First Brush with Love

 

Ever tried to pinpoint the exact moment?

The moment something inside you changed?
Was it in 7th grade, or maybe the 8th?
A feeling unfamiliar, yet strangely engraved?

I smelled a scent—a perfume—
While standing in the morning prayer line,
Eyes closed, hands folded tight,
Right before attendance time.

That fragrance lingered, always near—
Was it then? Or was it later, when we had a substitute teacher?
She asked us to lay our heads down on the desk,
Then she stroked my hair—soft, light, tender caress.

I loved it, though!

Soon, Biology became my favorite class,
Praised by teachers, but for one, I worked twice as hard.
Her voice, her words, a melody so divine,
“Oh, look at that handwriting!” she said,
As if I’d etched poetry, instead of answers which filled up exam sheet lines.

She loved my silky-soft hair,
Laughed once, claiming she’d ride with me on my bike if she dared.
Another day, she told me she loved me in red and white,
Which, coincidentally, was my sports house’s pride.
Saturdays became my favorite day,
Because in those colors, she noticed me that way.

One day, she took my workbook home,
Wrote answers in her cursive tone.
I kept that workbook for whole 2 years, like a treasure gold.
Staring at each letter, tracing the strokes.

Then I learned—
A friend had her photograph, a rare, precious sight.
No phone cameras, no selfies back then,
Just a hard copy—held tight in my friend’s hand.
I couldn’t let it slip away,
So I bargained and bought it that very day paying 10 rupees, I still remember.
Now, I had something new to admire,
Something beyond her handwriting’s fire.

A school picnic—Mussoorie bound,
I ran to the bus, hoping to be around.
She sat at the front, by the window’s gleam,
So I chose the seat where I could catch her reflection in the screen.
Her hair brushed against my face in the breeze,
That same perfume, setting my heart at ease.
The whole ride was bumpy, the road a maze,
But nothing compared to my heart’s wild pace.

April 15—still engraved in my mind,
Her birthday arrived, I wrote her a rhyme.
A card, a poem, a smile so bright,
For that moment, everything felt just right.

Then came the cruelest part -Summer vacation, two months apart.
The thought of not seeing her, a hollow ache,
So I gathered courage, a leap of faith.
“Can I have your landline number?” I asked, unsure,
She gave it with ease, without a blur.

And so began the all day long calls,
Hours slipping, no silence at all.
Even now, I wonder—how did she have that much time? For me, her student that time.

To listen, to talk, to laugh in line.
I cherished those moments, unaware,
Of what I was feeling, or why I cared.

Butterflies—fluttering, wild, untamed,
Love, in its first, purest Raw frame.
A feeling beyond words, beyond reason
or rhyme,
Just a heartbeat, suspended in time.

Then came the 10th grade, and I scored high,
I was the Topper of the class, a gleam in her eye.
Accolades from her, a moment so sweet,
But life, as it does, had other plans on for me to meet.

The time had come to switch my school,
A bittersweet farewell, emotions pooled.
And just as I left, I heard the news—
She was engaged, a bond to choose.

Our math professor, her destined groom,
Wedding bells ringing, a distant tune.
For me, one chapter came to a close,
Yet no heartbreak, just a path that rose.

Because first love, though fleeting, remains,
Not to shatter, but to gently change.
A door closed, another opened wide,
With love’s first lesson—felt, not denied.

                             ~ By Pahadi Narratives