My Unique Valentine

My better half is the kind of person who remembers to forget things. If he goes to the market with a grocery list containing 12 items then conveniently he would buy only the first four happily omitting the remaining eight. Even the first four would have a warped destiny. For example if his grocery list contains 1) bottle of hand wash, 2) car freshener, 3) idli batter and 4) cream biscuits then indisputably his grocery bag would contain 1) bottle of car wash 2)body freshener, 3)fresh cream and 4) instant cookie mix. Now you must be wondering why and how. Very simple, look at the grocery list and grocery bag once again. All the ingredients are present only with tiny-miny jumbled prefixes and suffixes. Poor chap just mixed up a bit and put car in front of wash and body in place of hand. Hand is after all a part of our body. Idli batter, who cares!! Remember only the batter and mix and match it with biscuit (cookie). Innovative you see. Once inside the busy market who has time to check the list again and again. The result, I stand open mouthed with two un-required items in both hands cursing my own judgement.

Unquestionably my birthday, anniversary and Valentine’s Day suffers from the same theory of relativity. Honestly I do not complain much as I outgrew all these even before puberty hit. I somehow find all these very nyaka nyaka, (I apologise for not finding an English substitute for this quintessentially bong word. Dramatic could be a probable alternative. Suggestions from my bong readers are welcome). Nevertheless, when on Valentine’s Day I saw my man entering with a small stem of rose, I grew not amused but suspicious. My man remembering Valentine’s Day is as absurd as me remembering the periodic table. At once, the song ‘bahon mein chale aao’ started playing in my head and the image of a seductive secretary in body hugging micro mini with a rose stick clenched between her red luscious lips and sparkling white teeth sitting on his office table flashed across my mind. I closed my eyes and paused for a moment and concentrated to remember the faces of his real life office colleagues. My mental search engine could not find any such voluptuous woman but found a hairy short and fat man with a thick moustache which could make Utpal Dutt’s character in Golmaal proud. The paunchy image against my ‘mataharisque’ seductress proved comforting. There was no apparent threat I presumed unless some “Brokeback Mountain” was happening behind the scene.

My man handed the rose as if methi or spinach leaves. There was no bending on his knees or spreading his arms like Shahrukh. His eyes or lips were also not trembling the way it did in my staple Bollywood movies. He didn’t say anything like ‘Senorita, bade bade deshon mein aisi choti choti baatein hoti rahti hain” or “Kkkkkiran tu hain meri Kiran” (replace K with alphabet T) rather said that next year he would buy it three days in advance and keep it in the refrigerator so that he doesn’t have to pay the price of an entire garden for a single rose. I think I should stay happy with my spinach and methi bouquets.


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