The Linguistics of Love and A Shy Man
So then, is it I myself who pushes you away, beloved? Or
is it that I failed somewhere, unable to learn the secret script of your eyes?
Think of those glances—layered with fire, each fold concealing a spark, each
flicker burning into the marrow of my being. And yet, perhaps the fault is mine
alone—whether in understanding you or in failing to do so. “Jo kahi gayi na
humse, woh zamana keh raha hai”—“What I could not say, the whole world is
speaking of”—wrote poet Kaifi Azmi for the film Pakeezah. On this day of
separation, that song returned to me like a wound pressed anew. The grief of
losing a pure, immaculate beloved is no small matter. Such grief could drive a
tender-hearted man to leap off the Howrah Bridge or throw himself upon the
tracks of the Metro. Enough—let it be. For this sorrow is not slight,
especially in this famished, bone-dry city, where every headline seems to
belong to an accident reporter, monopolized by the newspapers. Yet here I sit,
not to write of accidents, but of love. And is not love itself a kind of
accident? This is the most fundamental of questions when writing about it.
If a man or woman is of firm disposition, then yes, they may overcome the failure of love and prepare themselves for future affections waiting in the wings. But there are others—men and women alike—who never escape the haunting reproach of jo kahi gayi na humse—those unspoken words. They drift through life, unable even to fall in love, as though the very language of love refuses to touch them. I have seen many such figures, both near and distant, luminous examples of this quiet tragedy. I know of one man who waited nearly an entire life for one woman—without ever letting her truly know. It is of these inarticulate men, these voiceless hearts, that I write.
In the voice of such a modern man—unable to say the word—it all collapses into a certain false smartness. To propose love outright has become, in today’s age, something laughably foolish. “Very much idiotic,” as they would say. And yet, when did lovers become philosophers? Rather, philosophers have often been ennobled by calling them lovers. For no matter how Platonic, lovers are never rational beings. Love is always a little silly, sentimental, tear-streaked, foolishly feminine. Emotional, unpolished. To the ordinary world, to the sensible man, the lover is irrational. Yet it is only such irrational souls who dare to place before their beloved those unreasonable proposals that shape destiny.
But our generation? We are surrounded by smart young men—hovering like cautious hunters in the shadows—who cannot speak the language of love, or who dismiss that language as unnatural, unworthy of real expression. These divers of silence, these secret swimmers, mean nothing to the beloved. For if the words seen in the eye are not given voice, how could a relationship of love ever be built? In love, truth itself holds less value than unconditional surrender. Not every man can be the lover of every woman. It is always one particular woman who makes a man into a lover. And this she does not through truth, but through devotion, through imagination, through sympathy.
What we usually think of in love is this: the man says “sun,” and the woman hears “rain.” The girl sets out to smile, and instead she weeps. In love, the conventional rules of language fall apart, and caprice reigns supreme. Separation, longing—these are themselves woven into the very fabric of its tongue. So delicate is this matter that one who has never fallen in love will never fully grasp it. The heart is essential; the language of love is like an ancient script—Kharoṣṭhī—enigmatic, indecipherable, yet burning with hidden power. Communication management is everything in love—yet utterly different from ordinary mass communication. Here, it is a play of symbols, an exchange of codes—heart to heart, eye to eye.
Let me give an example. I was in college then. The talk was of the first of January excursion. One group argued for the Maidan-Victoria, another argued for the Botanical Garden. The debate grew heated. I voted for the Garden, simply because I longed to see the river. Rivers always pulled me in; though I lived amidst city and civilization, the blood of forefathers from Padma’s banks in East Bengal ran within me. In me was a secret romance with rivers—impossible to justify, yet undeniable. The majority favored the Botanical Garden, so the persuasion began.
Among the opposition was Ananya—a frail, wiry girl, quick of tongue, stormy, restless. A classmate from English Honours. She had argued for Victoria Memorial. On our side was Amal, a bright student, who urged us to persuade everyone. Such trifles, such quarrels, were always so full of delight in those days. I tried to convince many, and finally I approached Ananya, at the tea stall beside the college. I told her: “Let’s all go together. Separating will spoil the fun. The budget too will fall short. We can always go to Victoria later together.”
For some reason, Ananya flared up at my words. “Who are you,” she said angrily, “that I should listen to you? I’ll never go anywhere with you.” That was all. But her last words haunted me for days. For there was nothing between us beyond the ordinary camaraderie of classmates. No secret intimacy. A little affection perhaps, but never love. Yet we shared a bond, we debated literature, often with a rare harmony of taste. And still—where did this sudden anger, this resistance, come from? Had there been a hidden tenderness? I had never confessed anything. Yet instinct tells a person who they love, who they are drawn to. And I—poor fool—I had never noticed. A tiny, irrelevant incident had suddenly revealed it. Had Ananya not said those words that day, I would never have known.
