Anniversary Speech for Your Wife: A Husband's Toast, 1st to 50th

Thank you, everyone, for being here to celebrate with us. Fifty years—imagine that. I want to thank our children, Priya and Sunil, for organising tonight. And Vinod and Asha, thank you for flying all the way from Toronto. I know some of you travelled a long way, and it means so much to have you all here.

Meena and I met back in March 1976, at Vinod’s wedding in Leicester. I remember exactly what Meena was wearing—a green sari—and that she was the only one who didn’t pretend not to see me trip over a speaker cable on the dance floor. She actually laughed. Then she told me I danced like a man fighting off a wasp. She still said yes when I asked her to dance—on my third try. That’s when I knew she was something special.

Since then, we’ve had quite the adventure. We started off in my parents’ front room for three years. Meena painted every inch of our first little terraced house herself—she even let me “help” with one wall, which I suspect she repainted the next day. Priya came along in 1980, Sunil in 1983, and now we have three wonderful grandchildren. There have been easy times and hard. In 2009, when I had my heart bypass, Meena slept in a hospital chair for nine nights. She never left my side, except to bring me proper food when she thought the nurses weren’t looking.

We’ve had so many memories, big and small. I still laugh about our old Vauxhall breaking down outside Stoke, and Meena winning us a free breakfast from the B&B landlord by beating him at cards. On her 40th birthday, I tried for six weeks to learn her mum’s dal in secret. Then I burned it so badly the smoke alarm went off, and we ended up having fish and chips on the front wall. I was embarrassed, but Meena just laughed until she cried. That’s her—she finds the silver lining, even when dinner is charcoal.

What I love most about Meena is that she sees everything. She knows if our neighbour Doreen’s curtains haven’t opened yet, or which grandchild is being too quiet for comfort. She taught in Belgrave for thirty-four years, and I still see old pupils stop her in the market to say hello. She remembers everyone’s name and everyone’s story. She’s the heart of our family.

If anyone asks me the secret to making it fifty years, I always say this: never go to sleep without a cup of chai together. Especially after an argument. It’s hard to stay cross when you’re both blowing on a too-hot cup of tea, stealing glances at each other over the rim.

I do wish Meena’s mother, Kamla, could have been here tonight. She made all the sweets for our wedding, and always told me I was a lucky man. She was right.

As for the future, I’m looking forward to dancing at our granddaughter Anika’s wedding next summer. Meena has already told everyone she’s claiming the first dance with me after the bride and groom, so I’ve been practising my moves in the kitchen. I promise to avoid all speaker cables this time.

Meena, thank you for fifty years of patience, laughter, and love. I promise to keep making your chai, and to always have a dance ready for you—even if it looks a little like I’m fighting off a wasp. (Raise your glass) To Meena—my wife, my partner, my best friend.

Thank you, everyone, for being here—with a special thanks to Keisha and Ray for letting us invade their backyard, and possibly their fridge, for this celebration.

Forty years ago, Denise walked into the Charlotte electronics store where I worked and returned a VCR with the kind of politeness you reserve for truly terrible salesmen. She told me, “That was the worst advice I’ve ever paid for.” But I must’ve done something right, because she let me buy her a sweet tea and, eventually, a ring.

We got married that December in her grandmother’s church. Then in 1990, the twins showed up—Kayla and Jalen—and if you think raising twins is a walk in the park, try it with Denise on your team. She could run a small country based on her snack schedule alone. Now we have grandsons, Miles and Andre, who she is absolutely spoiling, starting with cake for breakfast. I have given up trying to enforce any rules.

One of my favorite memories is from a year when money was tighter than my old work pants—1991, right after I got laid off. Every Friday, Denise would light candles, make pancakes, and say, “We’re not broke, we’re just between steaks.” I fell in love with her sense of humor, and with those pancakes.

What I love most about Denise today is she knows every cashier at the grocery store by name, she cannot resist guessing the end of any movie, and she still holds my hand in the checkout line. She makes every ordinary day a little more interesting and a lot more kind.

So what’s our secret? We take turns being grumpy—but never both on the same day. And we have never missed a Saturday breakfast together, no phones allowed, for forty years.

Now that I’m retired, Denise has highlighted every national park in the country. She says she’s planning the adventure—I think I’m just the chauffeur.

(Raise your glass) To Denise—my partner in pancakes, grumpiness, and national park adventures. Here’s to many more years together. I love you.