Lost in Transaction: Gurgaon to Karol Bagh

“Well I’ll be damned!”

As I stood on a dusty, excessively pot-holed road with equally dusty and pot-holed vistas on either side, I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I was damned…

Let me start from the beginning. My prospects hadn’t been so damning then; indeed, things had been on a roll and there was every chance that the mission on which I was about to embark would end in naught but victory and satiation.

Yes, I had been confident that I would make it safely, if not comfortably, to Karol Bagh from Gurgaon.

After a year’s experience of shuttling around town in Delhi’s notorious buses, I had acquired the air of a seasoned traveller. I had been there, done that. The very route which I usually took from home to North Campus was a circuitous one, slowly traversing two urban villages and the dreadful Azadpur Mandi. Only Bluelines plied on this narrow, bumpy and serpentine route and jams were not rare occurrences. Yet, I had seen it all off, had emerged with my body and, more importantly, my sanity intact. I had passed the test; I was now an established traveller.

With so much experience in my kitty, taking the straight road from Gurgaon to Delhi seemed child’s play to me. The expressway was smooth, the inter-state bus frequency tolerable, the luggage on my shoulders light- what more could a seasoned traveller like me have needed?

Luck.

In a case fit for demonstration of Murphy’s inexorable Law, everything which could’ve gone wrong did go wrong.

To begin with, just as I reached the bus stop at IFFCO Chowk the monsoon clouds which had till then been promising good weather parted to reveal a merciless Sun. The breeze stopped in its track and suddenly things began to look different.

Now, all those poor souls who have taken the Delhi bus from Gurgaon’s IFFCO Chowk know that it’s a harsh, hostile place. There is no bus stop on the Delhi side of the road, no tree to give its blessed shade to the hapless people awaiting their tryst with destiny. In mid-summer May the place is hell; in humid, sunny July, it’s worse than hell.

Fifteen minutes in that worse-than-hell were enough to not just drench me with sweat but also make me impatient with frustration. All the buses which had appeared till now were the Dhaula Kuan ones, the people standing there could not tell when last a Karol Bagh bus had been sighted. All of this combined with the humidity was threatening to unhinge me; I yearned for some action, for something to happen, to escape this torture by any means.

I boarded the next Dhaula Kuana bus.

So far, so good. “What if the bus ends at DK”, I thought, “I can easily take another to KB from there.” The fact that I did not know of any bus which would take me from DK to KB did not bother me- humanity was still alive and there would surely be some Good Samaritan amongst the teeming crows at DK to help me out. True this was an inconvenience, but it was far better than being stranded there waiting for Godot. I was off now and would reach the Promised Land in due time.

In due time.

At DK I was astonished by the size of the crowd. Teeming multitudes, waves upon waves of all types of humanity, boarding and de-boarding buses, going this way and that. My Solitary Man self shrank back at the prospect which lay before me. Yet, there was no turning back (literally, because the people behind me were almost pushing me out of the bus in their hurry to get off) and steeling my heart a la Livingston, I plunged myself into that dark jungle of humanity.

By now there was a conflict within myself. Should I approach any one of my fellow beings and ask them for guidance or should I trust in my own heart. The Solitary Man allied with the Seasoned Traveller cum Explorer. I chose the latter. I boarded a bus which I believed would take me to Karol Bagh.

No, please don’t condemn me outright as either hopelessly egoistical or insufferably idiotic. Its not as if I acted just on impulse; no, in deciding to board a 729 which had just come in I was influenced my three considerations, the first being that I had noticed several times while waiting for the Gurgaon bus at the junction of Ridge Road and Pusa Road a bus destined to the Kapashera border, the second being that this bus which had just come in had Kapashera boldly printed across one half of the board and the third, and most influential, being the bus conductor’s assurance that the bus went where I wanted to go.

May he rot in hell!

All those even remotely acquainted with the ways of Delhi’s Blueline-wallahs know that most of them stop at major fare change points to scoop in sawaris. Our bus-wallah was no different. He too stopped contently and let his minion the Conductor act as a vociferous shepherd to the stray flock of passengers in the human cesspool of Dhaula Kuana.

What a stop it was!

