“Rose day, Propose day, Chocolate day…” they count, and my
mind wanders off. They giggle as they talk about their boyfriends, each teasing
and getting teased. They notice that I’m a little disengaged, and one of them
asks, “How many chocolates did you get, eh?” I smile wryly and shrug. “I have
some important work to do. I’ll catch you guys later, okay?” I say, and walk
away towards the street.
I’m back in the days when I had no idea what they mean by
Valentine’s week. I’m just fifteen—a schoolgirl, and a brilliant one. The wind
doesn’t have the February chill to it; it’s a warm September afternoon, and I’m
with the whole class in the field—the boys playing cricket and the girls
walking around, talking , or maybe just hopping and skipping. From where I and
my girlfriends stand talking, I can see him wave to his friends. His eyes are
shining in the amber sunlight, and his voice is ringing like music in my ears.
I don’t know I’m falling in love; I just know he is one of the most beautiful
creations of God I could ever see. While I watch him from a distance, I forget
that I’ve not done well in the viva this morning. All I feel is an inexplicable
joy, which tries to burst out through my eyes, but somehow I manage to keep my
composure. At night, I dream that I’m in heaven, and God shows me my seat
beside him. The next morning, my mother tells me I’d been smiling in my sleep.
“Hello! How’ve you been?” someone calls out to me as I pass a
group of youngsters on my way home. I recognise my old schoolmates and my eyes
immediately scan every face till they rest on his eyes. He’s the same—hazel eyed,
shy, quiet. My heart does not beat fast; I feel an inexplicable calmness and
tranquillity in his presence. I exchange trivialities with all of them, and at
last, turn to him. “So, how’s the week going on?” I ask. He gives a shy smile
and says, “Nothing much, just jamming and road-tripping with these guys.” I
nod. “And you?” he adds, perhaps in an attempt to look less shy.
And me? I’m
writing poems for you, reading your favourite paperbacks and wishing I could
share them with you, dreaming of you every single night! I’ve lit a candle for
you every Christmas ever since I met you: I’ve been in love with you for the
past seven years, and isn’t it funny I’ve never told you? You know, they talk
about getting roses and chocolates in Valentine’s week, and I feel so dumb when
I can’t explain that my love for you is not about roses and chocolates, or
about being boyfriend and girlfriend, or wanting to get married and have
children. It’s about freedom, and passion, and immortality. I don’t want to
claim you as mine, I want you to fly high, without the guilt of knowing that
you’re not giving yourself to me. You know, if an artist falls in love with
you, you can never die! And really, I won’t let you die. That’s how much I love
you, no matter where you are, no matter who you are with, no matter what you
do. You may think me insane, but isn’t that what the world called the great
lovers of all time? I wish I could say all this, but I simply blush, and
say “Well, the same old things, you know, painting and stuff.”
At home, his portrait is still wet on my easels, waiting to
be impressed upon the pages of history while I plan to have it framed on V-day.
I won’t sign my name below, but I know I will mutter under my breath, “Happy
Valentine’s Day, my love!”, as I send it off to be auctioned for children in Aleppo.
