A lovely celebration of amour. This worldwide festival of love was decided to be named in the fond memory of St. Valentines, mostly because it sounded more appropriate than ‘Love-day’.
During college years, you are super hyped for the incoming Valentines. It’s like having 31st Dec in the middle of February, where instead of normal resolutions like losing weight, studying, or learning guitar, you instead make a resolution of trying to get laid.
You have to plan things way ahead, like what hotel will you go, what clothes would you wear, what bank loan should you apply to be able to buy her a bouquet of roses. On Valentines day, the prices of roses are in terms of foreign currency. One red rose = one Euro, one white rose = One American dollar, and one Yellow rose = Friendzoned…which is actually priceless.
After you graduate and join these heinous things called jobs, to provide for your alcoholic liver, and nicotine addicted lungs, you realize you start to overlook this celebration of passion. The only reason you are excited about February is that its closer to the April appraisals. You might even ruefully stare at your office crush as she walks past you with that one guy who looks like a thinner version of Mowgli, with a pair of glasses that he stole from Harry Potter. The prospective of asking her out does excite you, but even the concept of a rejection is enough to make all courage curl up inside your misshapen man bun.
As a child, I used to impatiently wait for Diwali. The festival of lights, cheer, and smoke pollution. I loved bursting crackers that banged loudly enough to make the neighbors think a SWAT team is invading their home. There was nothing more fun than Diwali at that age, to a point where I felt that there would never be anything as good as Diwali.
Then I got laid.
For people who don’t know, it is better than Diwali!
I used to love the concept of Valentines for the first few years of my awkward puberty, but then I had some sense knocked into me by the Moral Police. The girl I had just lip locked a few minutes ago was forced to tie a rakhi to me and was baptized to be my sister. Thus, inspiring George R.R. Martin to jot down the characters of Cersei and Jaime. We even did the walk of shame before it was cool, except that instead of the bell, they rang our heads together.
India is not a country tolerant enough for love. We spew out our hate in public, while I have to hide behind itchy shrubs just to hold my girlfriend’s hand. We rather just hold a festival that commemorates the thrill of hating, demeaning, and beating up other people. We’ll call it the Jaatpaat day, on that day we will, wake up early while listening to songs about our caste/religion/specific god and how it is better than all the others, then we burst crackers in the homes that we set ablaze, and then legalize honor killing.
Extremism aside, I believe the feeling of love should not be bound to a particular day, love is a timeless thing. Passion may perhaps be a momentarily butterfly that flitters gleefully through a garden, but love is an ageless tree that stands mighty, with its roots deep beneath the ground, its shade willfully aiding anyone that wants to stay beneath. And while some of you reading this might agree to my dramatic words, my girlfriend thinks I’m being cheap by stringing together fancy words to avoid getting her a rose. Remember this rule for your life, there is a golden rule, never ask a woman her age, a man his salary, and writer for anything expensive.