Thursday, November 05, 2009

872 : The pink side of life

Picture this, I am on a NY subway. Standing, leaning on the centre pole, the one which is almost in the middle of the car.

I see this dapper of a guy, well dressed (isn’t that what dapper meant???) and brown curly hair. Definite European (I hate to say this, but an average American has no sense of style).

He is now talking to his daughter in German (European confirmed…). Daughter is this petite little thing, perfectly perked up in dainty pink, complete with pink stockings, a golden fairy like shoe, and two tiny pony tails using orange ribbon.

Daughter and father enjoy an animated conversation in German + English. Father has a book teaching her to spell in English. They are spelling words like car, grape…and so on.

He removes the subway ticket and helps her spells T I C K E T too.

I am on the E line which has a electronic display of the next approaching station. Father tells daughter that the next station is 34th Street Penn. She is like “how did you know?” types. He points her to the electronic display right above the seating on the opposite side of where they are seated.

She immediately gets up and rushes closer to the other side, an attempt to gaze closely at the display.

The train is still moving, and she instinctively  lunges for my hand, actually my wrist, using it, as if it were some sort of supporter. She is unaware, unabashed.

Though I have been watching this whole scene intently with the eyes of a voyeur, the thorough spontaneity of this still shocks me…..almost as if, I am suddenly part of a movie scene, which I always thought was just a movie.

It amused me, that if this girl was any older than 5 (which is what probably she was), she would have never held onto any “stranger” she would have rather awkwardly fallen here and there…..even if she would have held my wrist, she would have quickly retracted, probably apologized and then moved onto holding the center bar….none of which actually happened in my story….she continued holding onto my wrist, until she was satisfied with the display and walked back to her dad.

Is growing up supposed to be a process of losing this innocence of the pink?

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