Origin of Love

<Disclaimer: Heavy literary stuff>

It’s not a secret to anyone who has read my posts before that I am mad about T S Eliot. He’s the only man on the planet who can comfort me when I am beyond funking blue. Eliot talks about my own preoccupations – relationship with others and relationship with God. I never discuss God with anyone because frankly what goes on between him (I am quite convinced God is a male of some sort – hence the asinine world we live in) and me is no one else’s business. Right now, I’m damn pissed with bloody god. And that’s our relationship status.

About the other relationships with people – I’ve always believed that I ought to be as honest as I can with the ones I love. That’s never a good thing especially when you love a few people as madly as I do. It isn’t always sexual. But still it scares them. Not only that, Eliot himself said, ‘Humankind cannot bear very much reality.’ No one is comfortable with being loved so much and knowing full well that nothing much is expected of them except for being there and if possible returning the love a bit. Now no relationship can survive such truths. And my relationships are not even normal!

My ex-husband thinks exactly the way I do – so much so that we’ve even stopped talking too often these days because we are bored by how exactly similar our reactions and conversations are. Even when we are different, we see into each other so clearly and so nakedly that all the little games we both resort to come to naught. He is a designer and recently had a henna night in America. And while I moaned to him about how much I missed being there, he was sad that I wasn’t there. And he said, ‘I’d have hennaed your hands like mad.’ I told him that was a lie because I knew what he’d have done. He’d have hennaed the hands of other girls like mad and made me whine and pout and finally get mightily pissed by his deliberate inattention. He agreed that’s exactly what he would do. Then he said, ‘But you also know that I’d have done the best design on your hands in the end.’ And I had to agree. This nakedness and transparency of each other’s souls is the basis of our relationship and also the reason why we divorced. I didn’t like that I could read him so clearly and so easily. He was bored by how similar we were. Twin-souls. You simply cannot stay married to a twin-soul.

My current husband is terrified that I love him as much as I do and he has no idea what to do about it. He can’t even believe it is true and that pisses me off no end. So we’ve decided to state after many intense and painful fights that our relationship status is ‘We are married, it’s complicated and we are working on our differences.’ He is trying to live with my love and I am trying to work on subterfuges and alternatives as we decided. Though speaking about us in this blog post may not be the brightest idea I’ve had.

Our relationships require subterfuge and games and egos and everything because that is the only way one feels that the relationship is worth having. Otherwise it’s too easy and no one really wants to have anything that easy. And one loses respect for such relationships and we feel even when it is not that the world is indeed a wasteland. It’s almost like going to a whore to scratch an itch – too easy. And too depressing for all concerned.

Eliot is all about the futility of meaningless sex. ‘What you get married for if you don’t want children?’ I’m not a romantic person in the least and I’ve only recently become serious about procreation, but I do need to be absolutely in love with someone before I have sex with them. Since the absolutely being in love happens with great difficulty or often with people I cannot bed for various reasons, I end up celibate every hundred years or so. I’ve never been able to separate love and lust. For me the two are magically intertwined and so the sex always takes on gigantic proportions. Even if the guy’s sex itself doesn’t. But I’m no size queen so that’s fine too. I do not hear violins and saxophones because I am not made that way, but I do hear my own heartbeat racing the way it should have but didn’t when I used to get on a treadmill.

Now for the past few days I’ve been re-reading all the works of D H Lawrence. And I love him too. Although I wasn’t really looking for any comfort, I found a lot of that when I read his short stories. And it also mirrored what my family of acquired husbands and children and women lovers have been advising me for years now. So I felt that every single line of Lady Chatterley’s Lover was written for me. Or about me. So much so that I ordered all my friends and family on Facebook to call me Lady Chatterley till further notice.

There is this woman married to an impotent man in a wheelchair who only stimulates her intellectually and she is happy with her situation, till she decides to get bored. And then she has affairs with men who don’t really stimulate her. Her ‘self’ she manages to keep to herself. And that’s what most men and women in the book seem to do as well. In all of D H Lawrence, love is almost an encumberence. And intellectual stimulation alone leaves one as frustrated and wasted as if one were really in the wasteland. In Lady Chatterley’s case, ‘The sense of deep physical injustice burned to her very soul.’

