Letters of “Love” from “Love”: “God, Blade Aur Love Story”
“Mumma, neend nahi aa rahi hai… koi achhi story sunao na?”
“Theek hai,” Mumma smiled. “Saalo pehle ek rajya mein ek raja tha aur uska ek nanha sa pyara beta tha…”
“Mummaaa!” the kid groaned. “Kitni baar wahi boring story sunao gi? Ek new story sunao na! Achha batao, aap aur papa kaise mile? Aur shaadi kaise hui?”
Letter of Love from “Love”
Because Sometimes Destiny Needs a Little Defiance
Hemanth: Hi Ishan,
How’re you doing? When’s the interview?
Ishan: Honestly, I don’t know, Hemanth. My horoscope looks terrible this week. And my interview — my dream interview — is tomorrow. The predictions say I shouldn’t attempt anything important now or it’ll fail. And you know what? My horoscope has never been wrong. Out of all the weeks in my life, it had to be this one.
Hemanth: (laughs uncontrollably) Hahahahahahaha! Oh man, hahahahaha!
Ishan: Yeah, yeah. Go on, laugh. Make fun of me and my beliefs. You’ll stop laughing when something like this comes true in your own life. People like you call this superstition. But you’ll believe in Superman, Iron Man, or even time travel — and yet dismiss horoscopes because they’re “Indian” and not “science.”
Hemanth: I’m not mocking you, Ishan. I laughed because you’re letting your horoscope control your life instead of guiding it. I don’t deny predictions. But they’re not meant to imprison you in fear. Think of them like a roadmap — they’re guidance, not shackles.
Ishan: Easy for you to say. You don’t believe in them. You’ve got nothing to lose. I’ve got everything to lose.
Hemanth: That’s where you’re wrong. I do believe in them — and I’ve lived through what you’re feeling.
Ishan: What do you mean?
Hemanth: Rani.
Ishan: (teasing) Your wife Rani? That amazing woman? I still wonder what she saw in you. She deserves way better.
Hemanth: (smirks) You’ll never change. Anyway, listen. When Rani and I wanted to marry, we had everything against us. Our parents, our families, and yes — even the stars.
We’d been friends and colleagues. Outsiders in a new city, we bonded fast. We explored, laughed, and slowly, friendship grew into something deeper. But confessing wasn’t easy.
One day, at our favorite café, out of nowhere, Rani asked me: “Do you love me?”
I nearly choked on my coffee. In a panic, I denied it. “No, of course not. We’re just friends!”
She raised her eyebrows, smirked, and teased me: “What’s wrong with you? Can a girl never be friends with a guy? Or is every friendship supposed to turn into love?”
I laughed nervously, but inside I was sinking. A few days later, I broke. I confessed everything — that I loved her.
She stared at me for a moment, then burst into laughter. “Finally! I thought you’d never admit it, duffer.”
That was us. Full of laughter, drama, and heart.
Two years later, we decided to marry. And then the storm began. Parents on both sides disagreed. Convincing them was like living in Game of Thrones, Hunger Games, and Bigg Boss — all rolled into one. After months of fighting, both families reluctantly agreed. And then came the final test: horoscopes.
We went to the family priest. He looked at our charts and said, coldly:
“Anyone but her. If they marry, they won’t be happy. The marriage will not last. Within two years, they will separate.”
That one sentence destroyed everything. For once, both families agreed: no marriage. And just like that, Rani and I were torn apart.
I drowned in alcohol. My only friend was Old Monk. For two years, I lived like a ghost. My parents kept bringing proposals. I’d sit silently and say, “If you like her, I’ll marry.” Because for me, life had ended when I lost Rani.
Then, out of nowhere, my parents relented. They said, “Fine, go marry Rani.” But by then, anger consumed me. “Why now? After ruining two years of my life? She’s probably married and happy. I won’t ruin her life again.”
I stormed out.
Weeks later, there was a loud knock at my door. Hungover, furious, I opened it — and there she was. Rani. Crying. Fuming. Before I could speak, slap! And then another.
“You idiot! You broke up with me because of a horoscope? Without even asking what I wanted? Do you even know how I lived without you?”
I mumbled excuses, saying I didn’t want to hurt her, that both our parents had decided. She slapped me again. “You fool. I wanted you to fight for me. To choose me. Instead, you let me go.”
