When I was a little school girl with an oily plait (sometimes two) and knew zilch about love and romance (except what I gathered from sneak reading Mills & Boon novels under the covers of my school books and watching two flowers meet on the silver screen), I attended this family wedding. My glamorous, gorgeous cousin, with the striking red sari and dark kohl rimmed eyes (that looked just a little scared that night) was getting married to this tall, lanky guy with a warm smile and friendly eyes. I ogled quietly from behind marigold garlands and banana leaves and plastic chairs and just about everywhere (including mom’s sari pallu and panditji's drooping shoulders). He was a geologist with the ONGC. He had a well settled, decent family. He was an only son. I could hear the envious family gossip but was completely deaf to it all. I only had eyes for one man that night.
Time travel to 25 years back
It was this fascinating stranger who - from now on - was going to be Piyush jeejs to my Guddi didi. The way he looked into her eyes, the way his fingers closed around her mehendi adorned hand when her dad put it in his during the pheras, the way he stood affectionately behind her (she was a few inches shorter, even with high heels) had me completely mesmerized. I think I was too star struck to even say hello to him. I could only stare. That’s true love, I thought, getting heady on the fragrance of the red roses that mixed with the pungence of the marigold flowers on the wedding pandal, coughing over the sandalwood smoke wafting from the holy fire. That’s what the M&Bs write about. And one day, I’m going to find someone like him too.
I remember whispering into my cousin Tanu’s ear long into the night about how wonderful he was and how lucky she was to have him for life. We were just little girls then. And little girls draw pink hearts on textbooks and have these romantic beliefs that don’t always pass the test of time. Because, as they grow older they realise that M&Bs are romantic trash and most marriages and the L word, don't always go together.
But guess what! It’s been 25 years and that’s one romance that has remained true, to this day. And that’s the way I want it to stay long after my hair turns grey (i.e. when I decide to stop colouring it). That tall, lanky stranger is fifty plus years now. He stopped being a stranger a long time back. He’s PJ and DOJ (dirty ol’ jeejs) and the uncrowned King of Crass. He’s a lot of things but above all he’s family. And when I see him with my sister, my heart still gets all warm and mushy. They lie in each other’s arms and read newspapers together. They find time for movie dates and quiet dinners despite the parenting burden of those two brats – Pauny and Paper Bag – who have since tumbled into their lives and caused him to lose some of his hair (she still stays an eternal 20 though) .
Sometimes she cribs and he listens.Sometimes he sulks and she ignores. Sometimes she complains about how gloomy he is. Sometimes he wants to know if she sets money on fire. But when she chops a finger in the kitchen, he’s the first one there with a band aid. When she wants a Stella McCartney bag, he hands over his wallet. When she doesn't want to cook, he brings food home. When her cousin comes visiting (yes, me), he graciously makes place on the bed and moves with his pillow and sheet to the sofa outside. If that's not love, what is?
So, what can I say about the guy who made me believe in love; and marriage. And - most importantly - that the two could mutually coexist. What can I write about the guy who showed me, by example, what caring and sharing was all about. Who poured me my first (and only – it was awful) glass of sake and bought me the first rose of my life (when he caught me watching forlornly as he gave one to his wife). What can I say to the man who convinced me that we aren’t always born into families, we marry them too. And we do grow to love them just as much. Yes, what can I say to the guy who set such exacting standards in husbands that Manoj is ready to kill him for it. (Stay safe, maybe?)
Actually, I can’t say much to Piyush jeejs, except thank you. Thank you for being there. For choosing to marry my cousin and including the rest of our family in your warm embrace. For sharing with us your lovely songs and your dirty jokes; your wine; your sentimental musings, your sense of humour, your books, and your barbeques. For being there with us, for us, in happiness and in pain and around bonfires lit under the stars on cold winter nights. For adding music to the air and a mandolin to the moonlight. Thank you for walking (or, did you come on a horse?) into our lives, 25 years back. Things couldn’t ever have been the same without you.
(And if you’re reading this again PJ, you know I mean every word and don't just want that D&G bag) :)
Kohl: eyeliner (earlier made of poisonous things but now more eye friendly); pallu: free edge of the sari; panditji: Brahmin priest; jeejs: brother in law; didi: elder sister; pandal: tent
If you've managed to read this mushy piece, then this piece of music is for you and whoever makes you hear mandolins in the moonlight. It also goes out specially for my husband who has kept my belief in happy marriages alive.
I remember whispering into my cousin Tanu’s ear long into the night about how wonderful he was and how lucky she was to have him for life. We were just little girls then. And little girls draw pink hearts on textbooks and have these romantic beliefs that don’t always pass the test of time. Because, as they grow older they realise that M&Bs are romantic trash and most marriages and the L word, don't always go together.
But guess what! It’s been 25 years and that’s one romance that has remained true, to this day. And that’s the way I want it to stay long after my hair turns grey (i.e. when I decide to stop colouring it). That tall, lanky stranger is fifty plus years now. He stopped being a stranger a long time back. He’s PJ and DOJ (dirty ol’ jeejs) and the uncrowned King of Crass. He’s a lot of things but above all he’s family. And when I see him with my sister, my heart still gets all warm and mushy. They lie in each other’s arms and read newspapers together. They find time for movie dates and quiet dinners despite the parenting burden of those two brats – Pauny and Paper Bag – who have since tumbled into their lives and caused him to lose some of his hair (she still stays an eternal 20 though) .
Sometimes she cribs and he listens.Sometimes he sulks and she ignores. Sometimes she complains about how gloomy he is. Sometimes he wants to know if she sets money on fire. But when she chops a finger in the kitchen, he’s the first one there with a band aid. When she wants a Stella McCartney bag, he hands over his wallet. When she doesn't want to cook, he brings food home. When her cousin comes visiting (yes, me), he graciously makes place on the bed and moves with his pillow and sheet to the sofa outside. If that's not love, what is?
So, what can I say about the guy who made me believe in love; and marriage. And - most importantly - that the two could mutually coexist. What can I write about the guy who showed me, by example, what caring and sharing was all about. Who poured me my first (and only – it was awful) glass of sake and bought me the first rose of my life (when he caught me watching forlornly as he gave one to his wife). What can I say to the man who convinced me that we aren’t always born into families, we marry them too. And we do grow to love them just as much. Yes, what can I say to the guy who set such exacting standards in husbands that Manoj is ready to kill him for it. (Stay safe, maybe?)
Actually, I can’t say much to Piyush jeejs, except thank you. Thank you for being there. For choosing to marry my cousin and including the rest of our family in your warm embrace. For sharing with us your lovely songs and your dirty jokes; your wine; your sentimental musings, your sense of humour, your books, and your barbeques. For being there with us, for us, in happiness and in pain and around bonfires lit under the stars on cold winter nights. For adding music to the air and a mandolin to the moonlight. Thank you for walking (or, did you come on a horse?) into our lives, 25 years back. Things couldn’t ever have been the same without you.
(And if you’re reading this again PJ, you know I mean every word and don't just want that D&G bag) :)
Kohl: eyeliner (earlier made of poisonous things but now more eye friendly); pallu: free edge of the sari; panditji: Brahmin priest; jeejs: brother in law; didi: elder sister; pandal: tent
If you've managed to read this mushy piece, then this piece of music is for you and whoever makes you hear mandolins in the moonlight. It also goes out specially for my husband who has kept my belief in happy marriages alive.
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