Love Is A Four Letter Word

It was raining in the afternoon. The pitter-patter on one of the windows made me notice. I stepped out of my office cabin into the balcony, with a piping hot cup of tea in my hand, wanting to access internet and watch it rain. The signal is feeble inside the office, plus internet on PC for personal purposes cannot be used, thanks to the sensitive work. I read the WhatsApp messages, and one message in our school group by Sheela, my friend and classmate in high school stood out. It stirred emotions and nostalgia and I thought I should jot my thoughts down and share. 

I had shared the story I wrote to celebrate Father’s Day, in the group. Having read it, Sheela sent a comment. I am pasting it here verbatim. 

“Loved this article, Sudhir! Made me think - do kids still get asked 'who do you love more, mom or dad?' 

Back in my 70s Gen X days, no one asked, and honestly, I wouldn't have known how to answer. Love wasn't something you put into words - it was like a forbidden word :(

 Looking back, it's such a tough question to ask kids - each child loves their parents in their own way, for their own reasons. Every kid's bond with mom and dad is unique. Plus, as time goes by, those reasons might change, and what matters most at one age might shift as they grow.”

One couldn’t express so many things so succinctly and in so few words as Sheela had done (I am verbose, and garrulous). Yet, I wanted to go behind those thoughts and explore the ‘Why?’ Hence, this write-up.  (It’s not easy anymore for me to type on the phone - failing eyesight makes it harder to notice the typos. As I still await for my new large screen desktop to be delivered, I have little choice but type on the phone regardless of errors). 

Back in our childhood days, we didn’t clearly know the concept of love. None around us said, ‘I love you’ to each other. Be it parents, siblings, friends. There weren’t any lovers to be seen around - except on the big screen and they did express their love. So, love was a western construct yet. People sneered at the word love, and it extended to people who fell in love. ‘Agency’ was not a word that any understood, because almost none exercised it. 

I don’t think back then husband and wife expressed their love in words. Any physical proximity even between wedded couples was hardly ever noticed. Children never assumed or imagined that their parents could love each other and grew up with the notion that these relations were essentially unromantic. 

It was not like love didn’t exist. It was construed (or painted) more as a responsibility. Of parents towards children, and vice versa. Of spouses towards one another. Love was affection, care, and concern. But love wasn’t exactly said or treated as love. Anything but love. Parents strived hard to send their children to best schools, educate them, and ensure their needs were fulfilled, and believed that was love. Children learnt to respect their parents and thought (or, were rather taught) that was integral to love. Love took the meanings of responsibility, respect, reverence, concern and care. 

Love was a ‘four-letter word’. Something dirty, something not to be said aloud. Invariably, even as kids back then, we thought it indicated something between a man and a woman and it wasn’t ‘clean’. This was when we had no knowledge of sex. I remember an instance from my Class 8 days. A classmate of mine, in the middle of English class, asked me, ‘Do you love anyone?’ I took offence and complained to the teacher. The teacher said, “What is there in it? You tell him you love your mother!” I don’t know if I was convinced, but the boys in the class were all laughing and the classmate had broken into loud sobs, because suddenly he was an exposed villain who said ‘love’! 

The teacher - the late Mrs NV Anasuya - possibly understood how love was vilified. She, a Brahmin, had committed the crime of loving a non-caste person and marrying him. She had lost contact for long with her family thanks to her ‘folly’. Since my aunt was a teacher in the same school and I had free access to the lady teachers’ staff room, I also became privy to some of the stories and gossips over the years, but I prefer to keep them to myself. What I can definitely share is this: while Mrs NVA was liked and respected, her husband was not. Their love was not acceptable either. 

I also remember back then loving oneself too wasn’t liked. A classmate of mine (during my post-grad days) was ridiculed for filling the column, ‘I love….’, with the answe, ‘myself’ in someone’s autograph book (yeah, it was still a rage in the 90s; today’s generation may smirk at such ideas). ‘How could she write she loves herself? Such an egoist!’

Love today though finds more visible expression. Between parents and children, between lovers, between friends and siblings. But, one may also wonder if love has become shallow with time, as we may associate love with the benefits it might bring. And, self-love as a concept has gained much ground. 

