We tell ourselves when we fall in love
that it couldn’t have
been with anyone else,
that it was fate or destiny or written in the stars
or
such-like. We try in this manner to create
an unchangeable, permanent legend of
ourselves,
of our stories, of our love. But it strikes you
how arbritrary we are
at choosing the objects
of our affection. A glimpse, a smile, a dream
could have had you choosing someone else.
Anyone else but the one you fell in love with
and
eventually eloped with on a day drenched with July rains.
Or is it love at all?
Isn’t it some kind of a skewed sense of finality
that eventually led to whatever arrangement
that we define as love? Don’t all love start selfishly,
terribly, chaotically? It is jagged around the edges,
it doesn’t fit quite well into our lives.
In our distinctly Manipuri lives, trapped
in our essentially Manipuri bodies,
whatever that we did were never good enough,
love was never a good enough reason for marriage,
there would be so many relatives picking
on every bit of our lives, yours and his, turning it over,
examining the unconformities, the abnormalities,
the lover and the beloved would have to stand
the strain of being made public. Privacy was a luxury
we could ill afford to maintain. Love was a price
to be paid for together-forever-after; marriage
was larger than one person, it was many people,
Ekubok, Enembok, Ibenthou, Enamma, Etei,Mou Ahan,
your nephews and nieces, your marriage was the establishment
of relationships and camaradie with these strangers
who might like or might not like you, who might
make your life easier or worse; knowing the man
you had married was the least of all the tasks involved in a marriage.
that eventually led to whatever arrangement
that we define as love? Don’t all love start selfishly,
terribly, chaotically? It is jagged around the edges,
it doesn’t fit quite well into our lives.
In our distinctly Manipuri lives, trapped
in our essentially Manipuri bodies,
whatever that we did were never good enough,
love was never a good enough reason for marriage,
there would be so many relatives picking
on every bit of our lives, yours and his, turning it over,
examining the unconformities, the abnormalities,
the lover and the beloved would have to stand
the strain of being made public. Privacy was a luxury
we could ill afford to maintain. Love was a price
to be paid for together-forever-after; marriage
was larger than one person, it was many people,
Ekubok, Enembok, Ibenthou, Enamma, Etei,Mou Ahan,
your nephews and nieces, your marriage was the establishment
of relationships and camaradie with these strangers
who might like or might not like you, who might
make your life easier or worse; knowing the man
you had married was the least of all the tasks involved in a marriage.
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