What Really Is Love?

                                   

Love is fun and it is amazing, like little children splashing water on each other. It is deep in its meaning, that it confounds even the wisest of scholars. It is like the tastiest cheese filling inside a hot cheese-burst pizza that drips down your lips at every single bite. Love is solid, sometimes moves like fluid, but most of the time - it is found in the gaseous state, formless. It smells like flowers not found on earth, flies like how the albatross takes flight, and is as sour, tangy and spicy as the pani puri water that you gulp from the street-side shops down the road.

Love is not two people having consensual sex - it is more than the pleasures of the bed. Love is not sending text messages late in the night, because love cannot be contained in words and is not just of the night. Love is not taking the ones you like to the places they like - it is exotically home-bound. Love is not the deep french kisses - for love is the most tastiest, before the tongues could meet. In simple words, Love Is Action Defying Convention.

Love is noticing a strange kid in the railway station bitterly crying not knowing what to do - because she lost her parents in the crowd, and you don't want to leave the child all alone - so you stay with her till her parents show up and you finally see some smile on her lovely small face at the very sight of her mom who comes running. Love is running to help the collapsing old man, carefully placing him inside the stopped autorickshaw and going along with him to drop him at his residence - located in a place you have never been to before. Love is having a gentle evening conversation with the transgenders standing next to their rented brothel and taking them to the nearest A2B restaurant so they could eat good food - while the onlookers throw suspiciously disgusting looks on you.

Love is the real scars you carry because the stitches have left a long mark that would not fade till you die. Love is washing the clothes of all the thirty kids in the children's home everyday - because the caretaker woman who is paid to do the daily chores is pregnant with a fully bulged belly. Love is flirting with danger, not for the fun of it, but to prove a point to the ugly thugs that the poor cannot easily be treated that way when you are around. Love is an epileptic donating blood thrice in a month. Love is giving away everything, even if it would mean - to the last drop of your blood. Love is Precious. Divine. Magnanimous. Always Resides In The Hiding. The Most Beautiful. Modest. Sacrificial. All-bearing.

And very rightly - God is Love!

Let The Fever Go!

When he came back home from work, she was sleeping - shivering with fever - fully and tightly covered inside that warm quilt. He did not want to disturb her, carefully kept the parcel food he had brought along on the table next to the bed, wanted to go out and sleep in the hall. But something brought him back in. He wanted to check how bad her fever was - wake her up slowly, help her complete the food, then the medicine and put her back to sleep to the usual strumming of his guitar. But she woke up - all too suddenly - right when his hand touched her forehead.

He looked at her, asked her if she was okay. She smiled, told him that her fever would never go - if he couldn't help. He did not understand what she meant - at first. Told her, he was no doctor. Mandoos mandoos, she playfully teased him. He still could not get what she was trying to imply. Okay, have to admit - he was feigning ignorance now. Totally unable to hide it for long, he blushed the romance out. She triggered the wild riot right away, made the first move with the most unexpected kiss in the most likeable peck spot and the music followed.

The fever left her instantly leaving her to fall sick again - but now in intense love. With that severely naughty smile, he was running after her, chasing - wanting to pull out her saree fold that had carefully been tucked right below her round and beautiful belly button. She hit him hard. Aiii - with a shout, he left a solid pinch with the reddening mark on her wheatish waist skin. He held both her hands firmly, pinned her to the wall whispering sweet-nothings into her ears, then a few sugar bites on the lobes - I am definitely going to kill you, kill you with my kisses, he threatened her with much love. What happened next is completely left to your imagination!

He had always been that innocently upright person - keeping away from all such things calling them - cha cha wrongs and chi chi wrongs, but now the more he breathed in the fragrance from her jasmine-flower clad long hair locks - he was stoned, helpless, left only to more willingly do all those things he once considered chi wrong - in the most sweetly mischievous way possible.  Whenever they sat in the fields surrounded by the green of the mountain, and as the tunes from the flute and the tabla fogged the scene leaving refreshing dew-drops on the love-stricken surfaces of their minds, they just stared into each other's eyes in silence. The rest followed like magic - swelling her belly with their babies, one after the other. Lying on her comforting lap, he wrote her a poem that ended with a question - 'After thoroughly ravaging my heart, why do you even vaguely think that the gold, the wealth, much money, societal norms and other things would take me away from you; or that those vain things would pacify the ticklish unrest that gets sweeter by the day and grows intense by the night?' In reply, all that she knew to do was to remind him that they were already married and kiss him instantly - a little harder than usual. Then, they both laughed their heart out lying down there - gazing at the stars and counting each other's moles as the night once again covered them in its loverly warmth.