5 feet 5 inches. Average frame. 67 kilos. Completely owns her 52 years. Medium brown skin, a shade darker in a horizontal oval shape around the lips and in half-moons under the eyes.
It used to be thick black and curly but now it’s scant, allowing pale scalp to peep through in places. The blackness now replaced with streaks of silver, grey and pale brown that she wears in a bunch behind her head. The curls are now looser, more manageable. The hairline, less defined.
The oval face bears a forehead with 2 thin but clear, straight horizontal lines running parallel, about 1 centimeter apart, from one side of the face to the other. A baby line is forming on top of these two. Faint but visible on a closer look.
Asymmetrical eye-brows, the left one bearing a scar from a childhood fall. Not bushy, not sleek, not modified. Just plain, normal, slightly curved, unremarkable black brows concaving over dark brown eyes with microscopic gold flecks. The ones she passed on to her son. They are almond shaped and carry a sadness which lingers even when her face breaks into a smile. She didn’t know that her eyes closed when she laughed. A stranger told her once. He’s now her husband.
Her nose is odd. She’s always been embarrassed about it. Too broad. Too big. Strangely no one else seems to think so. Maybe they’re just being polite. Maybe they don’t really care. Maybe its inconsequential.
Her small shapely ears, adorned with traditional diamond studs set in the shape of a flower with 6 petals. Her lips, brownish-purple with a hint of pink where they meet. Her husband says she reminds him of the ancient drawings of apsaras at the caves of Ajanta and Ellora. Her teeth, perfect. Her chin, proud. Her jawline, clean. Her neck and shoulders, silky.
Her loose-fitting, sleeveless olive-green linen tunic has a modest V-neck. It allows her to freely move and breathe. And lets her hide herself. A pair of grey tights cover her legs.
She sits out in the sun in her backyard which is green with grass and weeds. One shrub with big round heads of purple and yellow flowers dominates half the square patch. She trims it every autumn and it comes back bigger and ever-more-loving the following year. Some say it looks untidy but who cares. She loves it.
Her study table is a mess and so are her ward-robes. Only she knows that. Everyone else seems to think she is super organised.
Halfway down her left arm, half a tattoo can be seen from the front. It is blackish-green in colour. It has English letters hanging off a horizontal line, like they do in Hindi script. The font is predictably called Ananda Namaste. One afternoon in September 2016 in Lagos, Portugal, a skinny middle-aged man with glasses took 45 minutes to make it. He didn’t make small talk. What did this word mean? Why this? Why now? She was relieved. All she knew was that she would never change her mind or heart about this one. She would always love Saagar.
I know that woman. I recognise her from the very last line.
Oddly I almost feel like I recognise him too although I never met him