In about two minutes the bus was full with passengers, in five it was jam-packed with loads of them, in ten it was over-flowing with them, in fifteen it had become a serious contender against the Black Hole of Calcutta. All this time the Conductor kept on shoving more people inside, assuring those at the doors to get in, shouting to those in the middle to give space. Call it positive thinking or call it sheer perversity, but it’s a quality unique to bus conductors to create illusions about space. They’ll keep on telling you to move in, move in, damn it move in thorha aur till people are so close to each other that it’ll be obscene if I elaborated more upon the degree of closeness. All of them are inclined to think of their bus as the Knight Bus, a structure capable of magical bewildering of the dimensions- there’s always some more space in the middle, it’s always khali down the aisle…

These last fifteen minutes in the 729 had been far worse than those spent on IFFCO Chowk and I had almost decided to de-board when the conductor, now convinced that no more people could be got in by any amount of devious manipulations of bodies, called out to the driver, the ustad, to start. By now it had become exceedingly hot and asphyxiating and people had started shouting out for mercy and divine retribution, so the sudden movement was a welcome change. With a bang which would put Chitty to eternal shame, the bus lunged forward and started once again on the road which went forever on and on…

Reasoning that KB was not far from where I was, I purchased a ticket of the lowest denomination- the three rupee one. As the bus turned and entered the Ridge, I, displaying moves which would put many a Rakhi Sawant to shame, started inching forward towards the exit door: after all, the distance was but miniscule and in a crowded bus like that it’s always better to be at the door when your stand comes. After a ten minute long gruelling struggle at the prospect of which I would’ve readily baulked had there not been the inspiring force of freedom and fresh air forcing me forwards, when I did manage to reach the third seat from the door I unceremoniously pushed aside the arm of a man to eagerly look out for some familiar sign. What I found horrified me.

We were opposite RML Hospital.

I was dumbfounded. All I could do was to stare out helplessly as the conductor shrieked to all RML-wallahs to de-board. I couldn’t believe this, my first instinct was to then and there get out of that accursed bus: I had almost stepped forward to step out when something inside told me to stay. The area was wholly unfamiliar to me and the bus stop looked lonely. “Perhaps the bus takes some sort of long cut to Karol Bagh”, I told myself, “If that be the case, then I should stay to my post and wait and watch. In any case, I’ve parted with three precious rupees and getting down will only result in more ill-advised karcha.”

Had I but followed the promptings of my heart! Had I not been such a Scrooge!

Assured with that flawless piece of logical analysis and deduction, I stayed on. The bus now turned into an area unknown to me even by name and went along roads which I never before had taken. With each passing minute my anxiety grew and I had once again decided to de-board at the next stop when I saw the rotund figure of the Grand Post Office come in sight. To my strained heart it was as the oasis is to the desert traveller. There was a way from the GPO to Karol Bagh, I knew that there was. The mystery seemed all but solved now. I chided myself for being my mother. I had been impatient; this must serve forevermore as a lesson in patience. A jam on the road ahead was visible, but arguing in the temperance of all worldly things, I braced myself to overcome that final hurdle with forbearance and lo and behold arrive at my destination.

We humans have a marvellous capacity for self-delusion. Even after half an hour in that wretched traffic jam and out of that on to Parliament Street, I still believed that the bus would take me to KB.

And why not, when there are others to contribute to our myths as well. The turn into Parliament Street saw me once again question myself and in desperation I asked the man standing next to me whether the bus went or passes through Karol Bagh.

May he too rot in hell!

As the bus passed alongside Outer Circle, I could not help feeling triumphant. Yes, triumphant. I was sure, cock-sure, that the bus was going to turn into Panchkuian and then go to Karol Bagh. “What if it did not enter Pusa Road from the Ridge?” I told my sceptical part, “Many buses have variations in routes and it seems that this is just one of them.”

Oh had it been that! Had it been that!

From Outer Circle to Minto Bridge, from Minto Bridge to New Delhi Station.

New Delhi Station. That was it. That was where the Sceptic rose in furious revolt. I could stand it longer. I had suffered innumerable privations in the course of the last two hours: had been shoved and pushed, been subject to immense body odour and other earthly smells, grazed by other men’s private parts…I could take it no longer. I had to find out-for sure this time-whether or not this bus was going to Karol Bagh. I made my way to a middle-aged Jat who was boasting to all around him his knowledge of Delhi’s buses and in general behaving very much like an animate bus-Bradshaw and asked him this simple question: “Excuse me, kya yai bus Karol Bagh jayegee?”

