Love is a many Squandered Thing

To hell with flowers, poems and chocolate-coated hearts. Let's come to terms with the real deal.

First up, love does not make the world go around. What it does is, it makes you go dizzy trying to figure out it's intricacies and legalities. And while you're spinning like a top on a tight-rope, it makes you lose your sanity and sends you plummeting down, down, down.

Second, love does not come free. I mean, who are we kidding? If you want someone, you've got to woo them big-time. And when you've out-grown them, you've got to pay even more for a good divorce settlement. Falling in love ain't free, and these days, falling out of it ain't cheap either.

Third, love is no longer a many-splendored thing, it's a many-squandered thing. A lot of people have wasted themselves away on some elusive person. And then, there are the gluttons for punishment, like yours truly, who manage to turn self-destructive at every turn in the maze of life. Sigh sigh sigh, heaven help us all, and then some.

I don't know about the rest of the world, but something has gone awfully wrong somewhere. Or maybe our grand-parents and past generations were putting on a grand act of finding happiness and companionship right into their 80's and 90's. Or maybe they had too many children, and that distracted them from issues of marital discord. I mean, feeding half-a-dozen mouths must have posed quite a challenge. Not like today, when one's only child is curled up in front of one of many flat-screens at one's not-so-humble abode(who says money can't buy you love? Ask any kid these days, they'll give you the right answer). It can't be the couple's fault that they don't have enough problems to distract them from the issue of whether or not they are soul-mates and made for each other and what not.

But then again, this is the age of recessions and life-threatening farm flus (swine, bird, cow's left hoof etc). The age of fast-food because it is forbidden to spend too much thought or time on nourishment, of breast implants because we are too scared to eat and develop mammary glands as God intended them to be (does anyone know of a Bengali lass who has needed implants in any part of her body???).

Possibly, we are too busy to allow ourselves the luxury of growing into someone, because the falling bit is easy, it's what comes afterward- getting up, dusting oneself, and walking hand in hand, that's the difficult part.

At this point in time, I must issue a disclaimer- I am probably guilty on all of the above-mentioned accounts, but be kind enough not to hold it against me.

Just now, it occurred to me that growing to love someone is a bit like wearing new shoes. At first, there's the thrill of spotting THE pair in a display window, the unbelievable luck at being able to afford them, the joy of trying them on and knowing, just knowing that they fit just right. Oh, it all adds up to heaven, shoe heaven, but still...

Then, as always, one must descend down to earth. Back home, and in the not-so-flattering white light, the shoes lose a bit of their shine. Still, one loves them. Till the first day one wears them, and curses and clutches one's ankle, wincing in pain, and trying to hobble through the last few steps, the relief at taking them off, the ghastly horror of counting the blisters on one's poor feet.

Still, one has invested money, so one shall put up a brave front, and invest a bit more money in band-aids, but wear the shoes, and slowly, ever so slowly, wear them in.

And then, magically, they become 'the' pair again, the pair that manages to look good with everything, the pair that one doesn't leave town without, the pair that one picks out when in a dilemma, or a hurry, or just in a bad mood. If they're good enough quality, they will last. If a strap decides to disassociate itself from the rest of the sandal, it's still nothing that a visit to the cobbler can't fix.

But these days, people just don't know how to wear shoes in. One blister, and that's it, they're out of the game. Or even worse, they don't mind wearing a pair that's a size too small, as long as it's pretty enough or the socially acceptable designer brand. Achilles' heel seems to be having a revival , and shoes are having to bear the brunt of it.

It does remind me of a certain glass slipper and the enormous trouble a certain prince took to find the dainty foot that fit into it. I'm not even getting into the 'happily ever after' bit. I'm sure there was a disclaimer hidden away somewhere, beautifully concealed by illustrations of soaring castles and happy horses prancing across a page of endless green.

Now I can live with the fact that princes are a dying breed. I can live with the fast food, and not being blessed with Bengali genes. I don't have a flatscreen or the farm flu, and I'm ok with that.

But hey hey hey, don't hold out on my glass slipper.