Spartan Daily - Serving San Jose State University since 1934

It was the way she held her eyes ... constant, steady, and focused, and one could see his reflection growing smaller and bigger in a strange variation trying to keep pace with the fluctuating size of her pupils ... yes, academic researchers would have proudly concluded this as staring.

There are three kinds of staring.

The first kind is far from kind and makes you look down at yourself hurriedly and check to see if there are some visually embarrassing gaps that you might have overlooked.

The second kind chills you to the bone and makes to wonder if you should have shaved or stayed home today.

The third kind makes you whirl around expecting to see your best friend with a twisted grimace as horrifying as the ax raised high above the head in the process of splitting you in the middle just for the heck of it.

Hers, on the other hand, was a stare to be reckoned with. She knew what she was doing. The staring she espoused to employ on me was distinctly a work of art, and it spoke volumes of such.

I stared back. It was, of course, the decent thing to do. I was brought up under strict rules of a small town, where kids were repeatedly told to politely stare back when stared at. I was no exception, of course. On the contrary, I was the most stared-at kid in town.

The reasons were obvious. My parents are terribly good-looking, and my grandmothers stared expectantly at me (when I first arrived) waiting for amazing good looks to shine through and spellbind them and make them whisper among themselves.

The "humph" and the choke and gargle that emitted from somewhere within them, said it all.

I was not what they expected.

In fact, in any of their expectations, I was running a few light-years behind. Over the years, my average blinking rate has reduced considerably, in my polite efforts to stare back.

Well, I stared back at her.

I did not realize that I was crossing a busy road when I decided to stop and politely stare back. All the honking that I heard, I gathered, was a part of her charming effect on me. She was a good starer, no doubt, and the things she did with her pupils were absolutely fascinating.

The climate was wonderful. I could feel a slight breeze. The breeze, I realized much later, was from the whizzing cars that swerved and turned to sweep past me. I could have sworn I felt a slight drizzle too (even though it was a clear sky), but I cannot remember clearly because of some angry faces almost crashing through their glass windows to shower some really unfamiliar words right at my face.

I may not have been blessed with the best of looks ... or ... er ... looks. I have been, however, blessed with a sharp brain. I noticed deftly, amid all the drizzle and strange angry faces whizzing past my nose, that even though I was politely staring back at her, she might have not have the slightest idea that I was responding.

It was then that I hastily removed my sunglasses. I secretly hoped, when I resumed my staring, that my pupils did the same fascinating tricks as hers did in such a flamboyant display.

Her lids fluttered, and mine fluttered rapidly with hers. I was proud of my upbringing which helped me at this awesome juncture. I slowly raised my hand to my chin and slowly scratched it. I was doing what I did best.

I mused.