Finally, in 2003, I stepped into the hallowed halls of Gujarat's most prestigious engineering institute. Excitement crackled in the air, and my internal "pretty face scanner" went into overdrive. It filtered out a sea of hopeful candidates, but Bijal stood out from the crowd. She had warmth and kindness that shone through her eyes.
She has irresistible charisma, despite her lack of traditional beauty. Her own brand of brazenness and carefree enthusiasm radiated through her attitude. There were certainly more attractive faces, but none had the irresistible appeal that hers did. The way she carried herself with confidence and grace made her truly captivating.
My first few years at university, meanwhile, were a study in timidity. Talking to females, particularly over non-academic topics, was something I dreaded. Getting the nerve to ask someone out is another story in and of itself. I was always too nervous to make a move.
One day, in the microprocessor lab, I was hunched over an assignment, lost in the world of code. Suddenly, a presence materialized beside me. It was Bijal. No introductions, no pleasantries, just a bombshell question:
"Do you know who Gandhiji's child is?"
I was caught off guard, mumbled a shrug, and admitted defeat. I had no idea.
"Well, it's a nation!" she declared, a playful grin breaking across her face.
I felt a rush of embarrassment at my ignorance. The sheer absurdity of the joke caught me off guard, but then her infectious smile did its magic. I was completely disarmed. Realizing that her shrewd wit had defeated me, I couldn't help but join in with her laughter.
We engaged in unusual ways. I preferred to keep to myself, but if Bijal saw me working on my homework in the open lobby, she would grab a chair and start talking incoherently. It was a strangely awkward yet comforting friendship that formed between us.
At some point, the subject became daring. She would point to the empty area below and ask, "What if I pushed you from here?" her voice filled with dare. I would nervously laugh it off, but deep down, I knew she was serious. I just stared at her in utter wonder.
"Do it," I said, my voice dripping with flirtatious playfulness.
"If you, yourself, are ready to push me, I am ready to break my bones as well." I said it with a teasing smile. For the first time, I saw a blush creep onto her cheeks. shy surrender in those beautiful brown eyes.
Our time together was brief, measured in stolen moments and witty exchanges. She'd appear in stunning red dresses, a stark contrast to her usual western attire, and I'd shower her with compliments.
Her comebacks were sharp, laced with humor: "Tell me something new. I already know that." But despite our banter, there was an undeniable tension between us.
There was an undeniable respect I felt for Bijal. Her genuine, carefree spirit was unlike anything I'd encountered before. She didn't play tricks; she was simply authentic and unapologetically herself. I couldn't help but admire her.
Regrettably, our trajectories had split by the sixth semester. Life, being life, progressed, and I found myself faced with the difficulties of internship seeking in my last year. As an example of the unexpected connections that may be made while attending college, the memory of Bijal—the girl who dared to break the mold—remains.
