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When You are in Love

Life is like a story. the story of a child. Whos born; who lives, and grows up listening to it; seeing it happen all about; living through it himself. Having newer experiences all the while; remembering and understanding. Life, in essence, is a study: Of a game of chance, If one might say. It is an effort to see patterns of probability in a world of possibility. To carve idols of stability and cling on to them as the world races down its roads and gushes through its crevasses. Every now and then. These idols of stability, these patterns of probability are washed away by a tide of change so great as human dissertation fails to explain. Thereon, the effort renews . Orientation with the events of late; and the struggle to understand why they came about. How to deal with the challenges quite new? To get accustomed to things unaccustomed with as of yet. To track the new patterns that life is busy weaving into the fabric of time. All that is solid melts into air, all that is holy is profaned, and man is at last compelled to face with sober senses his real condition of life and his relations with his kind. -The Communist Manifesto At times, these changes are subtle and slow. One may not notice them, yet may feel their presence. Of these, one is Love Love , to me, is an emotion, pure . A thing of knowledge, that teaches about life. That brings to light ordinary things, in perspectives, quite extraordinary. An emotion whose power is greater than the divisions of class and creed, religion and belief. A tool, if viewed in that light, to create equality among men. Can there be a bond greater than one which ties a mother to her child? Binds a man to his wife? a friend to another? a disciple to his teacher? man to God? Love is that bond. God was the first to fall in love and the beloved was Prophet Muhammad -Waris Shah Perhaps I need to learn more about Love. For, one should strive to master a thing that is so powerful; so significant and fulfilling. Even so, let me share with you what I have come to know What would it be like, to see an emotion, for instance, as an object of study? As a phenomenon? To define a thing that is beautiful? for beauty cannot be defined. It awes me to see that things so abstract, as the emotion in question, afford things so definite as the Taj Mahal at Agra ; spell changes so great as revolutions; and captivate men in all ages and all times. To me, love is something more than a bond between individuals of the opposite gender. That is just one way in which it manifests itself. To my mind, It is a thing quite magical: It was a fairy tale Unlike Id ever heard For magic in the air Let not an hour go spare Nor let a day go by When she wasnt neigh

It is like a wind that blows into your sails and carries you away with it. Propelling you through achievement and leading you to victory. At times, intoxicating, so that you lose the power to decide sanely; and see, only that you want to see; and hear ,only that you want to hear. Such that ones ideals appear to be gods. Whose greatness, is beyond question. Such that their faults and follies are obscured from ones vision. And there are times, when it is just such an insanity that ensures complete dedication. Of an angelical child With eyes, a golden mild And curls, so very brown As if a goddess crown They say, youre in love with a person. I say, it is the perception of that person, that thing, that ideology, that youre in love with. Socialists for instance, are mesmerized, by the dream of a classless society, of equality among men, of a welfare state supportive of all, of a life free of the aggressive competition that they associate with capitalism and private ownership. To them, the grave problems that have appeared in the course of the realization of their dream, seem trivial matters. We all are, a little awed, to be true, by the magnitude of the change Marx and Egnels have promised. As such, Love appears to have a palliative character, that , makes the lover see the object of his affections to be free of shortfalls. Almost, as if in a dream. Imagination, dwelling on an absent object of affection, paints her not only in the fairest light, but in that in which we most desire to behold her. - Sir Walter Scott However, it is also true, that an illusion or an intoxication cannot be sustained for an indefinite period of time. At one point or the other, there comes a time inevitable, that the effects of any seductive drug, if one may dare to put it like that, start to wear out. In more relevant terms, there is such a point in your dream, where the illusion fails. Where one can see a breach in ones perception of perfectness. It is this tear in the canvas that one willingly or unwillingly looks through. And can see the appalling realities that had existed and thrived under the cover of dizzy wishfulness. To me, this point in ones life, is the most painful of all. When a matter, most trivial and otherwise easily ignored, or on the contrary: one of grave consequence, gives way to a world of subtle reality. It is quite moving, to discover, of a sudden, that the object of your aspirations, had ceased to exist. Or worse, had never existed at all, save for in your imagination and in your dreams. I have seen dreams clear up as if were of the substance of a morning mist. When the first stupors of grief have passed. Their place is taken up by a more guarded stance towards life. Guarded and suspicious of all, of the world that seems to have got the better of us. It was fairy tale Unlike Id ever heard A fairy tale, the same And who might be to blame For tales do always End. Many a times in tears Just once a while in smiles.

