Photo from Creative Commons

Feb. 14, 2016.

A friendly breeze on a summer morning; the day’s heat hasn’t quite set in, yet the lawns are bathed in sunlight. It reminds me of my farmhouse in New Delhi, when the peacocks would casually stroll by, pecking at the crops of ladyfingers and oranges that the gardeners laboriously tended to each day. Now and then, they would stop to drink from puddles left behind by the morning showers — puddles that, somehow, were soil-free.

Sometimes, if we were lucky, the peacocks would be in a generous enough mood to flail their wings a little, giving us glimpses of the colorful beauty ensconced within their feathers.

Walking on dew-moistened blades of grass each morning, sometimes skipping, sometimes breaking into a run with the children. Spending an inordinate amount of time outdoors – laughing, telling stories, drinking cool milk and cardamom concoctions lovingly prepared by grandmothers, feasting on fallen unripe mangoes we found in the compounds.

Losing ourselves in the cobblestoned alleys of Old Goa, scented by frangipani blossoms and fish curry alike. Thinking of the stories of a million Indo-Portuguese families, their villas sheltered by coconut groves bubbling with the vitality of their heritage.

Mornings of literature shared with my mum over cups of coffee at our sun-dappled corner café, overlooking the bustling Turner Road in Bombay. Shopping with mom, feeling the fabric and the possibilities, sharing both hopes and anecdotes. Singing along to the car stereo, making plans and art as we drive past the Arabian Sea to our little hamlet of a home, amidst all the green of Pali Hill.

Laying my head on my grandma’s lap in the morning, listening to tales and eating hot porridge with nuts.

Going on adventures with my brother; to the sushi place outside of town, all around the Middle East, to the grocer’s around the corner or simply around the dining table in our living room. Running around, arms flailing, Drake playing in the background, giving melody to our madness.

Sharing a moment of complete infatuation with a special boy — one who admires you for exactly who you are and is attracted to everything that makes you so weirdly, wonderfully you. He is interested in all your little witticisms and offbeat hobbies — pottery/kitchen/gardening/sewing/dancing/sketching. He takes you on drives at 10 p.m. to drink hot chocolate by the sea. He plays the music you love in the car, and doesn’t cringe at your tone deafness.

Laughing with a group of your closest friends on a school bench or on a three-legged stool, higher than the one you should actually be perched atop, surrounded by colorful liquids and chandelier earrings. Teetering, tapping; letting the rhythm of the flashing lights absorb you completely.

I hope that you have had similar memories, brimming with unconditional love, that bring you joy.

I hope that you have a chance to reminisce about them this Valentine’s Day and that you decide to make new memories this year: enough to last you until next February.