It should not be so difficult to fall madly in love

My parents met on the day of their wedding, my mother with hands covered in henna and dressed in a red sari, and my father in a white sherwani and a small, nervous smile. I came soon after, during a time where the house was still quiet and foreign, during a time where “we” didn’t exist and it was just “me and mom” and “me and dad.” I could watch my parents learn to love each other. I could observe careless hands turn gentle, harsh voices turn soft, quick glances turn long.

My brother was born five years after me. In some ways, he’s luckier than I am. He was raised by hearts swollen with love, laughter caressing his skin like kisses. He grew up believing love was an inevitability, that there’s one person out there who can make your blood pulse and your breath quicken. I grew up knowing that love takes work. I grew up knowing that love is a choice.

****

My parent’s marriage was a unification of two families. My father promised to care for my mother’s siblings and parents and cousins, and my mother did the same. The vows they made for each other shouldn’t have had to be said aloud. They should have been written in stone, the careful laws of the universe.

We will treat each other with respect.

We will stay faithful to one another.

We will not bring ourselves into trouble or hardship.

We will accept the new responsibilities we have.

We will be kind to each other.

It was the more intimate promises, the ones specific to them alone, that came later, whispered in undertones, exchanged in glances that meant more than words ever could.

****

The books I read make it worse. Friends-to-lovers. Enemies-to-lovers. Fake relationships. Love triangles. Soul mates. So many romance tropes that it’s absolutely maddening that I’ve never experienced even one. I shudder as he gently tilts my chin up, forcing my eyes to meet his own. They’re swirling with the memories we’ve shared, with the assurance that our time isn’t over. Not yet. Not now. Somehow, he’s ingrained himself into every major moment of my life. I can’t remember a time before him. I don’t care to, anyhow. I can feel his breath fanning across my cheeks, so close that his chest brushes mine with each exhale. His mouth presses against mine, soft and sweet, lighting my nerves on fire. It feels like our entire lives were preordained just so we could get to this point. “Forever, —” And here’s where I stop. I can lose myself in worlds different from my own, but book boyfriends don’t mean a thing when they call you by the wrong name.

“You’re young,” my mom assures me, pushing back a strand of my hair. “You have the rest of your life to fall in love.” She glances at my dad, who is tying his shoes and getting ready for work. His phone rings, and he curses as he glances at the caller ID. My mom smiles in a way that somehow makes her look youthful and wise all at once.

“Hello?” He waves goodbye to the rest of us and heads out the door.

My mom turns back to me. “You have to be patient.”

****

My brother declares that he’s engaged at a time where I’m still figuring myself out, following my mother’s advice. I feel like I’m running out of time, like if I don’t get married now, I’ll be alone forever.

I’ve thought about getting an arranged marriage like my parents. But then I think about how long it took for them to learn to love each other. I think about growing up knowing that my brother was born from love and that I…I came before that. Somehow, “I’ll think about it seriously when I’m 25” turned into “28” then “30” then “32.” Now, it seems too late.

I watch as my brother turns to his wife. Both are beaming at each other. Both are trembling with happiness. When they kiss, my aunts and uncles gasp and titter, hands covering mouths in pleased delight. At a Hindu wedding like this, kissing is thought to be too private to be done in public.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see my parents shift closer to each other, slumping over in relief. I feel like I’m intruding on a personal moment, uncomfortable in my own skin, resisting the urge to retreat to the corner of the room.

I run my hands over my arms and focus back on my brother. His eyes sparkle just like the way it’s described in books.

****

I meet Alex on an online dating website. I was drawn to his lifestyle—he goes hiking twice a week, knows how to surf, and claims to be looking for a serious relationship. He was, according to him, drawn to my smile. It’s too bad that the smile in question just happened to be fake, practiced, perfected in the picture I posted.

Still, I give it a try. 

Alex is five inches taller than me but cups my cheeks like it’s more like ten. He has hair like night and eyes like dusk, and sometimes when I look at him, I see the stars twinkling back at me in the freckles of his cheeks and the crease of his lips.

The first time he says that he loves me, I think it is a joke. But my heart warms anyway, and my palms grow sweaty and my lungs tighten almost unbearably.

I laugh to hide my discomfort. “Yes, you know my favorite color, food, movie, book. You know I hate Thursdays and that pizza place you took me to on our anniversary. You know that I fidget with my fingers when I’m nervous and bite my lip when I’m upset. But you don’t know what I’m thinking, feeling, learning.” How can you, when these are the things I distort, hide from even myself? “How do you know that this is love?”

Alex smiles and kisses me senseless. “It’s impossible to mistake these feelings for anything else.”

It becomes routine after that. Alex tells me that he loves me, and I try to understand the drumbeat of my heart. It doesn’t feel like he’s pressuring me into saying anything, more like he’s just reminding me that he’s there, ready when I am.

But, if I’m really in love, why isn’t it consuming me, enveloping me, destroying me? Why isn’t it setting fire to my soul?

What’s between us is like jumping into a lake on a hot summer afternoon: soothing, all the tension fading from my limbs, a nice reprieve from a long, hard day.

And then I rise out of the water, a breeze comes in, and suddenly I’m shivering and rubbing my hands over my arms, rushing to get out and find safety in the sun I abandoned seconds ago. Our “love” cools and flows more than it warms and pushes. It’s gentle and quiet, when all I want is for it to wrap its hand around my heart and squeeze.

When I think about leaving, that blanket over my soul disappears, and I’m left chattering in the dark.  “I love you,” falls out like the words don’t carry the weight of my world, like my entire life hasn’t just been upheaved. I pause to consider what I just said, but then he’s there again, sweeping my cheeks with kisses, pressing his arms around my waist.

Lightness bubbles deep in my chest, coming out in choked laughter and elated tears.

My parent’s love was private—it was caught in the glimpses between the bars of my cradle, the murmurs of conversations I wasn’t allowed to hear. The books promised me that love was always passionate, that it always took something out of you.

Maybe it does. Our love is a balm that heals all wounds and claims every inch of my body. But it heals slowly, and it conquers kindly.

It should not be so difficult to fall madly in love. If it wasn’t, my heart would have been broken a thousand times over. If it wasn’t, “love” wouldn’t feel as good, precious and rare as it is. If it wasn’t, a promise would mean nothing.

If it wasn’t, it would be just as easy to fall out of love.

– Avni Israni

Author’s Note: “Love” is based on the idea of companionate/compassionate love, which passionate love is said to turn into in a long-term relationship.