Les visages – III

So today I have received quite some evidence that eminent people happen to give a cursory glance towards my blog. Honoured I am, madames et monsieurs! The hand shall linger now for a few more seconds over the keyboard before I let the thoughts flow through them onto cyberspace.
5. Les larmes de la française:  23rd of May, 2015. Paris embraced me for the first time. I felt a certain portion of my heart melt away in the peaceful yet passionate embrace. There is an irresistible charm in this maiden, however heartless people might term her to be. And boy did I fall head-over-heels into that, right into her arms! From walking the streets at 1:30 am in the night to the old yet well maintained and quite cheap métro lines, to the history lining the streets and the cobblestones and the kisses of lovers in Jardin du Luxembourg, from Rue de la École, to the Tour de Eiffel, from the oldest English bookstore on the continent to the luncheon along the route to the Museé Louvre, she had it all! But I shall speak of Paris’s visage sometime later. This post is about a lady, moderately tall, enchantingly beautiful and with a possible broken heart.Madeleine station, named after l’église de la Madeleine, a church near the area, was a nice beautiful little station with several levels. The Paris Métro lines are quite beautiful and so are the stations though maybe the trains need some Suissification. I could trace the lines with my mind as they criss cross across the city (which, if you search on Google Maps looks like a heart, an actual human heart, okay I romanticise too much) and over and across the Seine. Getting off at Madeleine was actually an accident for us. Madeleine lies across the Seine along the green line from Assemblée Nationale and after Concorde. The line we stupidly took did not stop at Concorde so we had to get off and wait at Madeleine. And then I saw her.

A young lady, possibly in her middle twenties. ঘোমটা মাথায় ছিল না তার মোটে, মুক্ত বেণী পীঠের ‘পরে লোটে – Her unbridled hair was carelessly thrown across her back, she was মীনাক্ষী, Meenakshi, her eyes as dreamy as that of a fish, she was clad in the Parisian jet-black overcoat, a large handbag, and a veil of tears. She was talking quietly to a friend, who was trying her best to possibly console her. Her eyes , large and expressive with prominent eyelashes which were slowly moving as her eyelids had the slightest touch together and the wonderful force known as surface tension made a drop fall from her eyes onto her cheek. Her bottom lip quivered silently as her eyes welled up. The effort to not break out into tears was visible on her face. I could feel the cringe in my heart too, what could have caused her such grief? I surmised that it might have been a loved one leaving that person, memories of a friend who is not a friend any more, memories of regrets. I tried to imagine any other situation that that might have caused this, but I got none.


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