A walk in the rain? I'll ride a bike, thanks.

I once had a wooer. I found him when I was in the college union and had to find a judge for one of our festival competitions. He was in the Indian navy, looked lovely, and sang like a dream. For those of you who know me, you should know that the only reason I didn’t rip his clothes off and devour him whole was because I wasn’t really interested in sex till much later on in life and thought men no different from women. There was only one saving grace. Actually, two. He was overenthusiastic and he was short. Why saving grace, you ask? Because I was 16. And if he was really smart, played it just right and was way taller than me, I’d have eloped with him and had his babies the day I turned 18. He was that yummy.

So I forgot all about him for the longest time. But as has happened to many of us recently, I found myself at the end of a friend request in my inbox the other day. From Orkut, the ghetto of social networking and a place I had deserted long ago. Enough reason to have dumped him, in hindsight? I, of course, eagerly checked him out. He had put on a little weight, looked like he’d been drinking too much and was still short. And all sorts of memories came back to me. Let’s park that for now.

I recently had a little exchange of ideas about what romance was. I don’t think I am a romantic woman. In the sense, I doubt greatly I go all out to overwhelm my man. I have a romantic soul, laced nicely with a cynical scarf that surprises even me, sometimes. I see romance in the breeze, in heroism and in tenderness. None of this has to do with sexual romance, or man-woman romance. It has everything to do with the beauty and valour of the world around me. And the people that live in it.

The two – my wooer and the discussion on romance – are thus connected. This man went all out to woo me. He probably has been the only one. I’ve never had to be wooed because if I found I liked a man more than the others, I’d usually tell him. I’ve been rejected just once. I said, okay, cool, where do you want to head out for a drink. And we’re best friends now. That’s the kind of girl I am. But back to the wooer. I, of course, didn’t realize it then, that he was pulling out all stops to woo me. He’d come to the college hostel often to visit me (yes, I regularly received a wooer in the guests parlour of my college hostel, I can’t believe it myself now), and when I could get out he’d take me out for coffee (when I say coffee, please imagine some silly date at a café where we drink anything but that beverage) or a meal, he’d send me flowers and cards. Real ones. Out of which pastel flowers or lipsticked primates peeped. He’d buy me trinkets which were in appalling taste but what a sweet gesture, no? None of that constituted romance to me, though.

The event he came to judge in our college was a musical one. As part of the judging and conducting, he had to sing a couple of songs. I remember dressing up to impress him that day. It’s a bit of an embarrassing memory but I swear to be honest on this blog and I will be that. I think I went through five different outfits before deciding on a rather becoming red and white salwar kameez. Anything else would have been instant warning to the nuns that I was having it on with the judge, so I played it safe with a salwar kurta, which is considered modest. (These nuns have no idea how immodest teenagers can make it look.) The first song he sang was Kahin door jab din dhal jaaye… It stopped my heart for more than a few seconds. Already distracted to bits by his presence, I was cursing that I had to be in the wings while he was on stage, instead of sitting in the audience and melting. But when he began singing, it was like out of a movie. He turned sideways just a bit, looked straight at me all the while and sang. The.whole.damn.song. I swear I’ve never blushed that furiously. My face, it is said, by my close watchers, rivaled valiantly with my red dupatta. (The number of clichés in this teenage memory appalls me. But anyway, moving on.) And a 2000-strong audience of girls witnessed this. That was romance for me. To be made to feel like the only woman in the whole world. Till this day, that song gets my pulses racing just a bit. I suspect I even blush a little, unconsciously. And I am way past the age of blushing at anything apart from severe embarrassment.

A few minutes later, he was required to sing once more, for another segment of the contest. This time the ass chose, Aaj kal tere mere pyaar ke charche… This too looking and smiling at me every once in a regular while. I could have walked out onto the stage and killed him with my bare hands. Or kissed him.

***

We went out to the cinema once. I don’t remember the film – a Kevin Costner one with pelicans or geese or ducks or something flying poetically in the end. A Perfect World? I can’t remember. I was just too distracted by him sitting next to me, trying my best to not let him hold my hand or something. Which he did. And I think I froze. Because having grown up with male friends who failed to notice I was a girl beyond the initial few hours of introduction, I had never had a boy do that to me. Hold my hand in a dark theater. So I promptly asked him if I can have my hand back. He handed it to me and we both pretended nothing happened. He looked suitably chastised, which was not my intention. And sent me a sorry card the next day. Like I said, OE* cutlet. But after the film, we went out for a meal. I can’t remember the place or what we ate but I remember the bike ride across the bridge into Willingdon Island and how he turned his head and asked if I liked the light-studded, boat-filled view, enjoyed the breeze in my hair and was I comfortable. That was romance for me.

It was that evening that he offered to teach me to ride. The evening I fell in love with motorbikes. He didn't complete his tuition but that, too, was romantic.

Speaking of bike rides, another wonderful, wonderful friend of mine had me ride pillion once, just before I left Madras for Bombay. He drove down the stretch of the Marina on a hot, empty afternoon just because he knew I enjoyed both. Bikes and the sea. That was romance, too.

But the most romantic nights of all had to have been when then boyfriend, now husband, stayed over on one of his trips to see me and spent all night singing to me. Gorgeous, sensuous, soulful lyrical songs he sang, as I lay on his arm and heard his song fill my room, drifted over my skin, seeped into my soul and escaped through the warm windows of a moonlit room.

I believe I have had but a few moments of romance. Possibly, I have never given any of my men romantic moments. I will never know. But the ones I’ve had – romantic moments, not men – have been worth a lifetime. And I am thankful I am a woman and the men I’ve been with have treated me like they’ve never known anyone like me.