The look of incredulity on his ruddy face gave me my answer.

In between loud exclamations of surprise and pity at beholding such a pitiable specimen of the human race, he managed to confirm what then I already knew. Never in mortal human history had this route passed through anyplace near Karol Bagh.

That really was it. I pushed and shoved and excused and made my way to the door and got down at the first stop on which the bus happened to halt.

That was where I damned myself...

Blank Noise Spectators Special

The public on the street comprises of those who 'experience' street sexual harassment, i.e. the survivors; those who cause street sexual harassment i.e the perpetrators and those who witness street sexual harassment i.e the spectators.

Blank Noise Spectators Special asks members of the public, both men and women to share what they witnessed. What was your first reaction? Was it to intervene? Was it to ignore? What did you do? What would you rather have done? Can you share your thoughts about being a spectator. If you have been a 'special spectator' , that is, intervened in the situation, please tell us how! Was it with wit and humour? Or did physically assault the 'perpetrator'? Did you walk away? Or call the cops? Or gather a crowd? Or see another spectator take charge of the situation and participate in any way.

To participate in this online event please register by emailing us at blurtblanknoise@gmail.com subject titled Blank Noise Spectators Special. Link this post to your blog, and send in your blog address. We will add you to the list at http://blog.blanknoise.org
Deadline for your post on being a spectator is August 15th.

This event hopes to be one in the series of events planned in bringing together 'survivors'(http://blanknoiseactionheroes.blogspot.com), 'perpetrators' (male only event coming soon) and 'spectators'.

In spirit!

Blank Noise Team

As Counsel, to Ms Taneja

Our psychoanalyst friends will have us believe that sexual instincts are the strongest amongst all that we possess, indeed, that all others stem from it, it being the root cause of all our motivations, feelings, emotions and ailments. Yes, even ailments and diseases, for links have been established between unfulfilled desire and common illnesses such as stomach aches, ulcer and cold! These desires are ostensibly asexual, but their origins lie in the mires of sexuality. Indeed, a child’s love for his/her parents too has been analysed as one full of sexual desires and wants.

These contentions, though shocking, offending and earth-shaking, are in the most not unreasonable/difficult for the lay(wo)man to understand, provided, of course, that s/he puts aside her/his feeling of outrage and dispassionately employs her/his faculties. Humans, after all said and done, are animals- the garb of civilisation and ensuing morality and ethics with which they cloak themselves is just a natural consequence of their myriad customs, traditions, ideas and conventions, all of these being in turn inspired and supported by ideologies which nobody else but they themselves have invented for their own gains. So comes the essentially patriarchal concept of marriage, of the subordination of women in this institution (notice that man remains man but the woman becomes a wife, a creature found not in nature but in society which is nurtured by sets of abiding ideologies). So comes the concept of the parent’s so-called pure and self-sacrificing love for his/her child, this being remarkable a mixture of survival instincts and social gendering. So indeed comes the notion of devotion, of bhakti, all of which is naught but an attempt to divert unfulfilled sexual desires and channelize sexual energy towards a futile and socially ‘safe’ (read unthreatening) goal.

Yet, this is digressing from the subject. Jeffery Archer is what may be called blatant about sex and sexuality in his works, yet these do not lie at their core. I say what may be because I will not characterise the same with that epithet. He deals with the thing maturely, in the way it should be dealt, and it is, with all due respect to your cousin, only low minds with an even lower grasp of art who judge works of art with such vulgar and totally inappropriate clichés as “non-vegetarian”. True, promiscuity is present in his novels, yet it is there because it is here- in life. ‘Casual’ sex has, is and will always be a reality- it’s an assertion of the Homo sapiens’s nature, for s/he too is an animal and, as all animals, has an inherent inclination towards promiscuity. Archer’s works are not racy, saucy pornographic accounts- they represent different facets of life, different extraordinary and ordinary people in their respective circumstances. Sex is just a part of it.

Some may argue that Archer sets a bad example by portraying minors having sex. To these upholders of so-called morality I remind that Archer-and indeed most artists-are not out there to come out with conduct books and morality plays. They are there to express themselves, not to write nursery books for nannies. They have licenses for artistic creation and we must forever be careful in breaching upon them.

