Valentine’s Day always awakens my romantic nature, as I’m sure it does yours, O most Adored Reader.

Today’s February 13^th—the Eve of this glorious Festival of Romance! The Eve of V-Day, that Ancient India gifted to the world under its many original names like Harappa’s ‘Belan Daine Din’, Bengal’s ‘Bela Teeni Dey’, and Tamilnadu’s ‘Vellum Tayen’ (please click here to see my full historical research paper on the origins of V-Day).

I therefore humbly present the first (and possibly, the last) romantic story that I’ve written in my long and inglorious career as writer.

As ever, your comments are welcome; as are rotten eggs and tomatoes, which may be couriered directly to our beloved Member of Parliament Shri Rahul Gandhi ‘s residential address. I believe poor Rahuljee needs to find some romantic interest in life other than Prime Minister Shri Narendra Modi, considering the way Rahuljee oscillates wildly between confessing his  ardent love for Modi  including hugging Modi and blowing kisses at Modi (and other MPs) in the Lok Sabha, and expressing his disgust and hatred for Modi and spewing abuse at Modi in and outside the Lok Sabha.

Bel Tinda Diwas ka Shubh Kamnayen!

A Couple of Receptions

Mr. Vaikuntan sipped his lemonade and gazed approvingly at the crowd milling about in the hall. Like him, they were all dressed in their wedding-reception best. The floor was a seething sea of shimmering saris and snazzy suits, slinky salwars and dashing sherwanis. There were quiet children in loud playsuits, wide men in narrow trousers, strapping women in strapless gowns. The chandeliers quivered with thundering bass-notes from the dance floor to the right, where lasses in daring skirts and lads in flaring trousers swayed and stamped. Temperature and decibel-levels hovered around one hundred, and conversation was conducted at shriek-level. The air was redolent with attar and Paco Rabanne, with the aromas of paneer pakora and dhokla-chutney being distributed by tireless waiters, with the heady scents of romance and celebration.

Mr. Vaikuntan drank it all in. He himself was dressed soberly: black trousers and a light-grey shirt that went well with the silver-grey streaks in his hair. He was tall, slim and clean-shaven, and wore a pair of thin-framed spectacles that might have given him a rather stern look…but for his smile. When Mr. Vaikuntan smiled (which he often did), the smile reached his eyes and his whole face lit up, making him look much younger than his forty-seven years.

He smiled now, as he gazed towards the stage where the bride and bridegroom stood before red thrones and wilted beneath the glare of video-camera lights. She, Rukmini, was clad in a simple yet stunning blue-and-gold sari; he, Varun, wore a charcoal suit, and their faces glowed with the light of love and promise. A steady stream of guests made their way up to the stage to greet and bless the couple. Mr. Vaikuntan himself had met them as soon as he arrived.

“You look wonderful!” he had murmured to the bride, quite truthfully, upon which her eyes had sparkled with happiness and she had rewarded him with a brilliant smile. He had punched the groom lightly on the shoulder and said: “Bless you both, take good care of her, lad!” whereupon, to his mild but pleasant surprise, the groom had embraced him warmly. But all that was half-an-hour ago, and now Mr. Vaikuntan was a little hungry…

“Isn’t Rukmini looking lovely?”

Mr. Vaikuntan looked up sharply. A woman of about forty was standing next to his chair. He rose courteously to his feet. “I’m Vaikuntan,” he murmured with a slight bow, even as his experienced eyes took in her fine dark-brown eyes and stubborn chin, her slender neck, the suggestion of plumpness in her nicely rounded figure beneath the green chiffon sari. Also he couldn’t help noticing her long, artistic fingers, and how well trimmed her fingernails were…

All this took about three seconds. Rather longer than usual for him, doubtless, due to the rather nice perfume she had on. Very subtle, it was, faint yet incredibly alluring, like a blend of champa blossom, roses and the scent of rain-damp earth.

“I’m Vasanthi,” she replied, her eyes grave yet betraying a twinkle of amusement as she looked into Mr. Vaikuntan’s eyes.”I’m a friend of Rukmini’s aunt, meaning her mother’s cousin Urmila…”

“How nice to meet you,” Mr. Vaikuntan responded cordially. “And I’m an old associate of Varun’s uncle.” She nodded pleasantly and they glanced towards the couple on stage and then back at one other.

“How quickly these little ones grow up, hmm?” Vasanthi said and laughed softly.