And then, between anger and tears, she asked, “Do you love me?”
This time, there was no hesitation. “Yes. And I’ll never let go again.”
We married soon after. It’s been ten years now. We’ve had fights, struggles, challenges — but we’re still here. Strong. Happy. Together.
So Ishan, here’s the point: The pandit wasn’t wrong when he said we’d face trouble. We are opposites. We do clash. But instead of letting that prediction destroy us, we chose to use it as a warning — and worked on those differences. That’s why we survived. That’s why we’re thriving.
Horoscopes are not prisons. They’re lessons. They’re not meant to stop you from living — they’re meant to teach you how to live better.
So go to your interview. Stop fearing your stars. Remember: if I could marry the girl I was “never supposed to,” then you can absolutely land the job you’re “not supposed to.”
Stop letting the horoscope scare you. Prepare, go in with confidence, and treat any bad forecast as a prompt to be extra careful, not to give up. If I could marry the girl everyone told me I shouldn’t, you can absolutely win this interview despite what your stars say.
That, Ishan, is the truth about love. Horoscopes, predictions, doubts — they can warn you, but they cannot define you. Love isn’t about avoiding storms. It’s about choosing each other again and again when storms come. When you become the kind of person who chooses the relationship even when it’s hard — and then find someone who does the same — you’ve found the best kind of love. You’ll fight, you’ll cry, you’ll argue, and even when you feel like leaving, you’ll stay — because you chose to stay. That is your best love. And you will defy the destiny itself.
“Letter: Forever yours”
Son,
Your mom was the love of my life. I wish she were here today to hold your hand through your heartbreak. I’m not saying your pain isn’t real — heartbreak always is. But to me, other than you, this letter is the most cherished gift she ever gave me. I hope reading this gives you some solace.
Hi Tanay,
How are you? It’s been so long since we last exchanged letters. I miss those days we ran out of letters to talk about what was going on with us.
Just today, a family came to our house to see me for an alliance. The boy was handsome, but he barely spoke. Honestly, I was irritated. I didn’t even want to meet him. But what else could I do? I’m not yet ready to tell my parents about you — that I love you — nor are they ready to believe that a love marriage can be as strong as an arranged one.
They’ve spent their lives doing what they thought was best for me. And I owe them everything. In fact, isn’t it because of them that we met at all? They decided on my college, believing it would be best for their daughter — and there you were. But now, trying to convince them that love can be chosen, that it can be just as sacred as what they want for me, is becoming harder every day.
I think the real reason parents hesitate about love marriages is this: you take away their chance to pick “their” version of the perfect partner for their child. All our lives, they’ve been making decisions for us, and then one day, we say we’ll make our own — the biggest one yet. I don’t even fault them for it. They’ve seen the world before us. They only want to protect us.
I’m sorry for the way we parted last time. I’m sorry for not telling you about the proposals. It wasn’t to hurt you; I just wasn’t ready for that discussion. You would’ve asked, “So, are you having second thoughts about marrying me?” And I would’ve wanted to scream, “No! I’m not!”
Tanay, I love you. But I also respect my parents deeply. They are my world. But just because I want a future with you, I can’t abandon my past or my family. I want you and them, both. I’m trying to hold the best of both worlds together.
I don’t know how I’ll do it. But I do know this: if marriage is written for me, the only person I will marry is you. I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose my parents. I dream of a life where you and I are together, and our families are happy with us.
All through our relationship, you’ve been my rock. And I know it’s unfair, but I need you to be my rock again now. Please stand by me. Write back soon. I can’t wait for the day we’re married and building our own big, happy family.
Yours only,
Anaya
This was the letter your mom wrote to me when we’d just finished college. We were unemployed and uncertain, and I didn’t dare ask her parents for her hand. She was far out of my league — the daughter of a wealthy, respected family — while I was just a middle-class boy with nothing but dreams. She had every reason to leave me for someone else.
Instead, she promised me that if she were ever to marry, it would be me. And she kept that promise. She became my life’s greatest blessing.
I don’t know the reason for your breakup. But let me tell you this: the most difficult decision to stick by is a marriage or a relationship. And throughout your life, holding on to that decision is never easy. Sometimes you’ll be at fault. Sometimes your partner will be. But it’s not about pointing fingers or finding faults. It’s about choosing the relationship every single time, especially when it feels hardest to do so.