Furthermore, humans, like all animals, are sexual from the beginning. All animals copulate as soon as they mature, i.e. attain sexual virility; all of us in the animal kingdom have that inherent, undeniable inclination towards sexual intercourse. For us humans, these desires start originating as soon as puberty strikes with all its trials and tribulations- more often than not, they culminate in intercourse by the late teens. Consider the history of our race, the widespread prevalence and acceptance of child marriage in all of our ancient cultures, the gradual ‘taboo-isation’ and ‘Orientalisation’ of the same as Christianity, the ‘biggest’ of all anthropocentric religions known to this race, evolved and spread to form industrial democracies. Remember that child marriage was a reality in Europe also-girls were usually married by fifteen-sixteen during Shakespeare’s times. That these realities passed from public consciousness as the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries saw industrialisation dynamically change the very nature of families is quite another thing which most people are not aware of. Indeed, colonialism and racism made it essential for Europe to pass on this as a vice which belonged only to the savage Orient.

Indeed, when it comes to sex, humans actually beat all other animals in their intensity and passion for it. All living beings upwards of cellular organisms like the amoeba have their particular mating seasons during which they copulate in select locations- it is only humans (and our cellular friends!) who have sex anytime, anywhere, whatever the season. Moreover, Darwin has shown us that many animal and bird species remain loyal to their partners for a whole season, something which most humans are in varying degrees extremely incapable of. Humans are the only creatures who have sex for just pleasure; they are the only organisms which abort their off-springs in the embryonic form. It seems that our attempts to curb the ‘beast’ within us have only made that caged creature more powerful, more virile, ever so much more prominent in our (sub)conscious.

Society as we know it today is a culmination of years, centuries-even millenniums-of nurturing which later on comes across as natural, all that is currently classified as vice is mostly an assertion of a wo/man’s deepest desires, her/his inherent inseparable, inalienable inclinations. This is not to say that every inherent inclination of ours is ‘correct’ or ‘appropriate’-indeed many are actually obstacles in the path of civilised life-yet we must consciously and deliberately avoid falling into the old human habit of denying everything to the animal within us, of dismissing the animal for the ‘beast’.

Aakhir Bhagwan Bhi To Mard Hai: Feminism of the Common Man

In repentance, to Mrs. Sushm Malhotra

“There’s just one more thing”, I said as I rose from the cushioned chair in the Senior Staffroom “Is Mrs. Malhotra really a feminist?”…


It was an ordinary day in the last term of my last year at school- which meant that it had been awfully boring. I had just finished chatting with my English teacher R.N.-which was my favourite pastime to enjoyably while away time on such ‘ordinary’ days-and was rising up to leave when suddenly something which a friend had told me some weeks ago came hurtling back and I blurted out with that question.

The answer was clear and concise- “Yes, I do think that she is.”

I was triumphant, my assumption had proved to be correct. Mrs. M was indeed a feminist- and a hard boiled on at that! Why, how often does one hear somebody, and that too an Indian Hindu woman, complain while teaching a class full of adolescents a chapter on women’s empowerment and liberation that it was actually futile, that she couldn’t really expect them-her pupils-to grasp the essential point of the matter, for, after all said and done, God too was a man-“aakhir bhagwan bhi to mard hai”?

Not too often!

The remark, of course, created a minor sensation of sorts in Bal Bharati’s twelfth standard society- or at least in that part of it to which I belonged. Mrs. M was quickly and unanimously condemned for what many considered as sacrilege and blasphemy. Even atheists like me conceded that it was a most indiscrete and insensitive comment to let loose in a classroom. For a week or so she became the topic of debates and discussions, unofficial and informal forums which always came to the same, inevitable conclusion- Mrs. M was the worst sort of a woman-a fire breathing dragon in fact! - who completely hated men, did certainly not enjoy happiness in her married life, had perhaps homosexual tendencies and said that provocative thing to just spite the male section of her students (and hence, indirectly, dangerously influence the female portion too!). Anti-social elements like her ought to be bundled off to he savages in some coral island in the Pacific so as to rid society of such raving lunatics.

Now, when I look back at that a year and a half or so later, I once again come to a single, inevitable conclusion- what muddle headed dolts, absolute idiots, complete chauvinists we were. As for me, I-I who had always prided himself for being reasonable, sensible and liberal-I was the worst of them all for the simple yet now embarrassing fact that I actually had the audacity to go ahead and confirm-and that too long after the incident was dead and almost forgotten-whether or not that good woman was a feminist and had then prided myself for being the discoverer of that then derogatory fact.

