Mushy mushy.

So the weekend I had been waiting for for a very, very long time finally arrived – it was the 15^th day of February, just a day after Valentine’s Day, that day of love supposedly marked by over-saccharine mushiness, bouquets of red roses, ugly teddy bears holding hearts and what-nots. Anyway, all this is not for me, I like things that are subtle and not overly cliched. So, back to the weekend, the day dawned bright and sunny, although the weatherman had forecast rain and fog over the coming days. And it was not wrong. As it started pouring in the evening, around the time he would have been airborne and on his way to Delhi, my heart was beating at a million beats per minute. Would I be able to go and pick him up? Would my plans be screwed? Would the rain play spoilsport? Would it keep raining and make everything all dull and gloomy? (Although he had earlier told me that he loved the rains, but then the water has a sad tendency to make everything around dirty and mucky, something I was looking to avert.)

As his flight departed from his destination, it was raining cats and dogs in Delhi. And all this while, a bright sun played hide-and-seek from behind the clouds, which made everything around all that more frustrating. Heavy rain, grey clouds, bright yellow sunshine – I didn’t understand if I should have called the weather gloomy or sexy (it was a bit of both). Everything was ready and waiting for him. The sauce had been cooked, the pasta would be in the pot after we came back home, the table was set up for a lovely, candlelit dinner, flowers were in place (no roses, mind you), the flat was spick and span, very neat. My heart was still doing a thousand palpitations a minute – nervousness, anxiety, happiness, delight, all rolled into one – I was grinning like a kid in a candy shop, who has been let loose and told to pick up anything she wants, free of charge obviously.

I got dressed, put on my favourite pair of jeans and a red cotton summery blouse. When I left, little drops of water were still falling from the sky, and sitting on the rickshaw soaked my jeans and my bum. It was cold, but it would be warm soon when he hugged me. (Corny, yes?) Who cares? I was off to the airport.

The train on the Blueline was comfortbale, that on the Yellowline to the New Delhi Railway Station was not. Chock full of people pushing and pulling their way in and out of the coach, stepping on each others’ toes and slippers, generally being miserable and complaining. I was doing neither. I was simply happy. I would have burst into a song even if a fat lady had trod on my toes with her extremely high heels. Yes, I am a moron when in love. I am that stupid, stupid girl whose defences crumble when she falls for someone.

I reached the airport well in time, as is customary (I dislike being late). It was windy and freezing there, thankfully I had a shawl to keep me company, although it did not do a very good job from keeping out the chill. I stood outside, beside those grey steel banisters at the IGI arrivals terminal, anxiously waiting to see his face. I shivered, my feet were cold and hurting (but only because I had literally been on my toes the entire day for errands and chores, without getting a chance to either sit or lie down). But none of it would matter, he would soon show up.

2000 hours was the arrival time of the flight. Mercifully, it landed five minutes early. Now this chap, who we will not name, is not one for texting immediately after landing. Or making a call. Or sending a WhatsApp message. He takes his time, which has the result of leaving me on tenterhooks, waiting, waiting, waiting. He doesn’t do it because he likes to make someone wait. Au contraire, he is not one who feels the need to constantly message or text, which is quite a refreshing change from a usual man in love. By now, it was 2010 hours, and I was getting mighty impatient. I did not want to either call or message because I knew he would be at the baggage claim, and I didn’t want to disturb him. Thankfully, he sent a text saying that he would take five more minutes, that the baggage was taking time to arrive. He took close to 12, but what the heck, it was worth it when I saw him come out of the gates, wearing a dark blue (almost navy) suit over a formal light-blue shirt, looking all handsome and savvy and so-very-professional. He tried to walk past me, sidle away so he could maybe surprise me, but I caught him in the nick of time. As predicted and talked about, we hugged. Not one of the “ultra/mega” hugs he had promised, but one that was good enough any which way. The “ultra/mega” ones would have to wait for an hour or more, until we got home.

Strangely, there was a long queue for the radiocabs. I simply had to blame him (I always do that, it’s fun!). So after another 15-minute wait, by which time it was 2030 hours, we were finally enconsced in the warmth of a cab (along with me leaning against him with his right arm around me, snuggling up). Sigh. I wished that time would last forever.

