La la love

Locally grown flowers paraded as “fresh and imported,” justifying its cost or at least trying, a magical time when even the least romantic and aloof variety of humans want to be struck by the oh-so-sexy-man in diaper, be swept off their feet with a bunch of roses waiting for them at their door (reminiscent of their favourite rom-com), or at least find a miserable piece of chocolate from their secret admirer on their desks. High hopes and that thing called Love, I'd say.

Groggy is the word that describes me best on Valentine’s Day. Even the warm embrace of my bed with who I’ve been in a strong, committed relationship for forever, couldn’t comfort me. Oh the hype. Oh the red. Oh the horror.
I was the Valentine’s Grinch. I’ve nothing against love. It is powerful and it is meant to keep you going, every day. What’s with this? One day of love? Tsk.

Six years and a couple of months later, I remembered the bar of chocolate and a single long-stemmed red rose I had received on my very first Valentine's day. The ones, I had squirrelled into my backpack, red-faced, the whole string quartet going at the back, head dizzy with happiness. I had pushed my stash to the dark corners of my bag where no one would find it, trying to hide the scandalous idea of me being in a relationship at 15. At least, the idea was to save my chocolate.

As the years rolled by, the idea of honouring St. Valentine just felt more and more ridiculous. My Valentine’s Day would be spent with my man, mocking others’ pitiful efforts in having le perfect day.

“Stop being judgemental,” he’d quip and when I narrated a particularly cheesy, mawkishly sentimental incident that made my heart weep, he would giggle at how over dramatic I was. I say, how could one not notice a huge, childhood-fear-evoking teddy bear sitting on the seat, almost like a person, next to the super excited chick who doesn’t know how to get it home, what to tell her parents or how to shred it? It was as funny as watching Indians attempt to play any other sport but cricket. I would speak within the walls of my head, hoping to communicate telepathically to the poor boy who needs advice so bad, “think out of the freaking box, you jackass.”

And then it happened. Six years and a lot of feeling-like-a-married-couple later, he hit me with a neatly, hand-written letter. Oh and oh. With punctuation!
My heart did a little tango while I waited for words to materialise. I didn’t want to cry.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you,” I said.
He broke into a wide grin, “There’s an extra sheet in there. In case you want to write back, you know?”
He not only writes but makes me want to.

As my good friend, Ms. Chander rightly put it, “Letters are such a poignant medium of communication. At once brings out friendship and differences. No?” Of course, she was right. She always was.

I had to smile at Him and the little freak, Cupid who hissed devilishly in my ear, “Where is all the corn and cheese now, you bitch?”