Why me, Mrs D’Sa?

Suppose you don't find your kind of mate, you settle for something next best or, God forbid, something goes wrong. Apart from this formida...

Suppose you don’t find your kind of mate, you settle for something next best or, God forbid, something goes wrong. Apart from this formidable trio of fate’s little games, the most gruesome condition by far, as victims have agreed down the ages, is unrequited love. Almost every susceptible heart has been round Ã²f40Ã³this block, be it a school crush, an illicit passion frowned upon by both the prayer book and the law, or (scream, die!) when someone else grabs the object of desire. There’s nothing a civilised unrequitee’ can do except gather the shreds of his or her dignity and glide out as gracefully as possible. And throw questions at the Universe, which do not, however, compel the Universe to answer or create in it a sense of obligation.

Well, remember Kamalahasan in the movie Ã²f40Ã³Sagar? Unlucky in love, he asks the kind neighbourhood aunty (Nadira), Ã²f40Ã³"Yeh mere saath kyon hota hai, Mrs D’Sa?" If I remember right, Aunty mumbles something about God, but her real answer is a hug, to mean, "So what, the world still cares for you." And remember Karishma in Ã²f40Ã³Dil To Pagal Hai, trying to rationalise why she should love Shah Rukh while he loves Madhuri? And Shah Rukh’s answer, blaming God?

It’s so horribly true, isn’t it? As the other great movie cliche goes,Ã²f40Ã³ "Pyar kiya nahi jaata, pyaar ho jaata hai". The sheer helplessness of this condition seems so unfair. You didn’t ask to feel this way — why must you then suffer so much? But the game’s not worth the candle if you lose’. In that case, you’re better off keeping up a brave front as society will pity you otherwise. Only, not being able to release that pain can turn you into a vengeful, bitter creature who grudges others their happiness.

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As Doktor Freud put it, in 1930, "Meanness is man’s revenge upon society for the restraints it imposes. This vengefulness animates the professional reformer and the busybody. The savage may chop your head, he may eat you, he may torture you, but he will spare you the continuous little pinpricks which make life in a civilised community at times almost intolerable … (such is) the conflict between our instincts and our culture."

One of pet theories is that Manu the lawgiver was deeply disappointed in love, otherwise he would never have devised such contemptuous and mean strictures about naari jaat’. And very possibly, his inamorata was not an upper caste lady, for he is equally spleenful in that quarter. If Manu had had the benefit of Mrs D’Sa’s advice, he might have turned round and sung "Don’t worry, be happy". And sublimated his spleen, as we still can, in enjoying everything else in our life wholeheartedly because, admit it, God’s world does tries to cheer us if only we’d bother to look.

For instance, someone writes a great book. Someone sings a lovely song. Someone’s planted a miraculous public garden. They may not know you personally, but they did it for you. Their effort is incomplete untilÃ²f40Ã³ you appreciate it. Or more directly, some interesting people ask you over for a meal. Your colleagues pamper you in their own kind ways. Since work is the best-known antidote to suffering, you immerse yourself in it and, what do you know, the world actually takes notice and sweet words of praise begin to come your way. Are these not very real and valid joys?

Beyond a little healthy prudence, it’s really more fun to trust life and keep doing your work. For, as Mark Twain told Rudyard Kipling when sought out in his hometown Elmira one golden morning in 1889, "When you come to think of it, neither religion, training, nor education avails anything against the force of circumstances — isn’t it what you call kismet?" It’s certainly less lonesome to think that each one of us, at the end of the day, is a member of the D’Sa Club, with a private question to the Universe.