There was this girl who had very pale skin, fine-thin light brown hair and albino nails. Her eyes were soft brown and her lips the softest pink. I wish I could say hazel eyes and chestnut hair. But I won't because they weren't. She was this plain, pale girl, who spoke with a lilt, as though she was afraid, even when her voice laughed. She was called Shamrock.
Everytime I think of her, I have an intense urge to describe all her features with added intensity and make her fiercely beautiful. I guess that's because I do think of her as "fiercely beautiful".
I don't remember a time when she looked strained. Only shy and ever-smiling. How apt for her name!
Rosy and I spent an afternoon in the Oval garden, plucking four-leaved clovers, pressing them between pages of Indian and European history and the History of English literature books. It was as though we'd pluck them just so that we could say the word "Shamrock". It did something to our teeth and lips when we spoke the word- leaving a light hoarse strength at the bottom of our throats. And we wanted to repeat the word, as we counted every new discovery.
The four dimensional green leaf of hope. So, so like Shamrock's shy smile.
