I do not know about women, but of love, I have known much and more.
Love is of two kinds, my father believes, of family and of duty; and he is a righteous man, gentle and kind. My love for him is a wordless thing, deep and strong as the roots of an oak. He is stern of face, honest and loving.
Love is of the child, of the heart, my mother thinks, and of happiness. When she is sad or hurt, her eyes turn inward, and she does not speak. She always makes fun of me and never misses a chance to smile. For this, sometimes, I love her most of all.
Of my sister’s thoughts on the subject of love, I do not know so well, but her imagination is of a romantic and she is neither frail nor gullible. If I could love each person I loved for just one quality, I would love her for her strength.
My teacher in English and close friend from days in school would say that love was not the thing for me and that I would be better off without pocketing all her favourite students, and she would say these things with a teasing look in her eyes. She is a wonderful person, young and wise, and I have enjoyed learning from her.
Most people I have known in my life could say a lot about love, and they could be right or wrong. Many people I have known would balk at any casual usage of the word, if not outwardly then inwardly. The word itself is precious to them, so I assume love itself must mean much, and more. Some I know declare themselves non-believers, some aspirants, and the rest are either too confused or too busy for love.
Books have also been close to me, and we have often discussed love and life, at length. And since books are thoughts of men, oftentimes intelligent men and sometimes wise ones, they have always made me wonder. But then, books are words of men. And some books say that words are wind.
One of my friends is afraid of love, though she longs for it. She is confused and likely to brood if you give her room for it, with unruly hair and a pretty smile. For all the foolish things she does in innocence and confusion, I love her. Another friend I have, bald, fat and intelligent, keeps falling in love with women. Every time a love fails him, he somehow finds it in himself to love again, even more passionately than the last time. He is fierce and smart and with an honest heart. His capacity to love has always kept me in awe.
When I was born my uncle named me after a hero from the scriptures. In my third year, I was given my proper name and depending on how you say it, it might mean many things: ‘infinite’, ‘endless’, ‘the universe’, or ‘the sky’. Names are important to me, for they intrigue.
Like anyone else, I have been many things. In school, I was a fine athlete, a good student, a foolish friend and a well-loved political figure. A pretty friend of mine once told me I had a tongue made for flirting and I have since proven her right in the literal way, yet wrong in a matter of suggestion. I have been naïve and cruel and hurtful to people close to me, and I have known my faults and failures. My first real girlfriend thought she was in love with me and would often ask me to smirk for her because she loved to see me do it. My father says I have curious eyes and his gentle smile, and sometimes I like to believe him. My mother tells me that I have so much hair on my limbs because our house in Ajodhya was always surrounded by monkeys when she was carrying me, and because all she read in those days were Ukrainian folk tales. She laughs every time she makes that quip; and my mother looks beautiful when she laughs.
I have been many things, known many loves and loved many people, but of them all, the love of a woman I know is the dearest to me. You might think that common and obvious, but it makes no matter. All men are dust and the purpose of life is love, maybe, and perhaps I am no different.
I am a gentle man, but passionate. And if I put myself to something, I do it well or not at all. I have had many loves and know many things that would take its guise. I cannot say of true love or love that can make the minstrels weep, but I can claim to love a woman like no other, and love her so much that all my other loves would shrivel in comparison.
She has brown eyes that look golden when the sun fills them, and hair so deep a brown that it is almost black sometimes. Her name is of three syllables, and I find it musical. When she laughs, I am reminded of my mother, and when she smiles, it warms me like sunlight.
She is quick to hurt, quick to smile and quick to talk, and guards her affections like a right-wing traditionalist. She can talk to me in seamless chatter while solving complex mathematical calculations and I have always seen it as a partly fascinating and partly annoying quality she has. Annoying only because I hate to share her with anyone, least of all boring paperwork.
In the morning, she smells like honey and autumn leaves. I am a writer at heart, and of her, I have written much, in poems and stories alike. When sleeping, she always rolls to one side. She looks like my mother when she is sad, and I have never known sadness more saddening. Sometimes, she even manages to keep her tears from me.
If you would have me compare her with a bird, I would pick the sparrow. If you asked me to name a colour for her, I would say pink. If you told me to sing for her, I would write a song.
I once spent three sleepless nights trying to find the one flower that best suited her, and in the end, decided it was the one that had involuntarily come to my mind when first I had thought about the question. In a small drawer that only sees her prying hands, she keeps my letters and tokens and gifts. They go back to the time when I was tripping over my toes to woo her. I have never spent half of half so long wooing another person; but then, as you know, when I do something, I like to do it well.
She thinks me a fiery lover, and tender, and knows that I love well. As for me, I believe I may not be the best lover in the world, but I know enough of love to love her best.
