My Love

My love, infused in the oldest south Indian music, the violin singing praises of love in different raagas and mesmerising alapanas, with every gamaka unleashing a new, passionate moan. Every beat of the Mrdangam, every whistle of the flute, and every silly little note in the south Indian Sangitam. Every 70s cinematic car, every pair of brown vintage Dior glasses, and every flowery scarf worn by an admirably independent woman in love, serenading her kaadalan.

Hidden in the green silk saree that I took out to wear and the jasmine flowers I adorned my hair with was traditional romance, something I had never tasted. The bottu I put on my face that made my face look complete. He evoked the intrinsic South Indian in me unlike any guy I’ve liked.

I wear my bangles and set my hair. I was ready for nothing, nobody. I looked pretty, but he wasn’t there to see me.

I know he loves me to the moon and beyond, which brings me a wave of bittersweet comfort. Comfort of love from such a beautiful man who claims to have never loved anyone as much as he did me. Comfort of a man who’s called me his princess and treated me like no one else would. Comfort of a man who hugs me from the behind, a guy who can carry me away. A man who can speak eloquent words of courtship, but gets flustered everytime I rebuff him with words of affection. The only man I can snuggle into, knowing that we’ll never be together, which makes me hold him tighter. A man I love and find so beautiful in a world of men young and bold and hot and cold.

Reetigowla, Brindavani Saarang, hindolam, maand... I don’t know if any raagam can truly express how much I’m in love and yet so pained, so deprived.

Words are the only way I can send my message across, better than any gesture, more than any venture. In a world filled with people who can cheat and people who can’t love adequately, he couldn’t love me enough. In a world filled with scum, he seemed pure. Our love was very old Kollywood romance, the underdog stealing the girl types – stole me away from every lover I’ve had. I adored him very much, the stupid way he tries to set his stupidly overgrown hair, the way he walks. The way he can sometimes say the most bizarre shit ever. The dumb way he leans in for a kiss, and the way he holds me. Oh God, the way he holds me. Everything about him I loved, and I missed.

I start to undress, and I take my own time. My heart breaks little by little, and there’s nothing anyone can do. I look into the mirror: I don’t feel like taking off my flowers. They’re fresh and fragnant and I couldn’t bring myself to; being separated when you’re just starting to fall in love hurts.

Tyaagaraj could only sing so much about love and devotion, and I’m not ready to move on from the one guy who made me the most romantic I’ve ever been; even the word in his language sounds stupidly romantic, and I’m annoyed. When will he be my kaadal?