What a muddle headed dolt was I!

When I now look back to my own school days, I see traces of misogyny-at times blatant, often subtle-spread all throughout them. From the now sepia tinted days of the “We Hate Girls Club” in fourth and the “Girls are Idiots Society” in sixth to the Pygmalion-ised, “Never Let a Woman in Your Life” days in twelfth, I had always been what I now, after a year as an undergraduate student of Literature, recognise and call a misogynist. It wasn’t as if I had been walking down to become a strict patriarch- no, I had always been a champion of women’s rights in my circles, had always written the best reports and articles on women’s empowerment in English exams and had always believed in the urgency of eliminating, totally wiping out from the face of this nation, the twin evils of female foeticide and dowry.

Yet, somehow, I never ceased to hold girls as my mental inferiors. That is not to say that I did not respect my intelligent female colleagues in school for their talents-and there were plenty all rounders who were my superiors-but it was just that I did all of this along with extolling a Henry Higginian sort of attitude towards women.

I’m surprised that it never struck me- I was such a hypocrite in that context.

But then, I suppose I am really not alone in this- this indeed is a class to which most Indian men-and a majority of the women too-belong. Our whole social structure is like that- two (or perhaps more) faced and duplicate a monstrous edifice which on one hand waxes eloquent on women’s rights and such like humanitarian issues and on the other indoctrinates medieval patriarchal concepts and ideologies through the daily humdrum routine of life. For medieval it now seems to have wondered about Mrs. M’s married life- not just medieval but also completely disgusting.

It is one of India’s abiding paradoxes that while we in principle gave women all constitutional rights, we still unabashedly continue to consider them our inferiors. We may all vehemently and vociferously deny this, but nevertheless, there are very few men in whom misogyny has not found a safe haven. That I, a ‘liberal’, ‘enlightened’ and so called ‘forward looking’ mind right in the beginning of the twenty-first century could roundly criticise feminists as dangerous weeds to be plucked out of society is proof enough of this.

Political correctness is a significant factor which all of us ‘enlightened’ minds consciously or not take into consideration when publicly stating out support for so called ‘women’s’ issues (why ‘women’s’? why not ‘human’? why alienate them as things which do not affect men?). So, while many of us ‘officially’, ‘on record’ and ‘publicly’ speak out in favour of reforms and change (and thus unwittingly campaign for what traditionally have been feminist concerns!), we baulk at the very mention of the word feminist and, by dismissing them as either deranged or sexed up lesbians (very few can imagine, let alone accept, the idea of a ‘male’ feminist), betray our poor understanding of the subject. Indeed, the common man’s abysmal comprehension of the same can be gauged from the startlingly amusing fact that many confuse feminist for feminine and thus regard it as a grave affront to any ‘self-respecting man’s manliness’ to be connected in any way whatsoever with the same. I write from personal experience, for I have close friends who have aired exactly the same views.

We are all in some way or the other like the oh-so-admirable Professor Higgins- we all wish to create our own Galatea’s, our most, but not quite, equals in life. We may become accustomed to their faces-to our political correctness- but they’ll still remain the ‘baggages’ and ‘damn nuisances’ which they were right from the very beginning.

Oh Mrs. M, you were so right- ‘Bhagwan’-the Sculptor, the God-too, after all said and done, is naught but a ‘mard’

On Love

An Apologia-

Though this is exposing the central weakness of all my arguments beforehand, but still, I would like to confess in the beginning itself that most of the claims made her, most of the cases argued under the following heading, are pure speculation. Not exactly pure though, for there is a little bit of personal experience as also that which has been personally witnessed. Along with this, I have drawn heavily from all the as-of-now-insufficient information/knowledge of the real world which I have gleaned from the modest number of books which I have read in the course of my small (as in temporally) life. All that I have said here is more or less a hunch, and hunches can never really either substitute the real experience of life or act excuses for a glaring or otherwise lack of it…

I also pray tolerance for the obviously didactic tone in this, an article which talks, or at least attempts to talk, about a thing so personal that no definite pedagogy can be applied to it!

*

To Mamma, Dadi, Nani, Maggie, Terence and all the other writers whom I
had the honour of reading in my life- without them this would not have been possible.

*

“To be in love is merely to be in a state of perpetual anaesthesia- to mistake an ordinary young woman for a goddess.”

