Something funny happened more than three decades ago. And this is the first time I am writing about it. The sole reason is I had thought of it as somewhat pathetic and earth shattering all these years. When I saw that you wanted a hilarious blog from early marriage days, realization dawned that what I am about to relate actually fell in this category, rather than the cubby hole of grief and sadness I had assigned it to.
1976, on a wonderfully wintry day, I strolled down the streets of London with my husband. We were one year old married. This delayed holiday was supposed to be our honeymoon as I had got measles around the day of my marriage and became rather prone to sudden fever. I had sailed through the whole occasion thinking I had a throat infection (read measles all down my throat) and rashes (read measles, covered strategically with chandan, thought by me to be allergy from antibiotics for throat infection.) This story has nothing really to do with the ‘hilarious incident’, but it throws light on how precious this delayed honeymoon was to me.
This was my first wedding anniversary, and my first trip abroad. The setting couldn’t have been more idyllic. Staying with friends, we were not rushed into tourist groups but spent our time loitering around the roads and places. On this said anniversary, my husband bought me a long stemmed rose, and when I say long stemmed, I mean really long. It was symbolic of perfection after the marriage episode. I had to carry it in a typical polythene shopping bag, with the rose sticking its head out--- a huge extravaganza of a waxy, perfectly formed semi open bud. It was bought somewhat before we walked the whole stretch of Soho , before giving it a ride all the way to Buckingham Palace.
As I stood there in front of the gates of the Palace, excited to be somewhat more than a stone’s throw away from the royal family, provided they were not away to Sandringham or such other places, my husband jolted me back to reality with the remark, ‘Hey! Where’s your rose?’ I looked down to find a green protrusion sticking out where my rose had been. Someone had neatly snipped off the rose while I was walking, and it had to be Soho. What skill and daring! I had been warned that Soho was notorious but I didn’t know even roses could fall prey. My heart sank, my mood plummeted, and I could only stare speechlessly at the non-rose. I looked down at the bag time and again, like people do when they find something gone, hoping it was a bad dream. I suspect my husband tried to do his best to hide the mirth that must have been rocking his insides, and tried his best to console me. I guess newly/almost newly married men know when not to upset the apple cart. I refused to laugh.
All these years I have carried this burden of grief somewhere inside. But when I sat down to write for you, I realized nothing could have been funnier. A forlorn young girl, framed against the grandeur of Buckingham Palace, carrying only a stem in a plastic bag, and a serious young man next to her, trying to console her. Yes, I can laugh now and so can my husband, freely.
