A Love Story
On their Wedding Anniversary, I look back on what I consider an ideal partnership; the one between my parents.
“Hello. I am Mr. Padma.”
How many men are confident enough to introduce themselves thus? My father was.
My mother was a Force of Nature. With her chiffon sarees, bright lipstick and bouffant hairstyle, she was the talk of town. Her baking was legendary and she commanded the love only an excellent teacher can.
Everybody knew her and adored her. And my father was more than happy to let her stay in the limelight. In their relationship, there was none of the competition you sometimes see. My father was absolutely proud of her, and if anything, loved the attention she got.
He, mind you, was no pushover. She was the student of botany, but he was the one who could rattle off the botanical names of all the plants in the colony. She could connect with people at their level, but he could put people at ease by switching languages rapidly. She could keep a gathering entertained for hours, but his one liners delivered with a deadpan expression were what many people remembered.
He was a fantastic dancer, and taught her all the dance steps. They always set the dance floor on fire. Her twirls and dips are what people remember. But ballroom dancing, as anyone who has tried it knows, is dependent on the skill of the partner who is leading. With his skill, he could have made anyone twirl, but it was only with her that he danced.
Looking back, what amazes me most is how they always worked in tandem. Of how they would comfortably fall into routines without having to discuss it. One Sunday, he’d bring home samosas and jalebis from a stall he heard about about. She’d say she loved it, and after that we would have it for breakfast every Sunday. Or he would mention how he liked a particular dish, and it would become a weekly routine.
The small things they did were so significant in the partnership. She always made sure she finished all her chores before he got him from work, so they could sit together sipping tea and talking about the day. They always took their own decisions, but always knew what the other was doing and thinking.
After dementia and Parkinsons started claiming his mind and body, he gradually became more and more dependent on her. For her part, she never left his side. No matter how many home nurses were engaged, she never trusted any of them to look after him. He forgot a lot of things, but what he never forgot was “his wife”- everyone he met heard stories about how amazing she was.
This photograph taken on their last holiday together before I was born sums up their relationship. She was the Star; her profile bathed in the rays of the setting sun, a perfect compliment to the rose that glowed with inner fire. Yet, the photograph is as much about the photographer as it about her. He wanted that perfect photograph, and it wouldn’t have been possible without her.
That was their Love Story.
A story that began on September 8, 1967.
A story that may not have been written if not for a tiny untruth. When they heard that the groom-to-be was nearly six feet tall, the bride-to-be wore heels while meeting him for the first time. Nobody came to know her real height till after the wedding, but while she may have lacked a few inches, she was certainly more than a match for him.
Even fourteen years after he moved on, to me they will always be Shiva and Parvati. Two individuals confident in their individuality, yet together much bigger than what either could be on their own.
