by Krupa Ge
I cannot sleep well. I toss and turn and dream bad dreams. In one, Kama, the god of love, shoots an arrow of flowers buzzing with bees my way and I bleed to death instead of falling in love. In another, Aphrodite curses me: “You shall never know love!” I am falling. Falling deeper into a black hole and suddenly I am up.
I stumble down to the lobby café. I figure it will be a good way to meet some people. I know for a fact that Lovistan’s tourism skyrockets around this time of the year. It’s also the hippest place to be.
There is no one but the dessert chef at the café. Whistling. Happy. Kneading. Beating. Mixing. Baking. He is tall. Handsome. So naturally I pick the seat that’s across his counter. I walk to the part of the buffet that’s near him, grabbing this and that, waiting to see if he will make conversation.
He seems to not notice me at all. I am waiting to catch his eye. But the man is busy. I curse myself for laughing at my best friend when she asked me to read He’s Just Not That Into You.
Just then two men arrive.
“Hey,” one of them says to me. He’s wearing a pink pair of shorts and his legs are so cleanly waxed that I am regretting my choice of shortish skirt. I hadn’t had the time to go to a salon and wax in ages. I’d just shaved and rather grotesquely left behind chunks of hair at spots I couldn’t reach.
I scramble to cover those spots by dropping a shawl over my legs. “Hi, where are you guys from?” I ask and add, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
He says, “Ayodhya. Happy Valentine’s Day to you.”
He sits across my table and takes his partner’s hand in his. They look in to each other’s eyes, and say, “I love you,” at the exact same time.
On any other day, at any other place I would have rolled my eyes at all the mush. Instead, I finish my croissants smiling and just as I am about to leave, the chef comes over to my table and places a piece of cupcake.
“On the house,” he says.
The cupcake says Happy Valentine’s Day.
“Thank you,” I say to him and he just nods.
I have a long bath and head out with my camera. You see I am in the Far Away Land of Lovistan on a brief tourist visa and intend to write about the country’s most famous army men and women. Love Jihadis.
How about we get into some history here? Lovistan, through centuries of its existence, has stood firmly for Love – sticking always to the belief that in the end all that matters is love. Love, they hold, is ultimate happiness. Caste, race, sexual orientation and creed didn’t matter. In any way. However, may I add, that the concept of Love Jihadis is a fairly recent development. Perhaps a few decades old. It all happened when one of their men fell in love with a woman from outside Lovistan. The dream affair did not culminate in wedded bliss and the woman’s countrymen branded the young man from Lovistan a Love Jihadi. What they didn’t know was that this was the spark needed for an entire movement to spring to life. A movement that believed in falling in love, truly and intensely, and show the world that love is something that couldn’t, and shouldn’t, be denied. And the Love Jihadis epitomise what Lovistan stands for, as members of the ‘army’ that is always ready to fight for love.
I want to take in as much of this Valentine’s Day as possible. When I left for FALL I was told this was going to be like Holi, Christmas, Diwali, Eid, Republic Day in Delhi all rolled into one.
I am headed to the Pink Fort in the heart of the old capital city, Heartli. The manager at the Resort La Lovistan hands me a complimentary press pass to witness the biggest spectacle of the year at the Fort. At the venue, officials and dignitaries of all cadres are seated on giant red coloured chairs that look like funky, resin thrones, with metallic ornamentation.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” says the host, an actor from Lovlywood (Lovistan’s answer to Hollywood) who earns more per movie than the GDP of several small and medium sized nations (including Lovistan). “Are you ready to witness the greatest spectacle of the year?”
“Yes!” the crowd says in absolute union.
“Sit back and enjoy this majestic show. Of pomp and testosterone and might. Of Lovistan’s incredibly savvy and technologically advanced army…” Rahul, the mononymous actor says.
The crowd is now alive and the air all frenzied…
“Despite the biting February cold, we know, that you, our audience has been waiting for this spectacle from early this morning…” the announcer says and the audience rises to cheer itself.