Home in an hour, after which we went in and hugged, and hugged. And then hugged some more. It felt good. It felt amazing. It felt just-so-right. He had got me a surprise – lots and lots of presents for my upcoming birthday (we had decided to celebrate it early, since he would be back home on February 20). Opening them was a joy – so much Liverpool stuff that it made my eyes pop out! And then, it was my time to surprise him. I took him into the room, where I had laid the table, candles, flowers, and a light pasta dinner (just what he wanted). (Although I managed to burn up the sauce a little bit. This was after I had put it over the flame to reheat, we started hugging and were so lost in the moment that I did not realise the sauce had started to burn until I felt the whiff of the charred smell in wafting through my nostrils.) No wine, so we had to make do with apple juice in wine goblets. He was amazed. And surprised. And loved it too. This would be our little “date”, post-V-day. I had never before been on a date with a man in a smart suit, looking every bit as meticulous, neat and savvy as you can imagine a man to be. I was smitten, literally. Although I couldn’t take my eyes off him (much as I tried), I was also too shy to keep staring at him. So I didn’t do the latter, lest he think of me as some sort of paranoid, obsessive “starer”. I refrained, although we did look at each other. It was a lovely date-dinner,  we had an easy conversation to go with it, it was relaxed and comfortbale, just what first dates should be like.

That was followed by tidying up, getting comfortable and watching Independence Day on his laptop, a movie that both of us adore. We snuggled up, it was warm and super amazing with his arms around me. We laughed at the funny parts, we pointed out dialogues that both of us liked, this was our first movie together. We stayed up through the night, just talking, talking and talking. We talked of our favourite bands, music, singers, shows, football players, among a lot of other serious things. We woke up the next day to an overcast Delhi, so our plan of visiting old Delhi had to be put in cold storage. Instead, we lazed around at home the entire day, read hilarious tweets over parody accounts, laughed A LOT (you could call it ROTFL-ing, literally), stared at each other, wound up each other, took the mickey, then made up for it, and generally enjoyed a very pleasant time. Evening was reserved for watching a football match, where his team was on the end of a loss, unfortunately, which left him a tad grumpy and depressed. But I know what that can feel like (being a Liverpool supporter), so we dozed off early, as he was not in the mood to chat a lot after the defeat.

We woke up the next morning, talked some more, hugged and cuddled it out. I was already feeling sad and morose – it was the day he would be leaving. And I would miss him massively. I have grown so used to him being there, with out chats and WhatsApp conversations, with us pulling each others’ legs, with his sarcasm and apparent “rudeness”, with us calling each other names like “sewer rat” and “camel”, with him taking digs and jibes at me. It was lovely to have him around, to get to know the real person, to be able to read his mind (whatever little that I could manage, he is quite private and closed in that sense). It was fun to know how organised he is. The self-anointed “seasoned traveller” is efficient – he packs well, he checks his tickets, ID, chargers quite a few times (something I am prone to doing when travelling). He is very particular about the brand of shower gel and deodarant that he uses. He is extremely neat and tidy, his clothes are ironed. In short, he is very well-groomed, which is a fantastic trait. I was impressed!

Packing done, we hugged it out again. At 1800 hours, the cab arrived. I dropped him off at the airport, where I could feel the usual tears welling up in my eyes. But I didn’t cry, and I was very proud of myself. I cannot handle goodbyes, they make me miserable and weepy. But I was anything but weepy at the airport. This was a “hello”, a “beginning”, as he had mentioned before. It wasn’t a “goodbye”. We would be meeting again, although I have no clue when I will be able to start a second countdown again. I had loved counting down the days from the day he booked his ticket (January 31) to the day he finally landed. I had loved the thought of 14 days turning to zero (which they finally did, blessedly). I will eagerly wait for the chance to ensure that happens again. Until then, I will have to contend with the distance, and make do with his thoughts, pictures, humour and sarcasm.

Song of the Day: Slide Away (Oasis).