Sunday, 23 April 2017

If there is love...

If there is love, let it be like that of the mountains and the rivers. 

The rivers and the mountains kill each other slowly. Both the river and the mountain are hurdles for each other. And yet, both the river and the mountain can not seem to live without each other. Not then. Not today. Nor will ever.

The river, which has been flowing for thousands of years now, cuts through the rocks, often leaving deep scars and little blemishes here and there. The deepest scars make the most beautiful valleys, from where the best poems of love, the most austere stories of romance and the best writers of all generations come. The blemishes sometimes form small hill-side villages, from where emerge the stories of pain, of separation, longing and dejection. At forlorn places, these skirmishes are small plateaus, upon which sits the shepherd and sings songs of love. Perhaps for the nature, or his sheep. Or his love who was married off to the worker from the city.

The mountain, which stands tall and mighty, laughing at the puny humans which move around or try and scale it, loves the river far too much to just let her go. The river cuts through its heart and the mountain allows it. Sometimes, when the pain is too much to bear, it drops a stone, a big boulder into the river and changes its course. Albeit, slightly. And yet, the mountain does not stop the river. It never has. It never can. It never will.

If there is love, let it be like that of the uncouth couple travelling in the metro. She wears flashy make-up and talks loudly. She laughs without a care in this world. He looks at her with all wonder, his deep eyes exploring, admiring the slight green tinge of her mascara. She has to get down a couple of stations later. And yet she does not make the effort to be worried about it. He does not want to let her go, but knows that she must. For if she does not, her parents will worry. And perhaps they may never meet again. 

If there is love, let is be like the old couple sharing last morsels from the same plate. They may be rich or poor. Do not judge what they earn. Observe what they have. Love. She fell for him in her youth because he was full of energy and promise. He was young and ambitious, unapologetic about his choice of being successful before settling down. She always saw him from the corner of her eyes and found him staring, like a child lost in a fair. Sometimes, when the stares made her uncomfortable, she wanted to rebuke him. Or ask him what is it that he was looking for. Somehow, she never could. She did not know who he was and why he did what he did. The fear of the unknown held her back. Or perhaps love.

He always loved her. Right from the time she got milk for the puppies and their nursing mother living in the backyard of the gents hostel. He never had the courage to tell her so. Her expressions dumbfounded him. She loved theatre and he loved watching her from a distance. How she got angry, calmed down, was a passionate lover and a furious mother, all in the same scene that lasted 15 minutes. And oh, the knowledge that she had. They had debated only once, at a common friend's house. When everyone was drunk, and debating. Like it often happens. No one ever knew they would end up together. Not the people who were their best friends. Neither the people who saw them argue their heads off that night. And yet, it was love that they had for each other that brought them together.  

If there is love, let it be like the trees of the jungle and its birds. The bird eats the fruit it is not supposed to. It does not ask for permission. The bird takes what it wants. Not by a false premise or by making a promise it cannot keep. The bird just eats and flies, from one branch to the other. From one tree to the other and from one jungle to the next. Whichever suits. She takes with herself the seeds, which she sometimes drops on the way. Perhaps as a token of gratitude for the tree.

If there is love, let it be between the timid and the strong, between the book and the reader, between the pen and the paper, between the jogger and the walker, the loud and the silent, the extrovert and introverts. People who are soft spoken and people who have the gift of gab. If there is love, let silence conquer it. Let words express the love. 

If there is love, let it be between you and me. For we can kill each other, like the mountains and the rivers do. If there is love...


  1. There is love... As between you and your words...

  2. I think that I will include my live story to the autobiography. You can read this to understand what really helps me.