One day, back in 1896, I was crossing over to Jersey on the ferry, and as we pulled out, there was another ferry pulling in, and on it there was a girl waiting to get off. A white dress she had on. She was carrying a white parasol. I only saw her for one second. She didn't see me at all, but I'll bet a month hasn't gone by since that I haven't thought of that girl.
Bernstein, Citizen Kane
The point Bernstein makes is about how memory works, but there’s another – it’s something that every guy has experienced. Or at least something that every guy has experienced. The girl you saw, somewhere – maybe when you were a teen or a twentysomething – a theatre, a bar, a shop, an airport or a railway station.
One of my friends described one such incident – involving the Triplicane Parthasarathy temple just after dawn during Margazhi. He talked about the dark blue sari she wore, and the flowers in her hair – jasmines, if I remember right. He called the experience holy.
Mine features a woman in white, as well. It was when Nilgiris was the only “supermarket” – if you can call a place with room to park no more than four cars that. This girl walked in with her boyfriend – or her husband or whatever. Oval face, shoulder length hair, small dash of ash on her forehead, lovely eyes, soft voice. She bought some stuff – dal, milk, chips and some fruit. I don’t think I gawked, but I remember moving through the aisles so that I could keep looking at her. She paid for her stuff – or the boyfriend did, and she went away on his bike.
She must have been a local, I thought. But I never saw her again. And like Bernstein, not a month has gone by since that I haven’t thought of that girl – twenty years now.