Valentine's Day

“What are we doing tomorrow?” my wife asked me in the afternoon. “What do you mean?” I replied, eyes still glued to my laptop. “It’s Valentine’s Day,” she said.

Now, earlier in the day, I had a call with someone who wanted my views on how advertising for Gen Z should change around Valentine’s Day. I don’t know why he wanted my views though, neither am I Gen Z (unless picking my nose and flicking the tiny booger balls into an imaginary hoop counts as a qualifying trait), nor am I experienced enough in this industry to have any groundbreaking insights.

But of course, I still gave him my two cents. I told him how the medium has gone completely online, so romance or at least the ads around romance should now involve sending memes at 2 AM or curating a Spotify playlist with titles like "songs for when she says i am fine" or "tracks that make me question capitalism and our relationship and if we should get a dog". Something along those lines.

Anyway, when my wife mentioned it was Valentine’s Day, I wasn’t caught off guard like a clueless husband in an Imperial Blue ad who forgets important dates. Thanks to that call, I was very much aware. What did surprise me, however, was the intent behind her question.

“Should we do anything?” I asked. “Maybe,” she replied, just as unsure as I was.

Our Valentine’s Day celebrations have evolved quite a bit over the years. Back in college, our big romantic gesture was finding a decent cafe (CCD Square in Connaught Place, if you remember—that used to be posh, or at least we thought so. Ah, the perks of pocket-money poverty). We’d order two coffees, extra sugar, extra ice, extra whipped cream and then drink them extra slowly so we could sit there for as long as possible. All those extras, within 500 rupees. One time, I drank mine so slowly that the milk and coffee separated, and my glass looked like a failed chemistry experiment. Hydrocaffeinic acid.

Post-college, once we started earning, we graduated to lunch dates. Sometimes, we even exchanged gifts—maybe a nice shirt or a dress. But for the last three years, we have completely stopped pretending to care about this day.

Two main reasons- first, our anniversary is close to Valentine’s Day, so we just celebrate that instead. And second, and this one, we don’t like admitting—we are tired.

Is our love dying? Or are there just too many days now? Birthdays, New Year, random friend’s housewarming party, anniversary of our wedding, anniversary of when we first started dating, anniversary of when we got engaged—how many occasions are we supposed to keep up with? When I had that call in the morning, I actually thought about how Valentine’s Day itself has changed so much. It used to be about grand gestures, handwritten love letters (I wrote it once), and standing outside a girl’s tuition class hoping to make eye contact (saw a friend do this while I was playing basketball with my goober). Now, romance is a bunch of notifications—"XYZ sent you a Reel," "XYZ liked your story," "XYZ edited the shared Google Doc." The generation I grew up in doesn’t relate to this new-age thing of being online forever. A cousin recently told me that people even have “digital dates” now. I wonder how that goes. “One WiFi for the lady, please, and I’ll just have hotspot.” Maybe I am just getting older, or maybe there’s only so much love that capitalism can squeeze out of us before we all collectively decide—bas bhai ho gaya.

Anyway, our grand plan for tomorrow is to stay home. Then, around 6 PM, we’ll realize that maybe we should do something. We’ll spend two hours Googling places, scrolling through Zomato reviews, and debating whether the hassle is worth it. And then, finally, we’ll stay home. With just a little regret.

Which, to be honest, is also the plan for the rest of our lives.