V-Day special: Love is a many-splendoured thing

"What's up, old man?" Wifey craned her neck from behind the kitchen door to probe what I was up to in the study.
"Writing my column."
"What's it about this time?"
"About love, for the Valentine's Day edition."
A burst of laughter rose over the clatter of vessels in the kitchen. "You need to know the subject before you attempt to write on it. I'm not sure you have any clue about love even at this age. I'm cooking because I know it." I could hear the dosa pan hissing. I could also hear the echoes of derision in her words.
She summoned me into the kitchen, thrust the scoop and spatula into my hands and said, "Let's cook up some love. I will teach you. You make dosa while I prepare masala. Lesson one: love is caring and sharing."
I nodded as water drops danced and disappeared after she sprinkled them to clear the pan after my first baby dosa. In a few minutes, masala dosa rolled out of the love factory.
After the breakfast, she made me sit on the kitchen floor. As she opened the dryer, clothes breathing out the scent of lavender tumbled out.
"This is cupboard-dry. Put the dress on hangers, sort the socks in pairs and tie them together."
I did that, and much more. After we finished the weekend's chores together, she flashed a lustrous wink and said: "I am so happy. Let's go for a drive."
"Where to? I need to write."
"Just drive, aimlessly. By the time we return, you would have your column."
"OK," I said, like an obedient child.
"I love you so much for sharing my chores today," she said, as we drove past the sand dunes along the Hatta road.
"I am not sure love can be turned on as a reward like you mentioned," I said, knowing fully well that I was sticking my neck out.
"Ideally, love should flow from the heart. Can't be clinched
at gunpoint."
"Agree, but it also needs space to grow. Personal space. Each of us needs room to love oneself, to pamper oneself. I need, as much as you do, space to read, write, reflect and relax. Love shouldn't be made to feel like a prisoner of marriage."
None of us spoke for a long while. The car whizzed past a herd of dromedary camels in the desert.
"Who's on your mind now?" Wifey broke the silence.
"My experiment with love. Some women who went through my life."
"Old flames?"
"Yeah, love is like a flame. Once lit, you need life-long dedication to keep it going."
As I negotiated a dust track off the highway, memories of a girl who went away when we were just 17 bobbed up in my chest. When I met her 34 years later, the swash of her whispers in the midst of a party crowd washed over my soul. "Your procrastination ruined my life," she said with melancholy dripping from her voice. How could people carry a longing for such long years?
"Love is bigger than us, and all our isms," I told Wifey, who threw me a glance out of the corner of her eyes. "I guess unsaid love is more intense than a practised affair."
"You are talking in riddles," she said.
I remembered another page in my life. A lady who I once adored. One day, I gathered up all my guts to tell her with coquettish hesitation that I "loved" her so much.
"I am so glad. Continue to love me," she said, as I struggled to read her eyes. And that's the last time I met her. I love this enigma. No terms of endearment. No agenda. No boundaries. No attention-seeking. No jealousy. Probably love is the most precious thing that you can possess at no cost. If you love someone, just love. No need to even tell the person.
"We have come a long way," Wifey reminded as the sun slanted over the Madinat Jumeirah. "I am sure you are now meandering through a graveyard of memories."
I knew she was talking about our marriage. Thirty-six long years. In our life, we have allowed room for anger, grief, pain and protests. Maybe love is a melange of all these.
As I pulled over to see the sunset, she quoted Emily Dickinson to complete the column:
"The Soul selects her own Society- Then-shuts the Door."
suresh@khaleejtimes.com