Amar choto bou chole bake bake...If you are looking for some meaning in the words written above - please stop. It is of no use.
This is a short dedicated to my wife whom I did not get to marry.
Being typically Bengali, she is puchu to me.
If you are reading this, please keep in my mind that I am not one bit drunk. And I don't particularly feel like writing either. This you see here is not prose. Just an open faucet. Or a gaping wound sp... okay. Scratch that. Open faucet it is.
She has got a small round face. Her eyes are symmetrical. A bit like almonds. They look lively and restless when open and calm or serene when closed. The nose is neither pointed not large. It sits right in the middle of the face with even elevations on both sides. It is not too small to notice nor is it too large to get in the way. Her lips are small, but not thin. There is an amount of volume to them that you would not usually expect.
Her face looks normal something from a distance. It looks small from close up. It looks smaller and rounder when I hold them in a cup. It looks very very different when she smiles and especially when she squints. Usually the dimple shows. But that is not always guaranteed. Guest appearance.
Her breath has a slight sweet musky milky smell to it. It is irregular. One moment it's there. Next it's not. The next is a storm. The eyes are in sync. You can tell the rhythm by looking at her eyes. Both eyes.
Her hair is a mess, usually. But unlike entropy it seems to find order from chaos. The more you try to have it pass like sand in your fingers, the more it becomes organised. It's a miracle.
She walks reasonably fast. Eats fast. Complains a lot. Especially about food.
But she is cute. And small. :)