Valentine's Day. The biggest celebration of love. The day you are supposed to love everything you cherish. And cherish everything you love. Family, relatives, pets, and even strangers.
Like most people, some of my fondest memories are of moments spent on Valentine's Day in the past. Moments made memorable by not just happiness and fun, but also by unique experiences, especially life-altering ones.
This Valentine's Day, as I take a trip down memory lane, I cannot help but wonder how my life would have unfolded without these life-changing experiences. And at the very top of the list would be the Valentine of 2021. I was all of 21 years of age at that time.
I was then toddling through the world of adulthood. One step at a time. Doing my MBA while staying alone in Delhi. And navigating the post-Covid world at the same time.
The neighbourhood seemed to be the best place to resume my interactions with society in a post-Covid world. And it was a very bustling neighbourhood indeed. Delhi is teeming with people, and my locality was no different. It was loud, noisy, dusty and lively.
Like all neighbourhoods, mine had its share of oddball characters. Society calls them misfits. Loners, drifters, individuals who try to avoid social contact and lead an isolated life. One such character lived right down the road, a stone's throw away from my apartment.
He was an old man, probably in his 70s. The house he lived in was an old but giant property. One of those decades-old structures that can still be found in the dark nooks and corners of every big Indian city. A house with history, but no future.
Nobody knew his name. Some addressed him as Guruji, others as Masterji. Rumour had it that he was an artist, a painter probably. Though none seemed to know what he painted, and when.
He interacted with no one. Was rarely seen in public. Except when he would go out to buy the newspaper every morning. And visit the local grocery shop to buy groceries once a week.
The French poet Jean de La Fontaine had once said, "A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it." I guess that would best explain my 1st encounter with this old man. How it turned out to be a twist of fate instead of a random event. And how it shaped my destiny forever.
Chapter 1 - The Stranger
It was a day in November, 2020. A good 3 months before Valentine's Day. The skies opened up one fine morning. And flooded the city in torrential rain.
I was returning to my apartment after my morning classes. My Honda Scooter broke down in the middle of the road. Right when the heavy downpour started. Right in front of the old house where the old man lived.
My flat was just a 5 minute walk away up the road. But there was no way I could have walked in that severe rain. I abandoned my Scooty in the middle of the road. And ran towards the old house to seek shelter under one of its ancient balconies.
I stood under a big 1st floor balcony, to escape the rain. That was when I first heard his voice.
"Don't leave your scooter in the middle of the road," said a voice from the balcony above. "A car might ram into it. Park it under this balcony, where you are standing."
I looked up and saw the old man standing on the balcony above holding an umbrella. His white hair swept across his forehead in the breeze. His white beard covered in droplets of rain.
I realised he was right. Leaving my Scooter in the middle of the road was risky. I ran out in the rain and somehow managed to push it all the way to the old man's house.
I was now totally drenched from head to toe. My wet hair clung to my shoulders and back like vines that grow on walls. My white top stuck to my skin and the bra I was wearing underneath.
"You are totally wet. Come in," he said as he opened the main door. "Let the rain stop. You could then call a mechanic to repair your scooter."
"No, it's ok. I will stay outside. Thanks," I replied politely. This was the 1st time I was interacting with him. And I was in no hurry to enter his big old house.
"Waiting inside would be better," he said again in his gravelly old voice. "You can't ride your scooter until it gets repaired."
"Actually, I stay just down the road," I told him. "All I have to do is push my scooter for 5 minutes once the rain stops."
"Fine. As you wish," I noticed a hint of annoyance in his voice. "Just so you know, I am not a crazy old man, " he added. "And this is not a haunted house either, irrespective of the stories you might have heard. You will be safe inside."
I felt embarrassed now. Here was a senior citizen opening his door and inviting me in to seek shelter from bad weather. And I was refusing him under some preconceived notions formed by rumours and neighbourhood gossip. I felt ashamed.
"Sorry, Sir. I meant no disrespect," I said apologetically. "Thank you for letting me in."
I entered the house along with him. And kept walking down a long corridor. It did look like a haunted house, though. Damp and dark, having a typical old-house smell.
"Please wait here," he told me at the end of the never-ending walk down the corridor. There was a hall surrounded by rooms on either side. He opened the door to one of those rooms and disappeared inside.
He emerged soon after and handed me a dry towel and a set of neatly ironed clothes. "Here, change into these," he said. "I am afraid I don't have any women's clothes. These are mine."
I looked at the clothes. It was a set of kurta and pajama. Both were white and ironed. And both looked too large for my size.
"Sir, there's no need. I am fine," I replied gratefully. "Thank you for your generosity."
"You will catch a cold if you keep wearing those wet clothes," he said in that same sombre tone of his. "You have no reason to worry. There is nobody here except me. You can change in that room. Lock the door from inside."
I entered the room and locked the door. I took off my top and jeans. As well as my bra and panty. All were soaking wet. And put on the kurta and pajama over my naked body.
Both the kurta and pajama were too large and voluminous for my delicate petite frame. The neckline of the kurta was so deep that it revealed half of my cleavage. The neck opening was so wide that my shoulders were visible.
I came out of the room holding my wet clothes and the towel in one hand. And tugging at the shoulder of the kurta with the other. I kept the wet bra and panty in the side pocket of the kurta.
"Sir, can I hang these somewhere to dry?" I asked him and pointed to the wet clothes.
"I will take care of these," he took the wet clothes and towel from my hands.
"Have some hot tea," he gestured to the table in the middle of the hall. There were 2 teacups and a teapot on it. "I just made some for myself."
"It's a very big house," I tried to engage in small talk while sipping tea. "Must be very old."
"Yes. 130 years," he said. "It was built by my great-grandfather. My wife passed away 20 years ago. We were then living abroad. After her death, I returned to this ancestral house. Now I live alone."
In between taking sips of tea, I noticed him glancing at my cleavage, now fully visible from the open neckline of the kurta. My dark nipples were also poking out under the light white fabric. There was no bra to protect my modesty. And no buttons on the kurta either.
"I think I should leave now. Thank you for the clothes and tea," I tried to get up and leave.
"It's still raining," he said, "but I could give you a tour of the house if you are ok with it."
