“All you need is love,” sang the Beatles. They also sang “I don’t care too much for money, money can’t buy me love.”
But love, like poetry, can never be defined. One can only ask like Hendrix asks, perhaps, about what happens to one when one takes drugs like LSD, “Are you experienced?”
When I fall in love I write poetry.
It is different for each person.
But love is an illusion.
Notice how we always fall in love with proximity, meaning someone or something in the vicinity.
The vicinity may not be real.
Marilyn Monroe’s photo can make me fall in love with her.
But it has to be nearby.
Love fades with distance, over time.
Love needs food and drink daily.
Love haunts us because it cannot be fulfilled.
It is the receding mirage of the oasis of water in the desert.
There was only one Laila and Majnu.
Almost everyone else is a Laila without a Majnu or a Majnu without a Laila.
I knew a Laila once, she was older than me, fair, beautiful and brown, grey or green eyed and I loved her.
“Poor unfortunate souls.”
When love becomes a reality it is nothing less than the union of two spirits, souls, hearts, wills, minds, bodies into one.
The rest of this article is just a random rant and rave by an imaginary lover, pure stream of consciousness with no attempt at all to make sense, on his imaginary love whom he loves madly, passionately, intensely and insanely.
The Lover said: “My love has brown skin. The colour of her skin is what makes me love her. Her eyes that glittered happily and amusedly and shone with joy when I touched her soft skin is what made me love her. Her ankles, clad in silver, made me love her. Her voice, like that of a child, makes me love her. Her hands and arms made me love her. Her hair, black with red and brown streaks in them when left open made me love her. Her smile bewitches me. Her eyes and lips and cheeks and chin make me want her. I love being with her. Having her ask me to do things for her. Being loved and loving, being wanted, needed, wanting, needing, lusting, being lusted for, nothing on earth matches this high; not drugs or war or sorrow or suffering or even poetry. When you love sun, moon, stars, blue sky, green grass, other women or men, birds, animals, nature’s beauty, all have only one purpose- to prove that she is more beautiful than all of them put together. It is an ecstasy, a divine madness, a rush of adrenaline and blood to the head, a disease, a craze, a dangerous fix, an obsessive criminal tendency and much more. Your love can immortalize and destroy the other. “Do not awaken love before its time because love is a fire.” It can burn up your house, your entire being, but it is different from lust. I want to describe every inch of my love but won’t because modesty forbids. Her neck. Her breasts. Her back. Her waist. Her hips, encircled by the aranjaan. Her delta of Venus. Her thighs. Her legs. Her feet.
Yet love is not lust. Love making is not having sex.
Beloved friend, I have made love to many women, but only the brown skinned one has been Laila. The deer with the coal black eyes. The lovely queen cobra and the peahen with the plumage of the peacock. One could die in expectation, listening for her footsteps at one’s door. She is my Shakunthala. The ravishing one, my lovely, beautiful, attractive, pretty darling. The one I knew in another time or place, or space or land, in another life or another universe or planet. Forever bound, forever unbound. Forever sought, forever found. She is the sitar of faith or belief, that one does not need to believe in being all too achingly surreal and real. Fountains of poetry burst forth from my veins, thinking of her all encompassing traits. I love her and she loves me, this is love and nothing else is. This is dream and this is sleep, this is fantasy and this is (un-)real. This is god, life, death, truth, beauty and salve and beyond this there is nothing else one needs to feel.”