And just when I was getting excited about a woman who would eventually do something radical and go all out to get her own pleasure and her own child on her own terms, she goes and falls in love with the gatekeeper and wants something as prosaic as a marriage with him, a chance to live with him, and the status of being a mother to his child! Like really! Why? Because he has a feminine side, he admires her fanny, and he makes her come alive sexually, and he’s against industrialisation and being a slave of success – ‘the bitch goddess.’ Too lame, Lady Chatterley, too lame. And I must admit the ending of the book was an anti-climax and a deep let-down. I was almost outraged. I kept screaming ‘That’s all?, That’s all?’ in my head.

Because you see, I had almost decided to follow D H Lawrence’s philosophy about love which roughly translates to – just do it/get yours.

And now suddenly instead of being literally caught up between two men, a feeling I absolutely enjoyed (considering I’m totally into ménage à trois), one who stimulated my senses and another who stimulated my mind, I realise that they both were talking about the futility of existence. And especially the futility of being in love and were making a mockery of all the subterfuges and rigmaroles we indulge in on account of that loving. I am denied any drama and any dilemma I might have had, and now I’m back to where I started.

I wonder if we can really belong only to ourselves and be content there. And not think about love and sex and its origins and its effects and all that sort of stuff and go through so much pain each time we love.


About Bhumika's Boudoir

I love to laugh, and end up being a part of high drama and stormy emotion even when I don't pursue it. Being creative, and communicating with people get me going. I enjoy all the good things in life especially those that are slightly risque, and apologise little, if ever, for all that I do. Literature is a passion and so is music.
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2 Responses to Origin of Love

  1. Marvin Grey says:

    India is not the land of the Kamasutra. Sure an Indian, or what goes for a horny holy man living in Banares ages ago, wrote the treatise. But that is not enough. Penquin India had not set up shop in New Delhi. How many people lived in Banares or managed to get a autographed copy of the book? That is the question! Current and historical facts when rewritten by me clearly show that Kerala did not have 100% literacy at that time. Kannada or Tamil did not orginate from Sanskrit (even if influenced a bit later).

    So, apart from sadhus, who renounced the world, tried to make sense of politics in palaces of pre-independence and pre-colonial India, failing miserably and then… and then finally brought up the book of Kamasutra to every ruler from Guptas to Chalukyas to the Mughals who needed it to bring pax Mughal to their harems, no one had heard of the art of Kama. Later, Kamasutra invariably grew in popularity amongst the pre PlayBoy colonial western not so gentlemen and… the ladies 😉

    Come on. The Gauls were clearly way ahead with their way of saying hello (clearly a racist thing to say. So sue me!). Sure Kamasutra talks about the ‘nominal’, ‘throbbing’ and ‘touching’ kissing styles but none come sensuously close to Gallic traditional first kiss, which clearly makes the sky fall on your head!

    If India were the land of Kamasutra, we would not be drowning in our populace out of sheer fustration. Tantrics will tell you about the good old ages, when sex was not frowned upon. Ofcourse, no one caught them being naughty with their disciples using hidden cameras.

    And so it IS no to sex (ONLY) please, we are … I am not saying it (its too cliche).

    PS :- I started writting this as a comment on the social network. But it got longer and longer. So reverted to my old alias. And I appologise for going a bit off topic. But I had to share it with you.


    • I started by laughing out loud as usual and ended by chuckling quietly.
      Excellent points all. We cannot believe without proof and we have no proof. Just a few sensual carvings in caves! What good is that!

      But I do think Indians have a lot of sex each day. Most of them at least. But it may not be good quality sex and I’ve always maintained bad sex is worse than no sex. Hence the enforced celibacy every century or so.

      Thanks for sharing this with me.

      With that family of husbands and children and women lovers, I always insist on a very French greeting. It’s the only way to say hello, really.


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