-Anonymous

Even though it is has been described umpteen times as the most exalted emotion known to this feeling race of human beings, even though its powers have been held in the highest possible esteem by some of the brains known to this thinking species of homo sapiens, love, like all others of its ilk, resists all attempts to a clear cut definition and thus, in spite of being one of the most talked and thought of things in the world, remains ambiguous, subjective and hence, difficult to define. Indeed, it would be not just extremely ambitious but also extremely injudicious to even attempt define an experience so rampant and so widespread that it is personal to the last alphabet and has different connotations for every other individual.

Nevertheless, as for all things mortal and human, it is really not too onerous to observe various types and patterns of love. Here, I intend to talk about all those types which to me appear as the most common and the most easily recognisable.

Sociological and psychological critics have often used the terms ‘spiritual love’ and ‘sexual love’. While quite ambiguous themselves, these two terms do give us a starting point to embark upon this investigation.

*

The word ‘spirit’ is generally held to refer to all those feelings/emotion/beings which belong not to the world of material desires but to that higher one where all is sublime and wherein one loses all ‘human’ (and by this (in this context) degrading virtue, worldly) attributes/qualities for divinely inspired peace, calm and bliss. The word ‘spiritual’, therefore, would refer to such a blissful state of existence above, and hence, free from all the struggles and strives of common, petty life and the term ‘spiritual love’ would, in its most general meaning, be seen as a selfless sort of love wherein one devotes oneself entirely to the unconditional service of one’s idol of-as is in this case-worship. This can easily be recognised as the love of the sages and the saints for their Lord, the love of Lakshman for Ram, of Peter for Christ, of Meera for Krishna…this is the sort of love which, for a few queer reasons-for here happens a complete abnegation of the self, total abandonment of one’s life for that of one’s beloved-has been and still is held as the highest order of love which a human being can possess. Herein on would become the seraph, completely immersed in the bhakti of one’s idol…

In polar contrast to this is ‘sexual love’ which, as the name very obviously suggests, is completely carnal, having only to do with all those desires and urges which fascinated Freud-and which fascinate all of us at some point of our life-so much. Even though an amateur, I feel no hesitation whatsoever in claiming that all religion would tell one that this is one of the greatest weakness of this race, that this indeed was, is and will always be the cause of its downfall. While the theological and mythological aspects of such a statement are debatable, it is undeniable that the type of love based completely on physical (or sexual) attraction does more often than not culminate in that now open characteristic of this race- casual sexual intercourse. By the very virtue of being ‘casual’, this is devoid of not just long term commitment but also of any sort of feeling/emotion in the participating couple(s) (except, of course, raw desire and lust)…

*

However, the analysis does not end at this. As for life, so for its upholder love- reality is often a complex mixture of such extremities.

*

“The mark of a true crush is that you fall in love first and grope for reasons afterwards”

-Shana Alexander

“Deceiving others. This is what the world calls romance”

-Oscar Wilde

The typical love story is about the handsome young man falling [notice here the defining role of religion- this type of love, which is physical and human to human, is described as a ‘fall’] for the beautiful woman or vice versa. This is love at first sight- the couple meets accidentally, falls for each other immediately, pines for each other in separation and in general acts in a manner oft described as ‘bewitched’ (so to highlight the so called ‘magic’ of this state). All time spent in the absence of the beloved seems dull; all routine tasks seem dreary and monotonous- in general, life seems impossible without that one person of one’s hearts desire…

Though cloaked since antiquity under the pleasantly familiar epithet of romance by umpteen creative writers (poets, playwrights, novelists…), this is nought but another nuance of that extreme type of sexual love which borders on lust. This is not to say that love here is replaced by love. No, in spite of its possessive undertones, this does not usually happen in this type, the thin line demarcating love and lust is hardly ever crossed here.

Nevertheless, it really is unquestionable that this sort of love-‘love at first sight’-is, when it happens, i.e. initially, entirely physical. There are variations to this, but it is more or less certain that the desire for sexual relationship(s) is/are often the catalytical motives for this type of love.