And, coming to the question if we (or children) still are asked who they love more, yes it still prevalent. And it does take many hues too. Which friend, which colleague, which movie/sport/music star, and so on! We have always lived in a world of comparison - especially Indians. Our parents compared us to our classmates, cousins, and others. “Look at them…” was a refrain that was often heard (and is still heard in almost all homes). Our performances are compared, salaries are weighted, looks are put to test, and so on. We are still a long way from not asking such questions. 

Also, love changes with time. The intensity changes, the expression too changes. Just like how we change. And, with all that, expectations change. 

Yet, some loves continue to be stigmatised. Inter-religious, inter-racial, to begin with. Inter-caste is still not accepted so easily. Khap panchayats and ‘honour killing’ are common and find considerable support too. Same sex is stigmatised too. These aren’t lives that one voices out loudly. One dirtier than the other in the eyes of people we live with. Even when we commit ourselves to any one such love, we suffer from guilt - even when we know there’s nothing wrong or unnatural or sinful about it. 

Love by itself is beautiful, pure, blissful. But, the way we and the world see it makes it difficult, ugly, and dirty. 

 

Dance - Drama!

 

He used to be a fan of spicy food. However, after crossing his 40th (though you remind him of age, he gets irked) he has developed gastritis and acidity, and cannot eat spice like he used to when he was younger. Whatever might be the reasons, he blames Covid for his gastritis. “It is a side effect of having suffered covid multiple times. I got Covid twice after my vaccination”, he explains. He also points how his parents still eat spicy food and nothing happens to them. When his partner points out they too had suffered covid, he dismisses that. “Well, they’re from a different generation with better immunity”, he argues. 

As a result, everyday the cook makes two sets of food - regular spice levels for parents and partner, less spicy fare for him. He and his partner usually eat their breakfasts and dinners together. And, it’s customary for him to point out which one is the spicier version of the day’s food to his partner. 

It’s a day of several meetings, and in his rush to head to work, he doesn’t wait for his partner  to join in, and serves for himself and begins eating. The partner soon joins him in a while, and serves for self and sits next to him to eat. 

He: Did you know which one was for you?

Partner: Yes. 

He: Is it spicy?

Pr: Yes, moderately so. Not very spicy. 

He: Surprisingly, I feel my portion is spicy today. 

Pr: Did you serve yourself the other one by mistake?

He: No! My lips are already burning with this level of spice. If I were to eat yours, I’d be dancing!!

Pr: Oh then your childhood dream would come true. 

He: I wanted to do Bharatanatyam, not taandav!

Pa: Same, same but different! 

The Perceptible

 It’s his turn at the dentist’s. He has tried hard to put it off for as long as possible. At last he had to give in when his partner said, “Either a visit to the dentist or no more kissing”. “Harsh’’, he mutters under his breath, but wisely chooses to honour the appointment. 

‘‘I’m sorry I’m a bit queasy about the dental treatment’’, he tells the young dentist as he lies down on the treatment chair. 

“No worries Sir. Quite a few are squeamish to visit a dentist. You’re not the only one’’, she says as she offers him a mouthwash to rinse before the treatment. 

The treatment gets stopped repeatedly as he raises his hand to spit, to rinse, and generally take a break from the ordeal. He notices the dentist isn’t annoyed. 

‘‘I guess I’m one of your most difficult patients’’. 

‘‘There are far worse ones”. 

“Really? I may want to see one, just to feel better. But that already gives me the heebie-jeebies”. 

 She smiles, and says, “Now, you remind me of my father”.

He feels both relieved and peeved. Disappointed that he’s identified as old. Yet he keeps the conversation going between the breaks while she scales away his teeth. 

“Why do I remind you of your father?”

“He hates doctors, hospitals, and especially dentists. He says, ‘it’s the very thought of pain that pains me’.  And, I guess it’s true in your case too!’’

‘Oh wow! How did you know?’

‘I just have to ask you to open your mouth for you to curl your toes and clench your fists’. 

He’s dismayed that he is so obvious. To cover it, he says, ‘may be your father and I would make good friends’. She nods sagely. 

#talltales 

#shorts

Farewells…

 

He received an update in the group that she was moving places. The text was a bit cryptic and didn’t reveal where she was headed nor why. It just invited them all to join her one last time and sing at the church. She apologised that she wouldn’t be available for personal chats or meets. 

