The Eraser

What do I tell you of this trifling tool, an eraser? I was fooled by the might of it very early in my career. My love career that is! It so happened that the girl to whom I wrote my first love letter was still studying in school. So I too was naturally studying with her. Same class. One day i got this idea of writing her my thoughts on a small piece of paper. I tore a sheet from my school diary and tucked it under the desk. Then I began to wait for the free period so that I can write the first few lines with all my skills, thus putting my poetic sincerity to test.

She occupied a bench in front of me. Her back was always wonderful to look at. Little twirls of unkempt hair resting lazily on her shoulders. I used to pinch a hair secretly and wait for her to react. No reactions followed usually. The hair can’t tell who touched it. But this time I got to touch her shoulder from behind. I mean I can’t just call out her name and utter some nonsense. That would piss her off. And yes touching her for handing over a letter. What an excuse have I just cooked up! So what if she turns me down. I would have at least felt her back.What a memory that would make. Who cares then of a rejection? Next class, next time, life moves on.

So yes I touched her and she did look back at me. Eyebrows a bit high and jaws dropped. I concealed my smile and looked brave. I do this all the time with all the girls in my class. What’s the big issue girl? Ok, I gather enough courage not to utter a single word and hand her the letter. Her friend looks at me with suspicion. She takes it from my hand and continues talking to her friend. Only that her voice goes a bit dimmer, now. I start scribbling all over my notepad. Just to look busy. The paper is lying on her desk, I see through the space between her hand and her chest. Next I have planned to ask her for returning my eraser. To start a conversation, that’s all. Should not be mistaken for a weak effort to remind her to read my letter. I hesitate and look around. The teacher comes in and the class begins. I start writing notes. She does the same. By now I have lost sight of the piece of paper. Fair enough, she will read it at home. Class gets over. The teacher leaves. Now she is painting something with the eraser. I can hear the scratching sound. Oh, no wait. She is erasing my love letter. I touch her back again. She hands me back my paper, neat and tidy. May be writing with a pen should have done the trick. "What class do we start using a pen?" I ask my friend.