It’s not easy,
to love someone in India,
where love is whispered, never shouted,
hidden in the folds of ancient traditions,
between the lines of a thousand rules,
spoken of in hushed tones,
or drowned beneath the roar of familial voices.

It’s not easy,
to love someone in India,
where every glance feels like a crime,
every touch, a revolution.
Here, love hides in the folds of a sari,
in the pages of textbooks shared in silence,
in smiles exchanged but never lingered.

You can’t give her a flower
not because you don’t want to,
but because she has to explain it later.
"Who gave this to you?"
The question heavier than the bloom itself,
its petals curling under the weight of scrutiny.

A gift? Impossible.
What could you give her
that wouldn’t come wrapped in suspicion?
Even a note, folded neatly,
becomes evidence of rebellion.
She’d hide it, burn it,
carry its ashes in her heart.

And dates?
What are dates in a world where eyes follow you
from every corner of the street?
Love cannot grow in open spaces here;
it is a secret garden,
tended only in the dark,
where even the stars feel like spies.

We meet in stolen moments,
beneath dim streetlights,
on temple steps where no one looks twice.
Our conversations are whispers,
our laughter muffled,
as if the world might collapse
if it heard the truth of us.

It’s not easy,
to love someone in India,
where parents are the sun and the moon,
and every choice orbits them.
They will ask her,
"What is this distraction?
What is this foolishness?"
And she will stand there, silent,
her love for me
a fire she must smother to survive.

But even when it feels impossible,
I find myself trying.
Because love here is not easy,
but it is relentless,
and no wall, no rule, no watchful gaze
can dim the light she brings to my world.

I cannot give her flowers or gifts,
I cannot take her to the movies or the park,
but I can give her my heart,
even if it beats
in the silence of a world that doesn’t understand.

I loved her,
like the monsoon loves the parched earth
a love so sudden, so consuming,
yet dangerous in its excess.
Her laughter, a secret melody only I could hear,
her gaze, a rebellion against the unyielding sky.

But love here is not just love,
it’s a negotiation, a compromise,
a battle fought with caste, class,
religion, rituals,
the ever-watchful eyes of society,
peering through the cracks in the walls.

Her father’s words still burn in my chest:
"You have no right, no place.
You are not one of us."
My heart broke,
not just for myself,
but for her
a prisoner in a gilded cage of expectations.

We met in the shadows,
beneath the banyan tree at dusk,
sharing stolen moments
as the world tightened its grip.
Even the air around us felt heavy,
thick with the weight of a forbidden story.

It’s not easy,
to love someone in India,
where love is measured in dowries and surnames,
where it’s weighed down by the burdens of lineage.
But still, I loved her,
against the tide, against the storm,
against the centuries that told me I couldn’t.

She once asked,
"Will we ever be free?"
And I didn’t know how to answer,
because love here is a battlefield
with no victors, only survivors.

But even if love here is not easy,
it is worth it
worth every tear, every wound,
every shattered dream,
because the heart is stubborn,
and love, it seems,
is the one rebellion I cannot give up. 

.    .    .