“Yes, yes, it’s amazing, quite wonderful,” Mr. Vaikuntan replied. He looked into her deep brown eyes, and suddenly, painfully, he was reminded of the wife he had lost to cancer eleven years ago. A moment, or perhaps an eternity, passed.

“Well,” said Vasanthi, “I’ll just go up and see them…so nice to meet you.” She laughed softly again, exhibiting a set of fine, brilliant-white teeth. Originals, Mr. Vaikuntan thought in passing, and watched her glide away to join the steady stream of people moving towards the stage.

From time to time, she nodded and smiled at people she passed. She paused next to a sofa, halfway down the hall, on which sat a little girl with a doll. The little girl’s name was Nikki, her doll’s name was Guddi, and she liked rasamalai, trains, Pokemon, cats, and her little brother Jayant, in that order. Mr. Vaikuntan knew all this because he had himself chatted awhile with Nikki before going up to meet Rukmini and Varun. As he watched, Vasanthi sat down next to Nikki and engaged her in what appeared to be a most animated conversation. At the end of it, Nikki laughed and clapped her hands in glee; Vasanthi rose, ruffled Nikki’s hair and moved on towards the stage.

On an impulse, Mr. Vaikuntan rose to his feet and went across to Nikki. She looked up and smiled in recognition. “Hello, uncle… Uncle, show me how to make train noises again!”

Obediently Mr. Vaikuntan sat down next to her, puffed up his cheeks, pursed his lips, and produced diesel locomotive rumbles. Nikki practiced making the sounds herself for a while. “Nikki, who was that…er…auntie who was talking to you just now?” Mr. Vaikuntan asked when Nikki paused for breath.

“I don’t know… I liked auntie, she told Guddi and me a funny story. She’s a very nice auntie,” said Nikki firmly.

“Yes, of course she is. Er…do you know Urmila auntie then?”

Nikki frowned. “Urmila auntie? No, I don’t know her…but mummy might know. There’s mummy, shall I go ask her?” And Nikki pointed towards a group of ladies a dozen feet away.

“No, no,” said Mr. Vaikuntan hastily, patting her shoulder. “It doesn’t matter. Look, I’ll show you how to make airplane noises now.”

He continued to watch Vasanthi while Nikki hummed and whistled and whooshed away happily next to him. Now Vasanthi was holding the bride’s hand, chatting with her. She leaned forward and whispered something in her ear, whereupon the bride blushed and smiled. Vasanthi turned and spoke for a while with the groom, who threw back his head and laughed. A few moments later, she descended from the stage and moved sedately towards the adjoining hall, where the buffet dinner had just commenced. But Mr. Vaikuntan kept his eyes on the couple. As soon as Vasanthi moved away from them, Rukmini turned to her husband and said something. He raised his eyebrows and shook his head, and both of them turned to look at Vasanthi’s receding figure. And then – this is what Mr. Vaikuntan found most interesting – and then both the bride and the groom looked at one another, smiled and shrugged helplessly before turning to greet their next guests.

Mr. Vaikuntan knew the signs. Rukmini and Varun had no idea who Vasanthi was! It happened all the time on such occasions, of course – especially big wedding receptions such as this one, where invitees numbered a thousand or more and where each side invited all their relatives and friends and friends’ relatives and their friends. One couldn’t expect the happy couple to know even a tenth of the guests, Mr. Vaikuntan reflected. And so gate-crashing – intentional or inadvertent – was all too common.

He waited for the rush to subside a little before making his way across to the buffet hall. As he had expected, the fare was rich: a combination of northern and western Indian cuisine. He gorged himself on puris and channa, followed up with two helpings of pulao and kurma, and rounded it off with a generous serving of dahi-vada. He allowed a pretty young thing to persuade him to eat a kulfi, and finally returned to the main hall with a cup of excellent coffee.

He found a comfortable chair close to the entrance and sat down with a sigh of contentment. It was nearing 10 pm, and already a little stream of people was moving past him towards the doors. A pleasant lassitude was creeping up on him; he knew he himself must leave soon…

“Well, Mr. Vaikuntan… I hope you enjoyed the dinner?” It was Vasanthi, smiling down at him.

At once he rose to his feet. “Ah yes, thanks, I did!” he responded. “By the way, I noticed you having a nice chat with a little girl in a red dress…”

“Oh yes, that’s Nikki. I know her parents quite well. You know, Nikki is such a delightful child…”

“Indeed?” Mr. Vaikuntan murmured. “Look! I see them coming up now…are you leaving together, then?” And there was a terrible gleam in his eye as he gazed at her.

