Its weird, I'm writing a letter to someone who I thought I fell in love with at 16, but it wasn't because it fell apart before I turned 17.I thought it was because you were the only person who ever actually felt that way towards me. Who fought for me, who saw me as something more than a friend. To be honest with you, I never really knew what love meant. I only saw it in movies or on Tv as a bright wild fire, consuming the forest ahead till it wasn't. I thought of it something equivalent to religion. I believed in it blindly, its prophets; the life around me in the form of children; and it scriptures; the promises made ages ago, vows made centuries ago.
But to you it was a whole other world, wasn't it? Its a little late but I think I see it now- Your world and how you saw it.
It was the small jokes midst movies in an empty cinema hall, sitting with her to watch the after credit scenes- she's a Marvel fan, it makes sense to her, not as much to you, but you wait anyway. It was the video calls with funny poses. Her pet cats, who she would generously flaunt whenever you called. Its her showing you your favorite one out of all of them- The fawn one with the earthly eyes. 3am texts, photos with smiles that reached our eyes, selfies only because she knows he's uncomfortable when other people take photos of them.
It was supposed to be pure and honest, brilliant with youth.
But to me, 'Love' was different.
Love is tough, it cannot be shown. Love is secretive and hidden. Love is tragic, its weak.
I have been taught to hide the things that hurt me, hide the things that give me that morphinenic rush. I've never learnt what it meant to be affectionate. To me, affection was my mother's packed lunches and my father's hugs. Nothing more than that. Anything more was defiled, wrong, absolutely unacceptable. I never saw my father hold my mother's hand. I never saw him give her a flower other than on their annual anniversery, a peck on the cheek, a letter....
It was always for the kids. It's always so the kids could stay happy. If that was Love, I didn't want it. I don't want it if its fueled by the need to please a norm set by people who have no co-relation to it.
But it wasnt. Because love is graciously warm. Its plentiful and fullfilling.
Love is thumb wrestling in his sisters room, but she cheats, you smile because she won. Love is Gulab Jamun for his mother, because that's her favorite mithai. Love is listening as his brother complains about how he wanted his Jordan's showing in each photo. Love is Ludo coupled with emotional blackmail, looking at him as he takes the wining streak. Love is biryani on a Friday as you and him share the same plate. Love is listening to his sister talk about makeup as she does yours, Its matching jewelry and outfits as you take pictures in his homes garden in July. Love is aftershave on cuts because you have to go pick her up. Love is watching cricket with him in his room accompanied with a bottle of 7up.
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Love is a beautiful sacrifice
Love is not a wild fire, but a phoenix.
Love is not tough
Because Love goes both ways.
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