Between covers, isn't that where love is supposed to lie? Shouldn't all love — or the making thereof — get your knickers in a twist? So why the fuss, the surprise, the tamasha and the brouhaha over forbidden love and those who forbid it? Love actually must be more chhupa chhupi than khullam khulla, and what's the fun of pyaar without the protest?
For decades, true love had to contend only with crass commerce every Valentine's Day. The makers of cards, candles and heart-shaped everything in yucky shades of pink. The sellers of wine and roses. The merchants of diamonds which were supposed to be forever but which strangely had to be supplemented every year, or oftener.
We had prided ourselves on being the originators of the book of love. Now we have to ask ourselves the question: What came first, the Kama Sutra or the VHP? Or the Shiv Sena, MNS, Ram Sene and every other self-appointed, self-righteous custodian of our morals, our culture, our entertainment and our wardrobes.
So forget the old adage about forbidden fruit tasting sweetest. You won't get much chance to find out. For, barely after you have savoured the first nibble, you might find yourself in the police station and/or the casualty ward. In fact, love has lost its premier position in the 'forbidden' league. It finds itself with all manner of bedfellows as our professional protestors keep extending their eclectic range of targets. The canoodler is now in the company of the filmmaker or the beer drinker. Anything is grist to the milling goons.
The point to be made is that when you let the hate brigade decide on matters of love, it doesn't stop at couples. It becomes open season on anything that 'offends' anyone. Everything is pushed into the 'forbidden' pit. Push is already becoming shove. The magic of the movies has turned into a witches' cauldron. Cuddling lovers have to be burnt at the stake. Gays are evil incarnate. Who knows, next they may even convert the missionary position into an act of the Devil.
And yet, here's the irony. 'Everything is forbidden' exists in an urban environment which also subscribes to the culture of 'anything goes'. 'Just do it' is as much a part of our social lexicon as 'Don't you dare'. Globalised India is cocooned in a surround-sound of liberalism. The Net, iPods, cellphones, hoardings, television, print, all media exhorts you to smile and bare it. It seductively persuades you to let go, come what may.
The young are experimenting like never before and at an age when even their older siblings were babes in the woods instead of being a tangle in the thickets. Family equations have changed with parents desperately wanting to be cool instead of getting hot under the collar over their children's hormonal adventurism. In this no-holds barred scenario, nothing is non-kosher. Fore-bidden has replaced forbidden. And it isn't happening only in some sliver-thin upper class pickled in Western decadence. Go to any public park. You won't have to look hard. It's so brazenly in-your- face that all but the unabashed voyeur would squirm.
However, events of the past few years have forced us to believe that it's not only Cupid who sharpens his arrows in preparation for February 14. He has serious competition from an entire army of smashers, bashers and other crashers of parties. So each year, after the lust and the bloodlust, when the hurly-burly's done, when the battle's fought and won, we are left wondering, 'Whose V-Day was it this time?' That of the lovers or that of those who hate love?
For decades, true love had to contend only with crass commerce every Valentine's Day. The makers of cards, candles and heart-shaped everything in yucky shades of pink. The sellers of wine and roses. The merchants of diamonds which were supposed to be forever but which strangely had to be supplemented every year, or oftener.
We had prided ourselves on being the originators of the book of love. Now we have to ask ourselves the question: What came first, the Kama Sutra or the VHP? Or the Shiv Sena, MNS, Ram Sene and every other self-appointed, self-righteous custodian of our morals, our culture, our entertainment and our wardrobes.
So forget the old adage about forbidden fruit tasting sweetest. You won't get much chance to find out. For, barely after you have savoured the first nibble, you might find yourself in the police station and/or the casualty ward. In fact, love has lost its premier position in the 'forbidden' league. It finds itself with all manner of bedfellows as our professional protestors keep extending their eclectic range of targets. The canoodler is now in the company of the filmmaker or the beer drinker. Anything is grist to the milling goons.
The point to be made is that when you let the hate brigade decide on matters of love, it doesn't stop at couples. It becomes open season on anything that 'offends' anyone. Everything is pushed into the 'forbidden' pit. Push is already becoming shove. The magic of the movies has turned into a witches' cauldron. Cuddling lovers have to be burnt at the stake. Gays are evil incarnate. Who knows, next they may even convert the missionary position into an act of the Devil.
And yet, here's the irony. 'Everything is forbidden' exists in an urban environment which also subscribes to the culture of 'anything goes'. 'Just do it' is as much a part of our social lexicon as 'Don't you dare'. Globalised India is cocooned in a surround-sound of liberalism. The Net, iPods, cellphones, hoardings, television, print, all media exhorts you to smile and bare it. It seductively persuades you to let go, come what may.
The young are experimenting like never before and at an age when even their older siblings were babes in the woods instead of being a tangle in the thickets. Family equations have changed with parents desperately wanting to be cool instead of getting hot under the collar over their children's hormonal adventurism. In this no-holds barred scenario, nothing is non-kosher. Fore-bidden has replaced forbidden. And it isn't happening only in some sliver-thin upper class pickled in Western decadence. Go to any public park. You won't have to look hard. It's so brazenly in-your- face that all but the unabashed voyeur would squirm.
However, events of the past few years have forced us to believe that it's not only Cupid who sharpens his arrows in preparation for February 14. He has serious competition from an entire army of smashers, bashers and other crashers of parties. So each year, after the lust and the bloodlust, when the hurly-burly's done, when the battle's fought and won, we are left wondering, 'Whose V-Day was it this time?' That of the lovers or that of those who hate love?
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