Most of love is but a memory of it. How it used to be. How it used to feel. I was reminded of this while watching two of the most haloed Bollywood romances ever, late one night while researching for my next film—which is about love.
I choked, saw most of the films through a teary film over my eyes and my minus five glasses, then got up and spooned with my wife and partner of fifteen years and pretended I was seventeen again.
Now I'm told love conquers all. I have proof otherwise. Making tea in the morning conquers all. Coming back home early from work conquers all. Cleaning out the study conquers all.
But try making a film out of these things. Or even a memory. I dare you.
Hence, the memories of love long gone. Memories of when you were seventeen. When she walked into class, hesitant, shy. You looked at her face once and looked away. Memories of a knee-length skirt, perfectly waxed calves ending in a pair of Nikes you could never afford.
You never thought of...