On that really mushy note, I should also say, I think romance is a waste of time after a while. Two people should just go around a beautiful place and take pictures of everything, as well as each other. But then, if they are in love, that too will turn into a romance.

Share your stories with me?

* Overenthu – madras speak.

*** This was the point I realised I was writing a post on romance in February. All hail the cliche queen. FML.

It's not the bride, it's not the groom...

It is the pictures.

I had two weddings. I would think that that would be more than enough for most people, unless they are Elizabeth Taylor and I hear, even she's getting sick of it these days. But, as I figured recently, I am not most people. Therefore, I want one more wedding, this time to do it all right (groom will be my current husband, FYI, so I can safely concentrate on other things). Which is basically to focus on the wedding and not on the person I am marrying.

This, in fact, is the culprit. It is also my inspiration to go for plan B in case I don't make it as "world famous, renowned" author/super crocheter of the year, every year/fantastic mommy of the decade, till I die. (If you were world famous and renowned, you would be known, wouldn't you? And hence wouldn't need the qualifiers to introduce you.)  I want to be a wedding photographer of his ilk. I may or may not have his exact talent but I want to photograph weddings without everyone at the do knowing they are being photographed. Preeti and I discussed this before our individual babies came along. Maybe it will happen.

At both my weddings, I was dewy-eyed, giddy and ecstatic that I was marrying the man I loved. The first time, well, at that point I honestly, and truly loved him. The second time I married the man of my dreams, and knock on wood, he still is that man. 99 per cent of the time at least.

Both times I did not coordinate the colour of my fake green-eye contacts to the colours in the venue. I did not worry about two guests who hated each other sitting together having a slug fest with the wedding wine. I did not think about classy wedding favours that get lost the minute the guest leaves the do. I did not think about wedding photographers or a designer wedding cake that used orchids whose petals were crushed by underpaid Thai children imported from, well, Thailand. Or a funky pre-wedding party with a Klingon theme. Or an offbeat wow-inspiring venue like the dark side of the moon or deep under water. And, you know, I really am not that old; except for the 20 year olds who come here, I know you'll agree. I just didn't think the wedding was as important as the marriage, fool that I was. And going by my track record, what a pity if I decided it was time to change husbands, right?

These days, I see all these really nice weddings -- I hope the bride and groom will make them loving, lasting marriages - and I see even more gorgeous pictures and it gets me thinking, really, what the hell was I thinking, concentrating on the groom and not on the wedding?! The second time around, stupid as I was, I should have paid more attention, spent more and planned even more. But the nonsense romantic that I am, I thought, hey, it's my second time, I shouldn't spend so much, so lets keep it small and simple. And, mostly, my parents went with that and didn't encourage any pomp and show.

It was only my mad aunt -- the same one whose behaviour greatly disturbs me these days -- who said no, so what if it's your second time? You should celebrate it just as if it were your first. But unfortunately, it was a little late for good, sane advice like that (the eve of my wedding), and I was left feeling, damn! She's so right.

And truly, this was a wedding that should have been celebrated well. Because it is a marriage that gave me my perfect man, a marriage where our lovely, seriously crazy kids happened and a marriage that will never age. And it deserved all the fun, glamour and preceding weightloss that go with a regular wedding.

So the pictures are really crappy and I am cringing thinking of what the kids are going to say when they grow up and see their Mama's hep wedding pictures and my really odd ones. But the wedding, per se? It was perfect. Just perfect.

Small, sweet, fragrant and pure.

That we exchanged vows in Malayalam will always be a shock to me because I cannot pronounce big Malayalam words easily and I wasn't warned (thanks, Mathew!) that I was going to have to say words that had more than three very complicated syllables, holding Mathew's hand*.

I still, to this date, don't know what I vowed to do in the marriage. And I am pretty sure Mathew tricks me, every once in a stubborn while, into doing things by referring to the Vows. "But, but, but...  you promised! In church too." Okay.

Still, I want nice pictures.


*Mathew held my hand and steadily looked into my eyes throughout the exchange of vows, with a soft smile on his lovely face. It still makes me squirm and it still curls my toes.

She's got a memory like a rat-trap - full of rats.

I am sure M would love to say that about me. As much as our marriage is one near-perfect heaven, every once in a while, like self-respecting couples often do, we tend to get on each other's nerves.
Him with his withdrawing into himself and just be and me with my incessant desire to do things, to be - on the roll.
And then, at times like that, we are usually breakfast and dinner for each other and have to politely request for our heads back without sounding too needy.
I am sure Mathew would love to say that about me, then. Because when we disagree, argue or just plain fight I tend to remember the things that hurt me most in the past. To my credit, I don't exactly bring them up because it's a rule with me. No ancient wounds to be uncovered and picked at in an argument that we try our best to keep fair and mostly unpainful.
But the problem with remembering the things that hurt in the past is that the memory fries my circuits and then there's no stopping me. I become a complete expert at taking offence. I am so good at it that even a blink of an eye-lid I can misconstrue as a personal attack. Why, even if M took a breath I'd think he was trying to fill his lungs with enough air so he can bellow at me or talk non-stop and tell me exactly how much I am pissing him off.
It's fun though, sometimes, because once we're done biting each other's heads off, we're left wondering what it was all about. And then, like all good couples, we promptly dissolve into giggles. Or hugs. Or pillow-throwing. Or just plain ole goofiness.
And that's what my rat-trap holds most. The giggles, M's sexy, sexy smile and all the nonsense that we generate to makes life a little less difficult for everyone around :)

(Title from a line in Margaret Atwood's 'UglyPuss', which features in 'Bluebeard's Egg and Other Stories'. That, incidently, is a must read by all standards.)