The confidence with which I make this claim is founded on the observation that initially in this type of love, one hardly ever knows anything about one’s person of desire except for his/her physical characteristic which strike him/her as attractive and desirable. Emotional (by this I mean intellectual) compatibility-which may (leading to fairy tale romances) or may not (ending in bitter divorces or hellish conjugal lives) be discovered later-is always a secondary consideration, often so much so that it does not figure in in the beginning at all. Furthermore, the archetypical adjectives used in this umbrella type–fair, handsome, beautiful, smart, blonde, gorgeous, dusky, cool, buxom, hot, healthy, sexy, rosy, slim, lovely, petite…-refer not to the intellectual or ‘inner qualities’ of the beloved but essentially (as if by default) to his/her physical characteristics (all of which are in turn determined by the social make up of the person concerned and hence, are different for different societies). Love at first sight doesn’t necessarily mean that one gets blatantly amorous like the heroes of Terence-the romantic poetry of the Victorian ‘Lady’ writers as well as the oh-so-romantic sensibilities of filmi, read Bollywood (and to an extent, Hollywood also), scriptwriters does as well…

*

It can be argued that there are shades of sexual/physical love in some cases of spiritual love as well. We may hesitatingly exempt from this all those who never actually see their idol of worship but where human interface occurs, i.e. where the devotee sees his Lord, then the physical aspect of his/her love becomes significant. Rare indeed is the ugly God- Shabari was old and wrinkled, not her dear Lord Ram!

*

“True love comes quietly, without banners or flashing lights. If you hear bells, get your ears checked.”

-Erich Segal

The sort to which I now come may or may not find its beginning in love at first sight. The beginning is more often than not in indifference, or in friendly cordiality- certainly not in the head over heels situation of love at first sight. Physical attraction gets superseded by emotional and intellectual compatibility- it now becomes a secondary consideration. This sort can better be described by words like ‘liking’ or ‘affinity’-words which, though synonymous, do not mean exactly the same as love. The couple fully knows each other by the time it realises it has fallen-no, why fallen?- risen in love- sexual attraction leading to desire is the culmination, and not the kick starting agent, of this type of love.

Oh yes, this type cannot be described as a fall. It has elements of both the extremes and its ideal is a perfect amalgam of the two- neither absolute renunciation nor unbridled lust. Emotion here is tempered with reason, service and devotion are a part, but a token is required in the end.

*

In fact, this which I discuss now is a feature common to almost all sorts of love, except, of course, the extremes. Once again, the idea of token of love is highly subjective and even though it is shaped by one’s background, one’s social construction, it does vary from person to person. Many hold children as the foremost token of a couple’s affection for each other, yet there are those whose views vary. More often than not, there is a degree of reciprocacity and sensitivity involved in this- love for love, care for care…

One’s ability to adjust, to compromise and to change is also seen in the light of the wide-ranging idea of ‘tokens of love’. Indeed, considering that changing one’s habit’s and tastes-which very nearly accounts for changing oneself-is one of the most difficult things, be the person concerned be fifteen or fifty-five. Changing oneself for one’s beloved-as long as it does not infringe upon other human beings’ rights and fundamental privileges-my be considered as an exemplary token of love, a instance of sacrifice sans renunciation. Since intellectual (discussed above) and familial love establish emotional bonds beforehand, it can be argued that people who ‘rise’ (and not fall!) in this are better off than their counterparts.

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“Love doesn’t make the world go round. Love is what makes the ride worthwhile”

- Franklin P. Jones

As far as familial love, especially parental and sibling love, is concerned, the most significant remark which can be given after due observation is that they are ‘there’ from the very beginning of life (i.e. in a considerably significant number of cases). Freud has given it hidden, yet sufficiently strong sexual connotations and motives and the Romantics have ascribed to it a (divinely) pre-ordained reason, but fact still remains that where and when ever it happens, this is the first experience that one has of love. A parent’s love for his/her child as also a child’s love for his/her parent(s) has a considerable number of reasons, all of which are discussed by theorists of the mind. Amongst these, duty and responsibility figure in as factors not devoid of importance.

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Insane love is yet another type of love, a type under whose umbrella can be included unnatural (read uncustomary) possessiveness as well as fetish-ness and quirky-ness. This sort is usually force upon one or more persons by one or more individuals- this is the type which fascinates (as also horrifies) the psychologist and the sociologist, experts who study aberrations in society.

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Even though an attempt at classification, and so, simplification has been made here, it would be foolhardy to even suggest it as either absolute or a success. The range of emotions experienced by the human animal is as vast as it is diverse and when it comes to love, the greatest of them all, no attempt at definite categorization can be judiciously claimed as comprehensive.