Valentine's Day became a contender in India at the dawn of this century. The Shiv Sena immediately attacked it as Western culture. I knew this move was doomed, because in the local trains women were already showing each other their Marathi and Gujarati Valentine's Day cards. Then, Pramod Muthalik of the Ram Sene, undeterred by his lifetime collection of pink chaddis, threatened to marry off Valentiners. Subsequently, the Hindu Mahasabha threatened to make them tie rakhi. Also doomed because, well, the concept of the bhai-friend, which columnist Santosh Desai once described, is as Indian as dahi bhallas. Asaram Bapu —now in prison for child sexual abuse—tried to make it matra pitra worship day. It stopped no one. I doubt (and hope) that the schoolgirls in Amravati being made to pledge to stay away from love will really do so.

Two decades on, it's clear. Valentine's Day was made for India—it involves kitsch, bad poetry and guzzles (as my Bandra friend calls ghazals, which I initially though was some slang for drinking beer), pointless gifts and substantial sentimentality. Now, Valentine's Day is a naturalised Indian citizen, a week of ritual celebration, a bit like dandiya, which includes Rose, Propose and Teddy day.