio' of her section.
She was too beautiful to remain anonymous despite her introvert persona. Every second boy in our class had a crush on her. During morning prayers, she stood in the line on my right with me a little behind her. Her long beautiful hair was made into a nice French braid, with some loose hair near the ear flowing with the morning breeze. And I watched her between the prayers : the corner of her Kohl lined eyes, the glitter from the gem in her nose stud, her neck sinking into the collar bone, the crease on the sides of her blouse.........
I visited her section during recess and watched her eat. Most of the time she was either alone, reading or writing something or chatting with a single friend. I never saw her as a part of a big chat group that girls usually formed. She had very few friends. But she cherished being with them as I saw the glow on her face while she was with one of them. I really envied Mitali whom she gave her best smile. Yet I always wanted her to be in the class for I wanted Swati to smile for all the time I was watching her. But Mitali opposed to her was a complete extrovert. She was the vice captain of her house and her commitments kept her busy for most of the time during recess. So Swati took refuge in one of her books or scribbled something on her pink notepad which was always kept handy for times like this.
Here I watched her from the front unlike the prayer queue and I could see her full face and not just her profile. But here I was conscious, confirming now and then, like a thief, that no one was watching me. I felt embarrassed at the thought of being caught. I did not have the answers to the questions that would follow. I could not answer the questions to myself. “Why am I doing this?” A mixed feeling of guilt and bliss surrounded me.
My view was thus restricted to some glances that I could make, pretending to look around the class while I sat with the 'pumpkin' who never went out of the class, even during recess. I liked every expression on her, smile or frown, even the blank one she gave while scribbling on her notepad. One day she was sleeping with her head on her desk. I got the news that she had a fever and wasn't feeling well. I felt like sitting next to her and watch her sleep all through my life.........
One day I heard her poem was selected for the first prize in some competition. I heard our principle recite her poem. It was touching........ 'All India Radio' had told me that her parents were not having a steady relationship. The grief had percolated in her poetry. Those silent eyes had a lot to say !!!
It was our last day in school and our juniors had arranged a farewell party. For the first time I saw her in anything other than school uniform. She was wearing a black sari and her hair was arranged in a twist unlike the regular French braid. I imagined myself with her and blushed.....

The party was getting over and people started leaving. I wanted to talk to her. Wanted to tell her that there was someone who could wait for her for whole life watching her eat and sleep and scribble those poems on her notepad. We never talked through the two years we were together in school and while leaving I did not know what to say. I gave her my autograph book and she obliged. While she was writing, I saw her father coming. He had come to take her back. All that I thought of saying sank at once. She gave me a smile as if saying good bye. I watched her sitting on the back seat of her father's Royal Enfield. They crossed the boundary wall and all that remained was the sound of the engine. It faded as they moved on........