Love Is in the Air

It is not a skirt, it is a dhoti. And it was my Valentine's Day gift from Jenna.









My Valentine's Day 'surprise' for Jenna: cake and a card.








I figured since Valentine’s Day is a holiday most Indians do not celebrate, I would get a pass this year. My wife thought differently.

Jenna bounded from the bedroom this morning with a broad smile on her face to greet me as I grumpily made coffee in the kitchen. “Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetie! I have a surprise for you,” she said lovingly as she reached up to kiss my scratchy, unshaven cheek.

I froze. Oops, I thought.

It turns out Jenna had decidedly not forgotten about Valentine’s Day and had bought me an authentic Kerala dhoti, a traditional sarong-type loincloth worn by men everywhere around here. I had been saying for weeks how I wanted one for a souvenir, and on this morning, I was pleased to be holding one in my hand. Made of thick cotton with a light blue stripe rounding the edges, it felt comfortably heavy in my hands.

I sheepishly looked up at Jenna. “I’m sorry. I didn’t get you anything. I thought we weren’t having Valentine’s Day because, you know…” I shrugged my shoulders pathetically.

“It’s okay. I know. You being here is enough of a present,” she said sweetly, and kissed me again. How do women know the exact thing to say to make you feel like an even bigger jerk than you already feel?



In a small measure of recompense, I stole away from JM this morning while I was not teaching and dashed back to the bakery near our apartment. I bought some pieces of cake that had pink icing and were topped with Maraschino cherries, I hustled back to the apartment, stole a card from a pile of blank ones our roommate Jaime keeps, and whipped up a Valentine’s Day surprise for Jenna.

The improvisation worked. When we got home today, Jenna smiled brightly and said, “You remembered after all.” And I shrugged, as if it was part of plan the entire time.

As for Indians, I get the impression that Valentine’s Day—like Facebook and pop music—is seen by the older, more tradition-bound generations as an unwanted Western incursion. A particularly curmudgeonly editorial in The Sunday Express begged in its opening paragraph, “Somebody please retire this Valentine’s Day. All these pink balloons, red musical cards, and messages on FM radio are irking this [writer].” Though I cannot say I disagree with the editorial’s overall message that ‘true’ love is hard work that should consume every day of a relationship and not just a once-a-year holiday.

However, there was nothing guarded about our fellow teachers’ reactions to the candy conversation hearts we brought to work. Jenna’s mom had enough foresight to mail a bag of the traditional Valentine’s Day treats in mid-January. The staff openly loved them. They grabbed handfuls and twittered at the tiny messages, showing them to each other, and stifling giggles.

Santosh, ever the aspiring Casanova, went around showing one particular heart to all the female teachers. “Kiss me! Kiss me! Kiss me!” he said, quoting from the heart he held in his fingers. The women looked at him askance, and I called out to him: “Be careful!”

At least for one day, love was (sort of) in the air at JM.