There is the story of a girl who asked her mother about love. And got an answer that Love is an illusion. But maWhat of lasting love then?, she asks. And the mother says: It is a lasting illusion. Is it really so? That the ritual of Love, is a waste and no more. That rends your heart and leaves you hurt? Perhaps not, at least not always. What of lasting love then? As she asks. What then of the devotion of generations and generations of disciples to the Mystics and Saints who have long departed? What of the people, who consider themselves wealthy, even though they have little in terms of worldly wealth? What of the followers of blessed men as Ali Hajveri and Sultan Bahu, as Lal Shehbaz and Waris Shah, whose belief is all Love. The Love of humanity and the Love of God. Perhaps love is everlasting, if your dreams are close to the real substance of the Object of your aspirations. If your feelings are reciprocated in a fashion similar to the one in which they were expressed. It is in the pursuit of such affection that we keep Cupids ritual alive. That we fall in Love: again, and again, and again. I have read somewhere, that love feeds the soul as food and air and water sustain the body. To me, the first youthful outbursts of affection, however condemned, though very raw of form, are very original of substance. It is through the continual process of failure and success ,of heart breaking and making ,of the momentary happiness and lasting pain, of trial and error, that the emotion is purified. That the understanding of this emotion grows, and we realize its divine nature. all that has gone by in madness, has been worthwhile, though it has grieved my heart a lot -Faiz Id like to think of the experience of falling in Love, or for that matter, the translation of any other emotion in action, as a scientific experiment. Where one builds a hypothesis about a person, a thing, an ideology, and predicts the response of the same to the expression of ones commitment. Then puts it to the test. The results may confirm or reject the predictions. We may see our feelings reciprocated with equal or lesser vigor, Or we may see them sink into darkness and be lost in an unworthy cause. In either case, we have learnt something. We have advanced a degree further in the understanding of a fellow human being, the society, the complexity of the universe, the randomness of the age. How, through time, people change. How, in time, values change. How the very morals, upon which people had once based their lives, have changed. In fact, Life is nothing but change. Nothing but variation, seemingly systematic, or otherwise. Arguably all changes, even the sudden ones, have an underlying pattern. They havent been conjured out of the blue, but have followed a scheme, complex and subtle: As if continually being queued up in the challenges that the Human race is destined to face. Brought about by the inertia of Nature and partly through human undertakings, both constructive and destructive. These are the patterns that we strive to trace, the changes that we undertake to study, All our life. And Love, presents itself at times, as just another tool of acquiring this knowledge. Now, to speak of a matter very near to my heart. Each time that one falls in love, Id like to think of it as a thing that has a deeper meaning and a higher purpose to it. For if it is not that, why is it that we fall for seeming charms and beautiful words. Why is it that we

gaze into hazel eyes, desiring to see the depths that are beneath them or the shallowness that they hide. Why is it that we bend down to smell every flower ,to see if it smells as sweet as the beauty that constitutes its form. Perhaps were searching. Each and every one of us. For a Truth ,that hides itself in the nobility of features; in the rhymes of words; in the rhythm of a song. That shows itself in the creativity of an artist. Whenever you find yourself awed by the beauty of a work of art, you are invariably captivated by the mastery and skill of the artist, by the manner in which the brush has been set to strokes in a painting; by the way a sculpture has been carved from raw form into a fine piece of art. The painting, or the sculpture, or the poem, or the song is where a part of artist hides. Hides away from the eyes of the ignorant world. Hides, where only his admirers can see him. For, an artist resides in his masterpieces. For, you can see a creator in each and every one of his creations. There are those who can see the Master Artist in every flower that smells and every one that doesnt; in every butterfly that sits upon it ; in the seeming simplicity and hidden complexity of the beings that we dwell amongst. And every time that we fall for their charms, perhaps in a subtle way, it is the hidden Artist Creator, who has aroused our affection. Though we hardly know its that. We enjoy our little experience till we reach the point where the master artist had left the brushes and chisels in the hands of His creation, and if we find the creations choice appealing, we stay, if we dont, we move on. However, the admiration of the Master stays. And grows, as we sift through more and more of His work. Perhaps that is how Love is divine, for it leads you to truth. It makes you see things that you cannot see with your eyes . The love of God is the treasure that we have been silently collecting all the way along. In the tears that follow a heart break, in the joys of winning the attention of someone special to you; in the sorrow of losing it again: Love is gracefully being purified all the while. Being baptized in the waters of literature and prose. And the Lover, ascending the steps of a long and a lengthy staircase, leading up to his Lord Creator . wrong is the perception that there is something else in the world besides You -Meer Dard

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