The magical malaise of that thing called love

radical love

In the deep recluses of the morbid physicality that is the source of all life in the world rests a soul quite naively prejudiced. Prejudiced- in the idea of superiority of one’s existence or in the many dictums that render lives more or less worthwhile than others. But even in the face of such irreverent drama there always resides a desire that stems not so much from the innate need for acceptance as it does of perceptions. Indeed, it is whims and fancies and desires and hopes that drive expectations but even then there exists something surreptitious behind, smiling a smirk, grimacing a grin, all to the effect that the spirit begins coveting even such fantasies that otherwise would not have held as much of an appeal to it.

And love, being the holy grail of fantasies that it is, is one bliss that garners all cravings. There perhaps isn’t any soul walking the earth who does not covet the vortex of emotions that the mere mention of the magical word summons. To love and be loved is a prejudice forever held high. In happy realisations and in sorrowful failures to reciprocate, we really don’t ever let go of the idea of love.

Even when there seems to be no any chance at a romance, we hanker after love much like a starved soul, in search of as much as a measly morsel even when the only appetite that would satiate us best would be gluttony. That you might choose to deride outright as a farce. But souls are way more complex than some lesser thing you can plainly applaud or ridicule. And it’s behind this very complexant want of desires that the aggravation of wishes takes on a different morphing altogether.

There sure is no seeking respite from the soul when it demands something- be it out of sheer necessity or mere foresight or even an updid extravagance, there really is no way you can maneuver around when it’s your inner self to the calling. Trust therefore that heavenly emotion or equivalently that ill- fated feeling called love to lead you to such ends that you thought inconceivable out of you. But love does not manifest the same for all, never in the entire history of existence have perhaps any other emotion undertaken as diverse interpretations as the spectrum of that thing we love to profess as love.

Not to say that love is without paradoxes. Even in its refusal to adhere to norms and rules, love is far from being any different than the many other dilemmas life purposefully projects us in. Love is a fantasy even when the best kind of love is seldom the one that stems from dreams and whims. There is a magic about love so surreal that has been doing the rounds in popular connotation over the ages that any diversion from thereon has us whimpering at our imperfect romantic destiny. But even therein manifests a paradox that love is so adept at acing- our perception of love is so dreamy that rarely do we treasure the attachment forged in real life, which is in most cases nothing quite like butterflies fluttering and flowers blooming and spring gushing in with all blue-skies as allegories would purport us to believe in.

All we want is this fantasy love, even when we know dead sure that such a romance would have no chance to see fulfillment in the harshly realistic world. We love the idealism that love brings along with it but we also want our love to be as conceivable in our lives as it is in our dreams, thereby embarking on a journey that is such a non- marker of the crux of what we want and what we need that we end up being disillusioned. Coveting the cove of love more than enough to be acceptant of its loss yet stubbornly hankering for the fictional within the domains of the real world- isn’t that a paradox we lead ourselves into by virtue of claiming allegiance to that lovely thing called love?

From perfecting the many rules of love to being conversant about all our expectations from it, we seemingly do every single thing that relationship experts and life counsellors demand of us. And that, without even giving a second thought to the kind of intensity our kind of love nurtures. For no love is the same, for no love means the same to everyone and neither does every love inspire the same hysteria in every heart, love isn’t anywhere near to being the universal truth. In our expectations of love and our vision of it, and even in perhaps our loathing of the same, we do not love the same. Ever. And yet in the gamut of emotions it leads us to feel, in the many trances of deep realization it generates within us, love is as essential a treasure as any can covet.

But is love always about ‘pyaar ki nahi jaati, pyaar ho jati hai’? We wonder, for we are very much convinced that our souls can be quite exerting on us. Love indeed does stem from the heart, which anatomically should still just restrict itself to pumping of blood for those rosy cheeks and tinted lips that ironically love endows on us. But not all love is meant to be, at least not in inception. In its relative innocence, love also renders itself gullible to certain extents.

Not all romantic relationships relied on the first bloom of love to waft its fragrance, rather delving into own moralities of like and lust and societal markings of luck by chance to be laughing back at Cupid. It is only the onset of romantic commitment that perhaps is the true harbinger of that real love we glow so joyously at. Because love sadly but invariably does not mean commitment. Love itself is the perfect personification of the dreamy tone we sing along with in relative naivety and in perfect blushing charm till the moment it reveals as yet another number sung in auto- tunous blasphemy. That perhaps is tad bit too diversifical a comparison we ought to have drawn. But delivering the lecture in a jargon familiar to susceptible folks- we sadly are learning it the hard way around.

Indeed it’s difficult to envision life without love, specially for people who do not like to believe in existence besides all its hunky-dory goodness. Not to say that is maniacal, in fact in a world so very obsessed with the greens of envy and the greys of soul it indeed is no less than the greatest blessings of life to harbor a heart so pure that seeks out all the love in the universe. But through years of evolution we have learned to live life in a way that might not be the most ideal of all but surely is one that seeks to guard us of complacency. Things hurt most when they don’t end up shaping the way we expected them to, so it’s only natural that we consider it better to prepare for the worse rather than being sucked a bit too hard out of our fancy bubble.

But hopeful humans as we continue to be, we do not really let ourselves lose sight of the last glimmer of light in the horizon. Do we? Even when we are seemingly and even dauntingly prepared for the disaster at hand, we still let that ray of hope flicker somewhere within. Expecting the best even when we’re dead sure about the worst- so terrifically the classic human we continue to be. So much so that even in our desolation when we would be crying pools of tears, we somehow sniff a bit at allowing our hope to take over our plight. That again is something very appreciable and also something very brave you would allow your soul to do.

But in innocently harbouring that single semblance of hope we are putting ourselves more in the face of vulnerability. Believing that we are prepared for the worst and indeed being prepared for it are two whole different universes altogether. It’s never more disturbing than when the last fleck of hope proves to be the last straw of wistful longing. That small desire of hope sucks all life out of us when we finally see it all misting into the air, much like some desolate abhorrence of the last drop of water that still means so very much to a parched spirit.

It’s surprising how varyingly we digressed from something as happy- go- lucky as the charms of love to dwell on something as obsolete as the hopelessness of hope. But that indeed is the norm. Seldom has human emotions remained within its set realm, forever transcending over to other auroras, irrespective of whether it falls in sync with the joys and the sorrows, preluding instead every single experience in equal esteem- be it one of unabated joy or the other of endless tears.

Love on the other hand is somewhat of a contradiction, though in essence it serves to be the perfect partner, literally or otherwise. Love runs out of steam as quickly as it rushes into it, because that is the very transient ground on which love forever survives. To love someone therefore is not to be tantalised by their scent or drop down dead at their gorgeousness. Neither is it fantasising about how they would sing paeans of you or how tenderly they’ll make love to you.

Love is a resolute commitment- first to yourself and then to your beloved that does not need coercing or persuasion to force itself onto you. Because love forever is surreal but it can never for once be unreal. If your love isn’t one of common paradigms or even one of contradicted complications, then only is your love free from prejudices. Otherwise love will be all it has never ceased to be- luxurious, loving and pardon us for saying this but, lustful and loathsome when all you need it to be is a feeling that grants you the bliss of freedom for the perfect happy life.