The Silent Language

The month of Navam the season of lovers has long since drifted away, yet the echoes of the love stories I’ve witnessed continue to linger, drawing me back to the essence of affection. I wish to share a few of these stories with you. “Love” what exactly is contained within those four letters?

Despite the countless definitions we offer, they often feel like mere words, failing to capture the true depth of the heart. Can anyone truly say that authentic love still survives? I find myself returning to Mahatma Gandhi’s wisdom, “Where there is love, there is life.” Perhaps its most profound truth is mirrored in the timeless bond between a mother and her child. From the very moment a mother realizes a new life is blossoming within her, she begins to weave a love for her unborn child that defies all description. It is the purest form of unconditional devotion. In return, the love a child carries for their parents is just as sacred a bond rooted in deep gratitude and silent reverence. It is a beautiful, thankful response to the years they spent nurturing us and the boundless affection that shaped our world from the very beginning.

Yet, the true nature of romantic love remains an enigma to me. Is it a bond fueled by fleeting passion, or is it a love that is truly pure? While many point to the Taj Mahal built by Emperor Shah Jahan for his loving wife Mumtaz Mahal as the ultimate symbol of devotion, it was raised only after she was gone. What is the true essence of such a gesture once the beloved can no longer feel it? Is it merely a display for society? Surely, the love shared while one is still breathing carries the greatest weight. What do we hope to prove to the world? Perhaps, however, it is a silent testament a way to show that love remains etched in the heart, unchanged by death, and a physical manifestation of the agonizing void left behind.

There once lived a couple whose hearts were entwined for a lifetime. Through all their years together, every Valentine’s Day was marked by a single, beautiful tradition, the husband would gift his beloved wife a vibrant red rose. Their life was a tapestry of joy and overflowing affection. But as time marched on, shadows eventually fell upon their sanctuary. The husband fell ill and, before long, he slipped away into the eternal sleep.

When the next Valentine’s Day arrived, the silence in the house was deafening. With no one left to bring her flowers, the wife held his photograph and wept. Suddenly, a knock echoed at the door. To her disbelief, a young man stood there with a magnificent bouquet of red roses. 'These are for you,' he said softly, before departing. Tucked within the petals, she found a note,

'My darling, if you are reading this, I am likely no longer by your side. But my love remains unchanged. I have already paid the florist’s son to deliver a bouquet to you every Valentine’s Day for the rest of your life. This is my undying love. I love you.'

Tears blurred her vision as she pressed his picture tightly against her chest, letting out a long, trembling sigh the breath of a love that refused to die.

But these noble tales are few and far between now. Today, love is often a mask for lies, a battlefield where blood is shed, and a sanctuary poisoned by doubt. What is the use of such a love? I find a quiet dignity in being alone. Love should have no limits and no yardstick, but if it cannot be pure, I would rather it not be at all.

“Existence is fleeting, But a soul's devotion is vast, True love isn't just for the living, But a light meant to forever last.”