He did go, like many others - several closer to her than himself. The singing session was a success. She shared an emotional message of her journey,  that she would miss the place and people here and hoped she would be back again soon. And left. 

She was one of those who he fancied. He wasn’t sure he liked her because of the hugs, or if it was more than that. He didn’t have the courage to flirt with her, even though they met often at parties and group meet-ups. She and he had invited each other over when they’d hosted dinners for their group. She always gave him a warm hug. He had felt the entire world’s sorrow and trouble could melt away in that long, personal and warm hug. He had many times felt the hug must never end. 

Remembering those moments he sent her messages on whatsapp - personally and not in the group. “Hey S...! Wishes for a new beginning and great journey. Will miss your hugs. Wish there was more time to meet up and connect”. 

The response came a tad late and he regretted he had sent the text. “Hello there! Thanks. But I seem not have your number stored on the phone. Sorry. Is it J.....?”

The old melancholy ‘Alice’ played on in his mind. 

#terriblytinytales 

#shorts

From Lucy-dity to Acidity: Movies Review

 I have had the fortune of watching two back-to-back once-in-a-decade kind of movies over the weekend. Both were thabks to the recommendations of my ‘significant other’.  

Lucy (2014) starring Scarlett Johansson explores the theme of utilising 100% of one’s brain and its outcome. Lucy is a stupid girl who gets tricked by her wasted boyfriend to deliver a package to a mafia don. The mafia has synthesised CPH4, the chemical that supposedly makes a foetus grow. In a quirk of fate/luck, Lucy who’s now made a mule to carry drugs, gets a whole bag of CPH4 into her system resulting in her brains to open the floodgates of awareness and functioning. From barely managing to survive, Lucy goes on to vanquish everyone at 20% performance, and becomes omniscient, omnipresent, and omnipotent  - in other words, God/immortal - by the end. To make matters easy for the viewers, the film tells us whenever Lucy’s brainpower has expanded. She also voices over what capabilities get added at each phase - for the sake of us lesser mortals! She even bottles up her essence into a pen drive for posterity! It is an outrightly delusional movie, that for reasons best known to the (m)asses became a runaway hit, when it was released. 

Kraven the Hunter (2024) is a Marvel movie about a vigilante out to finish off all the criminals in the world, with his special powers. Sergei Kravenoff is the son of a Russian don, and has shown huge promise to succeed in his dad’s big footsteps. Fate though has different plans. He almost gets killed by the biggest lion ever in Ghana (which has by then killed only 3000 people and had failed to kill the writer/director of this movie). He’s saved by the magic potion of a young girl with a crazy name (I thought it was Chlamydia, but Sayambhu insists it was Calypso). He wakes up yo become the greatest hunter ever. He is every beast rolled into one - hawk’s vision, lion’s courage, a bison’s thick skin and skull (pun certainly inten-dead), and a tiger’s ability to scent a trail. Last checked he hadn’t yet grown a baboon’s tail. It’s the cringiest movie on any side of any ocean! Terrible dialogues, mindless violence, tacky graphics, bad English, and situations and actions that completely defy logic, explanation, or sense, are the hallmarks of this great movie. Even ‘Aquaman’ feels like a cerebral masterpiece in comparison. 

Don’t ask me why I chose to watch them, and why I didn’t choose to stop watching. I don’t know. To learn that I am thinking I’ll enter into therapy!

Father’s Day

 “Who do you love more?”, asked the relative who had come home to the little boy who just had shown off his talents with the tabla. “Amma, of course”, he said loudly, extricated himself from the hold of the relative and ran off to play with his friends. 

Both the parents were beaming at the response. Soon the visiting relatives were gone, and quiet prevailed at home. The wife chose to ask the husband. “Do you feel jealous that our son always says he loves me more than you?”

The husband said, “I feel proud. It was the same with me too. I always said I loved my Amma more than my Appa when anyone asked while I was a kid. It feels like my son too is continuing the tradition”. 

“I sometimes have felt a little scared that you might take it otherwise. Thought I might voice it”. 

“There’s nothing to feel scared about. It is but natural for most children to prefer one parent over the other, and the parents feigning mock disappointment, etc. But, I doubt if you’d be upset had our son preferred me more”. 

“I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it. As a child I always loved my dad more”. 

