What is love, really?
Let me tell you something about love. It is madness, pure madness. If anyone had told me that falling in love with her would turn me into some sort of a poetic, emotionally unhinged fool, I would have laughed. But here I am, standing in the rain, coat soaked, thinking about her for the 746th time today. I’ve counted, obviously.
I know what you are thinking: "Get a grip, mate." But it's not that simple. Actually, there is a word for what I feel. It's love. I know it because I feel it every time I see her, every time she brushes her hair behind her ear, smiles that smile that’s half-resigned to the chaos around her. And when you feel this way about someone, nothing else makes sense. I could try moving on, but honestly, what is the point of moving on when I am still standing right here in the middle of loving her?
Who is she and why can’t I let Go?
Her name is Hastini, and yes, it means 'one who rides elephants.' But in my world, she doesn't just ride them—she commands them. Picture this: Hastini stands tall at 5’8”, with rich chestnut brown hair that falls just below her shoulders, cascading in waves that somehow defy gravity. Her almond-shaped eyes are the colour of strong coffee, a blend of warmth and mystery. Her skin? Smooth as velvet and kissed by the sun, with a caramel glow that puts summer to shame. She is, in every conceivable way, perfect. At least, perfect to me.
I met her six months ago, in what could have been the most embarrassing moment of my life. Picture me tripping over a stray yoga mat (why are they always in random places?) and landing face-first in front of her. She could have laughed. Hell, she should have laughed. But instead, she extended her hand and said, “Not the best first impression, but Iwill take it.” I fell in love then and there.
It wasn’t long before I realized something odd: this woman had a gravitational pull stronger than the Earth itself. I became that guy—the one who shows up where she’s likely to be, pretending to run into her by ‘chance,’ even though I had been mapping her routine like a detective tracking a suspect.
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Why can’t I just let go?
Oh, I’ve tried. Trust me, I’ve tried. My mates have told me to move on, get a grip, date someone else, anyone else. Even my therapist suggested that my obsession with Hastini might be bordering on unhealthy. I remember sitting in his office, throwing my hands up, "If I could just give up, I would. But if I could, would it even be love?"
He blinked at me, then muttered something about "delusions of grandeur." Typical.
But I’m not delusional. I am just... committed. Because if love isn’t about sticking around even when things seem impossible, what is it, then? When you care about someone beyond all rationality and want them to have everything they want, no matter how much it destroys you—that’s love. I don't just want to be in her life. I want to help her with everything, even the little things. The day she told me about her dream of opening her own café, I had an entire business plan written up for her by the next morning. Not that she asked for it.
Did she laugh at my 42-page PowerPoint presentation? Yes. Did I want to curl up and die inside? Also, yes. But she didn't roll her eyes or call me crazy. She just said, "You are something else, aren’t you?" in that way she does, with that half-smile that melts me. That was enough to keep me going for another week.
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How do you know it is love, not obsession?
Let us clear this up. It is love. Not obsession, not a phase, not some unrequited crush I’ll grow out of. It is real. And I know it’s real because if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t still be standing in the rain. I wouldn’t still get up every day thinking about her, hoping I’ll see her even for just a second.
Take last Thursday, for example. She had a date. It wasn’t with me, obviously. It was with some bloke named Bhadra, who, by all accounts, is a perfectly reasonable human being. He's tall, with broad shoulders, and an annoyingly symmetrical face that suggests his ancestors won every single genetic lottery. You know the type—charming in that effortless way that makes you want to punch them in their perfect jaw. But I didn’t punch him. I sat in the café, sipping a lukewarm latte, pretending to read a book, while stealing glances at them. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. Stalker much?
But it wasn’t like that, I promise. I just... needed to see her. She looked happy. I mean, how could she not? Bhadra looked like he belonged on a poster for some health and wellness retreat in Bali. But as I watched her, something strange happened. I didn’t feel that deep pang of jealousy I expected. I just wanted her to be happy. That’s when I knew it was love. When you want them to be happy, even if it means someone else gets to be the one making them happy—that is real.
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So, why don’t you move on?
Everyone loves to tell you to ‘move on.’ Like it’s a switch you can just flip. Move on to what, though? Someone else who won’t make me feel this way? Someone who doesn’t light up the room just by walking in? That’s not moving on; that is settling. And I refuse to settle for some disposable thing that isn’t worth fighting for.
I remember asking my friend Jake if he thought I was crazy. He looked at me, half-smiling, and said, “Mate, you’re the poster child for ‘crazy in love.’ But hey, that’s the kind of love that changes things, right?” Maybe he’s right. Maybe the kind of love that people call crazy is the only kind that really matters.
It is not that I haven’t tried to meet other people. I have gone on dates—terrible ones, mostly, where the conversation feels like a scripted audition and you’re just trying to get through it without running to the nearest exit. Nothing feels right, though, because no one is Hastini. And that is the problem. Once you have met someone who makes you feel the way she does, everyone else feels like a cheap knock-off version of something priceless.
Do you ever think it’ll happen?
Do I think Hastini will ever love me back? Ah, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Some days, I think maybe—just maybe—there is a sliver of hope. Like when she laughs at my terrible jokes or when she gives me that long look before saying goodbye. But most days, I’m not deluded enough to think this will end in anything but heartbreak. And yet, I can’t walk away. If I walked away now, I’d always wonder what might have been.
So, I stay. I show up, and I hope. And maybe one day, when the stars align, she will see me the way I see her. Maybe she’ll understand that all I want is for her to be happy—even if I’m not the one standing by her side. Maybe she’ll realize that no one will ever love her the way I do.
Or maybe she won’t. Maybe she’ll marry someone like Bhadra, with his perfect cheekbones and his annoyingly symmetrical everything. Maybe I’ll be the guy sitting at the back of the wedding, drinking too much champagne, thinking, “Well, at least I loved her properly.”
What would you do if you could give up?
You know, if I could give up—if I could take the world's advice, delete her number, unfollow her on Instagram, and start dating someone new—that wouldn’t be love. That would be some other disposable thing. And love, real love, isn’t disposable. It’s worth fighting for. It’s worth looking like a fool for. It’s worth waiting in the rain for.
If I could walk away, I’d know it was never real to begin with. And I can’t do that, because it is real. As real as the sun in the sky or the rain that’s currently soaking through my shoes. If love were easy, it wouldn’t be love. It’d be some watered-down version of it. I am not in this for a watered-down version. I am in this for the real thing. The kind that makes you stay, even when people roll their eyes and call you crazy.
So, I stand here, waiting. Because if there’s one thing I have learned, it’s this: when you love someone, you just don’t stop. Not ever.
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Tushar Mangl is Author of The Avenging Act. He writes about Vastu, mental health, soul food, leisure activities, and a greener, better society. Speaker, author of Hey Honey Bunch, Ardika and I Will Do It.
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