This, then, is the strange linguistics of love—so complex in its feeling, so brief in its words, and yet flowing with endless, elusive meanings, like an unseen river. When a beloved says, “I won’t go,” one must consult the dictionary of wounded pride. The world’s most celebrated codes of language, devised by cryptographers and spies, pale before the lover’s symbolic tongue. And what cannot be explained by science, mankind has always revered all the more. That is what is loved with abandon. Like God. For no novel, no painting, no music, no film, no poem I have ever known has glorified science as supreme. Rather, every art has exalted the unknowable mysteries of the human heart. Science may command responsibility, but sin and virtue, justice and injustice, good and evil weigh upon us far more. Even a thousand Marxes or a hundred thousand Platos could never take love away from humanity. For love is not grown in fields or forged in factories, nor sold for coins—it is crafted by the artisan of the heart.
Lovers, then, must speak in codes—strange, intimate languages of their own. Astonishingly, every pair has its own private code. And those men who do not know or cannot grasp these symbolic tongues find love nearly impossible. Some invent new codes—modern gestures and signals to fit the age—so that even amid crowds the secret message of love may slip, unnoticed by all, into a beloved’s ear.
But then there are men who, in their urge to be over-smart, or to display a little masculine bravado, declare their love openly. Here, two outcomes are possible. The woman, knowing his intention, may simply remain indifferent. Or else, his arrow of devotion may strike her like a bullet—wounding, yet irresistibly drawing her toward him.
These days we often speak of communication gaps between generations. But truth be told, the gap of communication in love is far deadlier than that between one, two, or three generations. It is like a fathomless abyss, into which fragile relationships collapse. Love is, after all, a mute war. Sometimes nothing need be said; eyes alone converse. Out of silence arises a bridge between souls, across which one heart enters the chambers of another. What greater rarity exists? Yet even Platonic love, when it comes into the practical world, requires a proposal—a ritual declaration. For in human affairs, what is said often matters more than what is done; in love alone, what is done outweighs what is said. And yet, unless love is spoken, unless it takes shape in language, society does not seal it as real.
Thus, for a man, the act of expressing love in words remains the most difficult task of all. Action is easier than utterance. Yet if one can raise the antennae of the mind to decode the secret signals of love, one gains perhaps the greatest prize of life itself.
An example again. That year, on the first of January, the two groups of our college went their separate ways. And strangely, I went with neither. Nor did Ananya. There was no band of friends, no noisy laughter in my destiny that day. And yet, in truth, fate was not unkind. For I found myself by the riverbank, sitting with Ananya for long hours. Almost an entire day. There was less talk than there was shared perception, silent communion. From one small signal, I learned the unknown linguistics of love. Fortunate indeed—for otherwise, I would never have sat by the river with Ananya. The world would have remained the same, but that moment would have been different. That day would never have been written. That fleeting joy would never have been born. That delicate tremor of love.
If a man or woman is of firm disposition, then yes, they may overcome the failure of love and prepare themselves for future affections waiting in the wings. But there are others—men and women alike—who never escape the haunting reproach of jo kahi gayi na humse—those unspoken words. They drift through life, unable even to fall in love, as though the very language of love refuses to touch them. I have seen many such figures, both near and distant, luminous examples of this quiet tragedy. I know of one man who waited nearly an entire life for one woman—without ever letting her truly know. It is of these inarticulate men, these voiceless hearts, that I write.
In the voice of such a modern man—unable to say the word—it all collapses into a certain false smartness. To propose love outright has become, in today’s age, something laughably foolish. “Very much idiotic,” as they would say. And yet, when did lovers become philosophers? Rather, philosophers have often been ennobled by calling them lovers. For no matter how Platonic, lovers are never rational beings. Love is always a little silly, sentimental, tear-streaked, foolishly feminine. Emotional, unpolished. To the ordinary world, to the sensible man, the lover is irrational. Yet it is only such irrational souls who dare to place before their beloved those unreasonable proposals that shape destiny.
But our generation? We are surrounded by smart young men—hovering like cautious hunters in the shadows—who cannot speak the language of love, or who dismiss that language as unnatural, unworthy of real expression. These divers of silence, these secret swimmers, mean nothing to the beloved. For if the words seen in the eye are not given voice, how could a relationship of love ever be built? In love, truth itself holds less value than unconditional surrender. Not every man can be the lover of every woman. It is always one particular woman who makes a man into a lover. And this she does not through truth, but through devotion, through imagination, through sympathy.