“From my own growing up experience, I can say this. The love for Amma among sons stays constant throughout. While the love for Appa grows with time and age”. 

“Is that so?”

“As a kid, I remember even resenting my dad and trying to be as different from him as possible. Now, I see all that was futile”. 

“But, I don’t want our son to be like you”. 

“You mean you don’t want him to love me more as he grows older?”, he said with a smile. 

“No, bum! I don’t want him to grow up resenting and resisting his Appa”. 

“Why do women want to control everything once they’re married?”

“Because they’ve missed out on all that until then. Don’t you generalise, now. Let me call my Dad and wish him before I forget!”

“I’ll do that too. But when I wish him, he will chastise me for starting these new rituals!” 

“Men are impossible! They find fault with everything!”, she put a firm end to the discussion with that, and walked away with her phone in hand. 

Back with the Books (A review of ‘Unlove Story’)

 

I got introduced to Sudipto through a WhatsApp group for 40+ people in Bengaluru. I learnt that he had written a book in Bangla which had since been translated into English. I connected with him over social media (Instagram) too. I saw a few updates from him about his book (his profile picture too features him with the book). Soon, I found myself invited to his and his partner’s (Biman) home on the occasion of their anniversary. I could attend it with Sayambhu as I was visiting from Andaman (yeah, I wasn’t yet back in Bengaluru). We met again at another Bengali couple’s home over dinner, but I wasn’t very keen, to pick that book up and read. 

Suddenly, this week I chose to order the book and be done with it. I ordered it along with two other titles. I wasn’t too sure if I wanted to read it yet. Some of my previous experiences of reading the books written by friends and acquaintances weren’t too positive. That was preventing me to dive into this. Now that the book was in my hands there was nothing much else I could do. I chose to read at last. In no time I realised my hesitation was and doubts were unfounded. 

‘Unlove Story’ (translated from Bengali by Arunava Sinha)  tells the tale of Mallar and his ‘Unlove’ over a course of fifteen years. An adolescent, Mallar meets Srijan at his friend, Chikan’s place in his hometown and begins to learn gardening from him. Srijan,  a few years his senior, becomes both his mentor, muse, and inspiration. The inspiration turns to adulation and brings forth the hidden feelings in the young Mallar, to which Srijan responds too. 

What could have been a love story becomes a saga of how not to love, or question, and only live in the moment, as preconditioned by Srijan. Over the years, the starcrossed and besotted boys grow into men, move places, bump into each other once every few years and discover they yet not have lost their attraction towards each other, despite others flitting in and out of their lives.  

Will Mallar forever live by those conditions set by Srijan or will he unshackle himself or both from them and find the love he has always pined for?

The story narrated in a linear fashion without too many flashbacks and back stories or sundry characters as fillers. The atmosphere is evocative of rural Bengal and even when it moves across different places, it weaves them all within beautifully. They add to the characters and the emotions they are going through ever so subtly. The characters stay real and true to life, and make you relate to them. The love story that is not supposed to be draws you in and keeps a hold over you until the end. Once you begin reading there is no way you would want to keep it down and think you would read it later. You may want to again, once you’re done reading in one sitting, this time languorously.  

I had previously too read a few queer titles written by Indians. Barring ‘Mohana Swamy’ a collection of short stories by Vasudhendra, a friend, and to a lesser extent  ‘Don’t Let Him Know’ by Sandip Roy, none other had made an impression. Until now. ‘Unlove Story’ made me feel that not all is lost in queer literature in India. In one phrase, go read it. 

Did I like everything about the book? Like a nitpicker that I am, I could point to some that I couldn’t/didn't agree with. Like, the unravelling of the plot suddenly at the end. Or, the way Mallar frets over lack of clients for paintings (and until then he never sounds like he cared about money so much). But, these are my issues, and most others may think they are the chinks in the character that add to the beauty too. 

A special word of praise is reserved for Arunava Sinha. The translation doesn’t feel like it is. It feels organic, original. Nowhere it feels forced. Having seen how botched translations can get, this is no mean achievement (and I discovered, as I read the print on the book sleeve, Sinha has been nominated for awards both in India and abroad for his amazing translations. Take a bow!). 

I am glad I read Sudipto Pal’s novel. I now hope there would be more stories coming from him, and from other queer people too. The community has millions of tales to tell, and the world needs to know.