Before the event starts, a motorcade full of Love Jihadis arrive at the Eternal Fire, a small compound with a lit fire signifying the life force within each of us. They pay homage to the fire, standing around it. It feels like an ancient pagan ritual. The men stoic. Tall. There is absolute silence from the audience. All we hear is the howl of the cold wind as it lashes against that all-consuming fire; that crackle echoing through the grounds. This is perhaps what eternity sounds like.
At the end of the two-minute silence, with trumpets for company, the men perform the 21 rose salute. By throwing in 21 roses, signifying the beauty and the hardship of their own lives, into the fire. The bands play tunes that have come to be associated with this very parade inextricably over decades. String quartets, harps, flutes and pipes all playing in perfect unison. Finally, the announcer says, “Here they are ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. The Love Jihadis!”
The noise that ensues is akin to an ancient war cry. And that of a thousand elephants calling for their mates while in the mood for some love.
“Love Jihad has been the guiding principle of Lovistan’s army. We annexe not with weapons, hate or suicide bombers. We annexe with the only weapon the lord, god has given us. Love…” Rahul.
The Love Jihadis start arriving, the men first. They are hot. Bare-chested. Wearing garlands of flowers with a bow in one hand and a flowery arrow on the other. They are the cupids of this nation. Except they are not chubby babies in diapers. They are Greek God lookalikes alright.
“Our brave Jihadis they stand for the very tenets that Lovistan is built upon – only love, no war; we strive to show the world that everyone deserves to love the way they desire and whom they desire and love is the only way to global peace and harmony,” Rahul says as the Love Jihadis march, wearing a heart-shaped badge on their waistcloth.
Next comes the women’s regiment. Their hair long and loose. The air filled with fragrance. As if they’ve bathed in scented water. The women Love Jihadis wear beautiful floral crowns. They are dressed in white and black gowns and they all look like models. Models of various shapes, sizes and sexual orientation. Lovistan’s flag, in red with a pink heart symbol, an arrow running through it in the middle, surrounded by ornate flowers, is then hoisted by the Love Jihadi Chief.
“We will now see a display of the weapons of choice of our great nation’s warriors!” Rahul says. First comes a tableaux bearing a large notebook with an even larger vintage ink pen. Every Love Jihadi marching with the tableaux has a pen in his hand and a beautiful Moleskine book. And together, they recite a love poem by Jigar Moradabadi:
Ye ishq nahin aasan bas itna samajh lijiye (This love is not easy just understand this)
Ik aag ka dariya hai aur doob ke jaana hai (A river of fire it is, and we have to sink in it to go through)
Next comes a giant supersized smartphone with a Facebook app open on it. Every Love Jihadi from this regiment carries a smart phone and demonstrates how he effectively uses the Stickers option in Facebook to capture the heart of his beloved.
“Our soldiers have been using technology to advance our great nation. In the heritage of MSN Messenger, Yahoo Messenger, Orkut and Gtalk, today, they use Facebook to find suitors, with whom they fall in love and then they work on converting their beloved into our nation’s citizens,” Rahul says as the audience turns teary-eyed.
“Next is a colourful tableaux with ice creams, chocolates, wine and flowers – roses, lilies, daisies and sunflowers. All of which our army men use in the line of duty…”
Food and drinks flow freely through the entire parade. The FALL feeds its people freely on this day without any demands. Oysters. Avocado shake with chocolate sprinklings. Melons. Pine nuts. Figs. Strawberries. Cherries and whipped cream. Every aphrodisiac worth its name is up for grabs.
After the meal, I slip out of the venue, quiet and contemplative, thinking about my own love life, I mean the lack of it, and see huge queues outside all the free condom vending machines on the street. That’s right. Free condoms.
“Why aren’t more people moving to this country?” I wonder, just as I walk into the resort and find the hot dessert chef coming up to me.
“Would you like to get a cup of hot chocolate with me?” he asks. He is wearing the same outfit the Love Jihadis wore at the V-Day parade.
“I would love to,” I say.
