Denouement: Cupid style

"Love, its a special day, 

You should celebrate and appreciate." 
croons Kina Grannis in an angelic voice.  Thought the video suited my thoughts, even though this is scribbled after the Valentine's day. In fact  I had kept my eyes open for this day. Nothing extra ordinary here, apart from all the red roses that came out and the media flooded with red hearts and products merchandised with the flavour of the day.  Couples, lovers locked in arms and smooching sensuously did not paint a different picture, Oh God,  it is the order of the day. 

A thorough scanning of the headlines of the major dailies of India made me sit up and notice, this time with a difference. There was not even a single instance of eve teasing or violence  by the 'Love brigade' of the insular Shivsena and their kin.  All the lovers in India could breathe a sigh of relief as they could unabashedly exchange their greetings and love and celebrate.  Phew... Valentine day  revellers would be secretly thanking the youth brigade of the ruling Congress who doused Pramod Muthalik with a deadly concoction of threat and black oil, which must have bruised his confidence and his audacity.  All the build up to uproot all foreign practises and invasion of the culture of India ran into muddy shallow banks with a single smothering of ‘black oil.  Perhaps the ‘Moral Police’ lost its steam when a bomb ripped through the German bakery killing many including foreign nationals. 

The denouement was not in the cards, but hope this soft withdrawal of the upholders of Indian culture and practices would initiate a search into the real heritage of India, not the politically and parochially motivated nationalism.

I had a riveting conversation  with a youngster, who on the day of San Valentino was in pangs to leave a friend, who had decided to follow his vocation to become a priest.  She was torn between her urge to see him as a priest and to cling on to him as her good friend.  She was at a loss to explain that she was about to lose her best friend, not her boyfriend.  To imagine him as a priest was the last thing she had in her mind.  She did wish him the best, but was scrupulously guilty to think that the mere thoughts of not wishing him to be a priest was a deadly sin.  She was not ignorant, she knew how this wonderful young man, who was the leader of the youth prayer group would be incredible in his future ministry.  She knew too well that he was to transcend human barriers to love a bigger community, yet remain a human being. But she could not let him go. Neither could I convince her that he was just starting a journey. Her grief was not cosmetic.  Weeping and pouring her heart out in front of me, she seemed destroyed. “ You don’t know how difficult it is to find a true friend”  I was more than convinced of the friendship they shared, the aching twinge of being separated as friends, when he joins the seminary to fill flesh and blood into the reply “yes, here I am”.  The tears wouldn’t stop, her angst was genuine.  My words or reassurance were of no value, I thought so.  She had genuinely tasted and experienced real friendship.  The words on the poster flashed across my mind, presented  to me when I moved out from a parish, I lost the poster, but the words are very green.  ‘Keep old friends,  make new friends; one is gold, the other is silver.’