What we usually think of in love is this: the man says “sun,” and the woman hears “rain.” The girl sets out to smile, and instead she weeps. In love, the conventional rules of language fall apart, and caprice reigns supreme. Separation, longing—these are themselves woven into the very fabric of its tongue. So delicate is this matter that one who has never fallen in love will never fully grasp it. The heart is essential; the language of love is like an ancient script—Kharoṣṭhī—enigmatic, indecipherable, yet burning with hidden power. Communication management is everything in love—yet utterly different from ordinary mass communication. Here, it is a play of symbols, an exchange of codes—heart to heart, eye to eye.
Let me give an example. I was in college then. The talk was of the first of January excursion. One group argued for the Maidan-Victoria, another argued for the Botanical Garden. The debate grew heated. I voted for the Garden, simply because I longed to see the river. Rivers always pulled me in; though I lived amidst city and civilization, the blood of forefathers from Padma’s banks in East Bengal ran within me. In me was a secret romance with rivers—impossible to justify, yet undeniable. The majority favored the Botanical Garden, so the persuasion began.
Among the opposition was Ananya—a frail, wiry girl, quick of tongue, stormy, restless. A classmate from English Honours. She had argued for Victoria Memorial. On our side was Amal, a bright student, who urged us to persuade everyone. Such trifles, such quarrels, were always so full of delight in those days. I tried to convince many, and finally I approached Ananya, at the tea stall beside the college. I told her: “Let’s all go together. Separating will spoil the fun. The budget too will fall short. We can always go to Victoria later together.”
For some reason, Ananya flared up at my words. “Who are you,” she said angrily, “that I should listen to you? I’ll never go anywhere with you.” That was all. But her last words haunted me for days. For there was nothing between us beyond the ordinary camaraderie of classmates. No secret intimacy. A little affection perhaps, but never love. Yet we shared a bond, we debated literature, often with a rare harmony of taste. And still—where did this sudden anger, this resistance, come from? Had there been a hidden tenderness? I had never confessed anything. Yet instinct tells a person who they love, who they are drawn to. And I—poor fool—I had never noticed. A tiny, irrelevant incident had suddenly revealed it. Had Ananya not said those words that day, I would never have known.
This, then, is the strange linguistics of love—so complex in its feeling, so brief in its words, and yet flowing with endless, elusive meanings, like an unseen river. When a beloved says, “I won’t go,” one must consult the dictionary of wounded pride. The world’s most celebrated codes of language, devised by cryptographers and spies, pale before the lover’s symbolic tongue. And what cannot be explained by science, mankind has always revered all the more. That is what is loved with abandon. Like God. For no novel, no painting, no music, no film, no poem I have ever known has glorified science as supreme. Rather, every art has exalted the unknowable mysteries of the human heart. Science may command responsibility, but sin and virtue, justice and injustice, good and evil weigh upon us far more. Even a thousand Marxes or a hundred thousand Platos could never take love away from humanity. For love is not grown in fields or forged in factories, nor sold for coins—it is crafted by the artisan of the heart.
Lovers, then, must speak in codes—strange, intimate languages of their own. Astonishingly, every pair has its own private code. And those men who do not know or cannot grasp these symbolic tongues find love nearly impossible. Some invent new codes—modern gestures and signals to fit the age—so that even amid crowds the secret message of love may slip, unnoticed by all, into a beloved’s ear.
But then there are men who, in their urge to be over-smart, or to display a little masculine bravado, declare their love openly. Here, two outcomes are possible. The woman, knowing his intention, may simply remain indifferent. Or else, his arrow of devotion may strike her like a bullet—wounding, yet irresistibly drawing her toward him.
These days we often speak of communication gaps between generations. But truth be told, the gap of communication in love is far deadlier than that between one, two, or three generations. It is like a fathomless abyss, into which fragile relationships collapse. Love is, after all, a mute war. Sometimes nothing need be said; eyes alone converse. Out of silence arises a bridge between souls, across which one heart enters the chambers of another. What greater rarity exists? Yet even Platonic love, when it comes into the practical world, requires a proposal—a ritual declaration. For in human affairs, what is said often matters more than what is done; in love alone, what is done outweighs what is said. And yet, unless love is spoken, unless it takes shape in language, society does not seal it as real.
Thus, for a man, the act of expressing love in words remains the most difficult task of all. Action is easier than utterance. Yet if one can raise the antennae of the mind to decode the secret signals of love, one gains perhaps the greatest prize of life itself.
An example again. That year, on the first of January, the two groups of our college went their separate ways. And strangely, I went with neither. Nor did Ananya. There was no band of friends, no noisy laughter in my destiny that day. And yet, in truth, fate was not unkind. For I found myself by the riverbank, sitting with Ananya for long hours. Almost an entire day. There was less talk than there was shared perception, silent communion. From one small signal, I learned the unknown linguistics of love. Fortunate indeed—for otherwise, I would never have sat by the river with Ananya. The world would have remained the same, but that moment would have been different. That day would never have been written. That fleeting joy would never have been born. That delicate tremor of love.
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