The gift

The bohemians were about to meet me. The boho girl with twinkling eyes. With her equally zany partner with his ear to ear grin. My favourite couple, this.

Love and excitement welled up within me. The way it always did. At the thought of her. At the mention of them. At the mere prospect of meeting these jovial people. Play. Mischief. Banter. All good feelings flooded my heart.

The reunion happened on the swanky sidewalks of Gurgaon Cyber City. Her hugs were always brief; she never seemed too comfortable with cloying show of emotions. His were the languorous kinds. One could never have enough of the both of them. After receiving and giving snug hugs, we settled someplace for lunch. She next to me, he right opposite.

I don’t remember what the name of that restaurant was nor what we ordered. But I do remember, with HD clarity, the moments that will remain etched in my memory forever. The talk was about their Kashmir trip, from where they had just returned. Given her classy and saucy wit, she did most of the talking. He contributed, as usual, through brief but legendary observations. She, the food. He, the salt. I simply relished and rejoiced in the blissful stream of their joie de vivre.

He asked the waiter where the washroom was, and went to the indicated place for a loo break. I was therefore surprised when seconds later I found him right behind me, his arms wide open, holding a beautiful Kashmiri shawl with flowered embroidery. Before I understood what was happening, he simply wrapped me in the shawl with a warm hug and said, “I thought you must be cold.” She watched on with eyes pouring out love. Time stood motionless in the immortality of that moment. That feeling. That love-soaked completeness.

Love, when draped, looks like this

To love them, and be loved in return, is grace enough. But the gift, and more importantly, the way it was gifted, is the kind of story that should be saved for posterity. And for everyone who loved, and was loved.