Vasanthi turned around sharply, and her eyes widened as she saw Nikki trotting up the aisle towards them, doll clutched in arms. She was flanked by a young man in a safari suit and a young woman carrying a sleepy toddler.

“’Bye, auntie. Bye uncle,” trilled Nikki as she scampered past.

“Bye,” they responded.

Nikki’s parents nodded and smiled politely at them; they nodded and smiled back. Vasanthi stood frozen till Nikki and her family disappeared through the doors, and then she slowly turned and looked at Mr. Vaikuntan.

“Let us sit down,” suggested Mr. Vaikuntan gently but firmly.

She sat down next to him, her eyes locked in his.

“How long have you been playing this game?” Mr. Vaikuntan asked.

She hesitated, looked away and then back at him, and now her eyes were dark pools of despair.

“This is the second time I’ve done it,” she whispered, almost to herself. “Only the second time…and I get caught.” She broke off and drew a deep, shuddering breath. “I did it for fun, no, for…for… for the sounds of laughter, for the feeling that I belong somewhere.”

Her voice was still soft, but her words came tumbling forth, a cascade from some deep reservoir of pain. “I used to be a nurse at Cooper hospital. But I had to leave. To take care of my husband, he was terribly ill. He…he died ten years ago. Now I live in a working women’s hostel. In Bandra. The other women are nice, a few of them are friends, but they all have family, people to go out with, to visit on weekends, on holidays. I have nobody. Nobody. I help out at the children’s hospital in Khar, I love children, and the work keeps me from thinking too much. But the loneliness, do you know how it is to be alone? Really alone? To live in a grey room with nothing but memories, only memories? To spend endless evenings watching stale TV shows, Sunday afternoons staring at the wall, waking up wishing you didn’t have to wake up because you have no one to care for, to love, no one who cares for you, needs you, wants you… ” her voice trailed away and she closed her eyes.

Mr. Vaikuntan sat still, his eyes never leaving her face.

At length she opened her eyes again; they were bright with unshed tears. “I ask you this much,” she whispered fiercely. “Allow me to leave. Quietly. Allow me what dignity I still have.” And she rose and took a step towards the doors.

“Wait!” Mr. Vaikuntan jumped to his feet and took her arm. “I’ll see you out.”

They walked out through the doors into the warm night. Two distinguished-looking gentlemen stood above the steps – the fathers of the united couple, seeing off their guests.

Mr. Vaikuntan felt Vasanthi’s arm stiffen in his grasp as he confidently led her up to them. “Thanks so much, such a pleasure it has been for us to share your joy… God bless you all.” He shook hands with them in turn, Vasanthi folded her hands in graceful farewell, and then they descended the steps and strolled out the main gates on to the busy street beyond.

The two gentlemen watched them go. “Such a charming couple, hmm?” the bride’s father murmured. The groom’s father agreed, and each made a mental note to find out from the other who they were…but later on, for already more guests were queuing up to say goodbye.

On the sidewalk, Vasanthi stared up at Mr. Vaikuntan in wonder, her eyes glowing strangely. “Thank you…” she began.

“No, no!” interrupted Mr. Vaikuntan, still holding her arm. He drew a deep breath. Suddenly he looked nervous, unsure of himself.

“Look, please don’t misunderstand me,” he continued. “The fact is, I really do understand what made you come here…I understand you far better than you can imagine. Because I’m like you, I too know what loneliness is, it is what brought me here today…”

She gasped, but he went on with growing confidence. “You see, I’ve been at the same game for three years now. I work at a printing agency, I help in designing invitation cards and so forth. So I get to know about lots of wedding receptions and other such celebrations, and can choose among them.” He released her arm and looked at his watch. “Listen,” he went on earnestly, “I live in Andheri…so why don’t we take the same train, maybe we could talk on the way? And perhaps we could meet for dinner tomorrow. There is this big Rajasthani wedding reception at Mulund, or if you prefer South Indian, we could take in a Tamil affair in Matunga…”

Vasanthi and Mr. Vaikuntan were married three months later. The wedding was a quiet event at the registrar’s office, but they held a small reception for workplace acquaintances.

It was a grand success. Halfway through, Vasanthi happily whispered to her beloved Vaikuntan that there appeared to be far many more guests present than they had invited…

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[First – and last – published in 2004: at http://creative.sulekha.com/a-couple-of-receptions_102018_blog]