I have been shopping all day today. It’s a special day, the day he proposed to me. Now I know, I know, we Indians greatly misuse the term. Or at least how it was used centuries ago, by long dead Britishers, so alienated from us in their habits and hues as to render their views on our language, quite irrelevant. Coming back to my special day, yes, he asked me out today. Told me he loved me, was in love with me. With a steely glint in his eye, a determination that one associates the better with marathon runners in their last kilometer or observes perhaps in the eyes of patients about to pop in some nasty medicine. You see, I had tried my best to discourage him. I knew this declaration, a thing with a life of its own, equipped with its own pair of tiny lungs and a fragile puppy heart, this declaration, I knew would change my life. It was scary.
So, I am dressing up for him today. He likes me in yellow. Truth be told, he likes me in anything really, but I know he is partial to yellow. And I want to make it a thing, you know, our thing. Sometimes these traditions, remembrances start to mean more than what had sparked them off in the first place. We need that amplification.
Like the meal I am going to cook him. It’s his favorite, he is not a foodie, but he likes paneer butter masala. I had to travel a bit to get fresh paneer, the Indian shops are all situated in an older part of the city; it’s slightly seedy, this locality. I know he wouldn’t like me to go there alone, but I can’t really serve him rubbery paneer, today of all days.
The neighbors all know today is special. Ordinarily I am a little reserved with them, you know, strange place and all that. But I couldn’t help but notice their enquiring glances as I worked like a maniac yesterday, spring cleaning my house, disposing of the millions of articles that find their way in and build up into a mountain of junk. You know, the boxes, and bags, and the ubiquitous stack of bills, papers, pamphlets. My apartment is tiny, at best slightly larger than a doll’s house, and I run the risk of drowning in this rubble if I don’t drain it out routinely, and yet I don’t till the waters come rising. He keeps telling me to clean. Like every day. It’s the first thing he notices. And so as a gesture to our special day, this time I cleaned. Can’t wait for him to see.
As we approach the hour, I look around pleased. The house is spotless, the masala is simmering, and my outfit is laid out, ready to be worn. Now the only thing I need to buff and shine is my own self. Oh yes, you bet I will! I am going to be first thing in his line of vision, and I want to fill his senses, fulfil his senses. He loves my skin, he always says it was the first thing he noticed about me. Tonight, I am going to make it sing.
And so it arrives. The moment of truth. I am a mass of sensations, surrounded by a mix of aromas, the luxurious waft of the paneer butter masala mingling with the fruity fragrance of my DKNY Green Apple. I open my laptop, and there it is, right by the clock, at 3 am Greenwich time, a video call from him.
It’s the third year of our marriage. And our fifth year apart. There were a lot of naysayers, with everything from logistics to law thrown into our faces. But like the language of speech, the language of love adapts with changing times too. And we are pioneers, a generation of explorers charting the rules of cross-continental living, and loving.
So, I am dressing up for him today. He likes me in yellow. Truth be told, he likes me in anything really, but I know he is partial to yellow. And I want to make it a thing, you know, our thing. Sometimes these traditions, remembrances start to mean more than what had sparked them off in the first place. We need that amplification.
Like the meal I am going to cook him. It’s his favorite, he is not a foodie, but he likes paneer butter masala. I had to travel a bit to get fresh paneer, the Indian shops are all situated in an older part of the city; it’s slightly seedy, this locality. I know he wouldn’t like me to go there alone, but I can’t really serve him rubbery paneer, today of all days.
The neighbors all know today is special. Ordinarily I am a little reserved with them, you know, strange place and all that. But I couldn’t help but notice their enquiring glances as I worked like a maniac yesterday, spring cleaning my house, disposing of the millions of articles that find their way in and build up into a mountain of junk. You know, the boxes, and bags, and the ubiquitous stack of bills, papers, pamphlets. My apartment is tiny, at best slightly larger than a doll’s house, and I run the risk of drowning in this rubble if I don’t drain it out routinely, and yet I don’t till the waters come rising. He keeps telling me to clean. Like every day. It’s the first thing he notices. And so as a gesture to our special day, this time I cleaned. Can’t wait for him to see.
As we approach the hour, I look around pleased. The house is spotless, the masala is simmering, and my outfit is laid out, ready to be worn. Now the only thing I need to buff and shine is my own self. Oh yes, you bet I will! I am going to be first thing in his line of vision, and I want to fill his senses, fulfil his senses. He loves my skin, he always says it was the first thing he noticed about me. Tonight, I am going to make it sing.
And so it arrives. The moment of truth. I am a mass of sensations, surrounded by a mix of aromas, the luxurious waft of the paneer butter masala mingling with the fruity fragrance of my DKNY Green Apple. I open my laptop, and there it is, right by the clock, at 3 am Greenwich time, a video call from him.
It’s the third year of our marriage. And our fifth year apart. There were a lot of naysayers, with everything from logistics to law thrown into our faces. But like the language of speech, the language of love adapts with changing times too. And we are pioneers, a generation of explorers charting the rules of cross-continental living, and loving.
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