Love, of course!

Mushy Bollywood songs galore at the office this morning, and while I was just beginning to nauseate, Paroma laid her cards - I hate all these pink love songs! On impulse I reasoned that the Beatles too wrote them, but then I withdrew it. Not because I was suddenly confounded by the feeling that I was wrong, but because Valentine's day seems to have lost all meaning.

Someone at work asked me a few days back if I was doing anything special. And pop came the answer, "Valentines Day is for love. Not awkward fumblers." And a few days later I was told "I hope you're not expecting something spectacular...(for Val's day, that is)", and of course i dismissed it with all the dust and smoke doing the rounds in the confines of Aditya's 1 BHK.

Subir once told me that I wear my heart on my sleeves. Not so much a cassanova as a दिल फ़ेंक. Back then, it felt like a jab. A jab of judgement. Of being told off. For having just the infinite ability to love someone to bits, to love selflessly. Anyone. Anyone who was willing to receive. Anyone who was willing to acknowledge. Not even return. Just tolerate it. Honor, perhaps. Respect it. Keep it safely, if at all (?), in something of a sealed treasure box so no one stole it.

I even remember when this conversation with Subir had happened. Last January. Or Feb. I wept on the phone as I told him about my decision of leaving town. Almost achingly. That afternoon, because I had finally confronted my broken heart. Like often before. Of all oftens, Subir has known. Perhaps I spoke to him because he too has loved and lost but not stopped out of fear.

Somehow, every time Subir asks me to be careful, I chuckle to myself. What's love that isn't ruthless? What is love that hasn't that element of gay abandon? A certain mad glint in the eyes, a wild ring in one's laughter, some sarcasm, some confession, some forgiveness, all truth and nothing left to the imagination. Love isn't a game of reward and punishment. It isn't even an equal barter or equitably divided. There's no more, or less of it. It's not darts in the dark. It's a law that sees. Understands. And still plunges head first.

So sure, there must be quite a few who weigh the pros and cons in this transaction, but one half of the balance will always be heavier. That half will always demand more or give more or laugh more or forever weep!

So why must one love still, with that complete disregard for hurt and its ancillaries? Well, because that's how it's done. Because without love, February would be January! Because they don't call love a form of madness for nothing. It is not a task that must be carried out with preset steps, milestones and goals. Those are hurdles that cause falls. A fear of loss. And of course, like some people who think tattoos are addictive, love's hurt is no less heady! Distance, space, jealousy, indifference, callousness, abandonment - even if momentary - heck, just sleep.

But man the scar is beautiful. And to admire its story at a later date is nothing short of the greatest exhilaration, the pride of having earned it.

Tonight, I do fear losing. Tomorrow I might even lose; I might or might not be lost. It's 2012. the world is ending anyway. We lost our favourite and one of our first Profs at undergrad university on Sunday. A little bit of love can't kill anyone! So Love... Love... Love...

1 comment:

Parth said...

You seem to wear your heart on your blog too :) Here's a look at love from a critical tangent