Disclaimer: This post is replete with romantic mushiness and other such roses and valentine type of stuff which regular readers of this blog might find offensive. Unromantics, kindly excuse. Braver souls, please keep the barf bags handy.
Happy 12th anniversary. It seems strange yet scary that we have spent 12 years of our lives officially tied up in holy and unholy matrimony, and six years before that fighting every other day yet returning to each other like two ends of a stretched to tautness rubber band. We have spent 18 years of our life together. We met when I was eighteen. Has it really been that long? It feels like yesterday that I sat next to you, in what was going to the first of many experiences before a really smoky havan that threw dust motes into my contact lenses and made me cross and uncross cramped legs, and seem to be sobbing most bitterly, as is appropriate to the bride, the tragedy being that I did my sobbing at the havan and was most unseemingly overjoyed at being packed off as your newly wed. And do you remember the most romantic experience of the wedding night? The hotel suite all decorated to the tee, and I had forgotten to pack and send across my carefully selected and painstakingly paid for lingerie. Much to your glee of course. Of course, I havent wasted any more money on seductive lingerie since. And the hairspray that had made my hair stiffer than a suit of armour. And the gadzillion hair pins that went into that contraption of a hairstyle falling all over the place as I cried buckets and wondered whether a comb would ever go through this maze of concrete. Luckily, you were there, with a handy hand shower and showed me just what good these things could do. And voila, I had combable hair again. That has been the pattern of our relationship, hasnt it? I get myself into trouble, you come in and get me out of it. Its made me so damn complacent this knowledge, that I can just walk into a burning building and know that you will come from across the country to get me out of it. Like the time you braved the Mumbai riots to come through to my curfew struck home to find out if I was okay. Like the time you walked upto VT to pick me up from my office when Mumbai had come to a standstill with a total blackout and pouring rain. Like the day you came to college to find out what my results would be when the trains had stopped plying, and the rains had turned the road outside the college into a communal sewer cum swimming pool, even though you had no need to be there. And you barely even knew me then. And you got me out of it then. You always do. You are my bodyguard, even today, though the body has gone the way of good memories and doesnt need any guarding anymore. No wolf whistles come my way anymore, but to believe you, I am still the stuff sweet dreams are made of. You make me feel as self confident and as seductive as any Mata Hari could ever hope to be, despite the multiple stomachs and the hips gone from earth goddess to mother earth.
Then when I decided I must, I must, have a child, you stood by me as solid as a rock. Coming with me for every single appointment, even if it were just a scan. Through all the infertility treatment. Through all the times I broke down and wept with longing for a child. When the damn thin line refused to appear on the urine tests. You were there. Stern and grim faced and unwilling to let me see how much you hurt too. You hide your emotions behind your brusqueness. You bought jewellery for me for the first time when I was pregnant. After eight years of marriage. Perhaps that was the only indication you gave me of how overjoyed you were. And when the brat was born, he brought out a new side of you. That of the rock of a father. With the brat going through the autism spectrum diagnosis and all his therapy and the stress, you were the only person who was convinced that he was fine, and nothing was wrong and I was creating much ado about nothing. You refused to be part of this treatment. I realise now that this was your way of blocking out the possibility that something could be wrong with your son. And yet today, we realise you were right. He is a bright, brilliantly hyperactive child. He will never top the class. I know it. But he will survive. You believed, and yet you laid out every resource you could have at my disposal for his treatment. No expense was spared, no inconvenience brooked. You have your own way of showing your love. I adore you for it. And now, when I have been cribbing endlessly about my frustration at not being able to work or write thanks to my life having become full time serf to the brat, you gift me in quick succession, a Blackberry and a laptop. No jewellery. Thats not your kind of gift. And perhaps, you know that I am not that kind of a wife.
I love you so much, and I love the way you go out of your way to ensure that I have as comfortable a life as possible. You may not do the roses and the wining and dining, nor the handholding nor the grand gestures, but you are so caring and concerned, even when I am being the prototype of the nagging shrew, and I know how terrible I can be. I can have acting courses for wannabe television soap vamps when in full flow. I am blessed to be your wife. Thank you for being the most wonderful and loving husband I could have ever dreamt of having. It also helps that my heartbeats still do the jungle beat when you walk into the room. Even after 12 years. Love you.
PS: The husband never reads the blogs. He will never read this. Which is why I have been so damn honest.