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A few years ago, when I was still capable of turning pages, I picked up a book that was supposedly a classic, Love in the Time of Cholera. I don't remember if I wrote about it back then; I was so enraged with it. The premise revolved around the protagonist's so-called unwavering love for his childhood sweetheart and how he persisted through the years until they eventually got together decades later. It was probably the earliest literature to depict how we so often mask our obstinacy as affection and how pathetic we are at letting go.


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There was a time when I conflated love with simplicity.

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A broken heart is the most underrated event in a person's tryst with love. I finally know how I want to be loved, and more importantly, how I don't.


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I'm coming off of shows likes Heeramandi: The Diamond Bazaar and Bombay Begums, so my frustrations with men are currently exacerbated. To be loved, not lusted after; to be desired for intellect, not pulchritude. A new litmus test for proclamations of love involves noting the compliments that a suitor directs toward their muse. I wish I could say I was surprised at how many failed, but even my staggeringly low expectations were not met.

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