When you become that person — and when you find that person who will do the same — you’ll fight, argue, cry, even feel like leaving. And yet, you won’t. Because you both chose this marriage, this relationship, and you’ll keep choosing it again and again.
When that happens, son, that is your best love. That is your best love……….
We fold our hands and bow before Goddess Durga, asking her to bless us. Yet, when the same goddess walks beside us in the form of a woman, what do we do?
We mock her.
We humiliate her.
We use her, abuse her, pass her over, ogle at her, disregard her, and disrespect her.
We call India a land of rich culture, traditions, and values. We proudly celebrate our festivals — Navratri, Dussehra, Durga Puja — and remind ourselves of how good always triumphs over evil. Yet, when I look through the “lens of a woman,” this celebration often feels hollow.
For nine nights, we worship the Goddess:
We narrate the story of Durga defeating Mahishasura.
We remember Lord Rama’s victory and his return with Sita.
We perform Ayudha Puja and bow to the tools that sustain us.
But do we bow to the women who sustain us?
Growing up, I saw how different boys and girls were treated. When a boy made a mistake, he was scolded. When a girl made a mistake, she was reminded: “Ladki ho tum. Behave properly.”
Why? At the end of the day, aren’t both children?
Even today, the birth of a girl in many families is looked down upon. A girl is still seen as a “liability.” Why? Because society demands more protection, more restrictions, more compromises for her. Because, one day, she will “leave” her parents’ home and enter her husband’s house. And so, her education becomes an “expense,” her dreams an afterthought. Ironically, the same people who reject the birth of a girl desperately want one as a bride for their sons.
Our customs reinforce this divide. Sons are considered heirs to the family. Daughters are not — because they “take another man’s name.” Children of sons are celebrated as “our children.” Children of daughters somehow “belong to another family.” When a child succeeds, it’s his father’s pride. When a child errs, it’s his mother’s failure.
And when it comes to behavior, the scale tilts again.
If a girl listens to everything she is told, she becomes the “obedient daughter” who has upheld the dignity of the house.
But if she dares to refuse, to question, or to choose her own path, the verdict is quick: “Naak katwa diya tumne. My prestige and name has been ruined.”
And what is expected of women? To run homes flawlessly, to compromise endlessly, to adjust without protest. To work in offices with peak performance, then return home to cook, clean, and care. She must understand everyone. But who truly understands her? Often, not even other women — who, shaped by generations of silence, say: “Yeh sab adjust karna padta hai. Isi tarah chalta hai.”
And yet, during these nine days, the same woman — ignored, burdened, disrespected all year round — is suddenly worshipped as a goddess. Is this devotion, or hypocrisy?
We forget that when everything fails, when every man falters, it is the woman he turns to for strength, comfort, and refuge. Durga herself reminds us — when loved, respected, and honored, she is Shakti, the life force. But when insulted, abused, and wronged, she is Kali — fierce, unstoppable, and terrifying.
As I end this reflection, I bow my head to all the Durgas and Kalis around us and also to my mother and sisters, who have been “My” “shakti“. Thank you for carrying the weight of this world on your shoulders, even when it goes unseen. Without you, there is no life.
May the day come when women are not just worshipped for nine nights, but respected for all their days. Because women are not “equal” to men — they are far more than men can ever be.
There was a gurukulam with a few disciples in the southern parts of India. One day, a disciple approached his Guruji and asked:
Disciple: “Guruji, you teach us many things. But two of your teachings intrigue and confuse me. You ask us to be the strongest people we can be, and yet, you also ask us to follow non-violence. If I cannot use my strength, then why did you make us strong in the first place, only to tell us not to use it?”
Guruji: “Do you see the great mountain behind our gurukulam?”
Disciple: “Yes, Guruji, I do.”
Guruji: “Do you think I could climb to its peak in half a day?”
Disciple: “You are strong, Guruji, but I think it is impossible even for you. Even I, in my prime, would take more than half a day to climb it.”
Guruji: “Good. Now, what if I asked you to climb it in half a day or less? What would you say?”
Disciple: “I would tell you, Guruji, that it is not possible for me.”
Guruji: “And if I forced or pressured you to do it?”
Disciple: “Then I would ask—were you able to do it when you were my age? Or I would say, Guruji, please show me how to do it first. If you can, then I will try.”
Guruji smiled.
Guruji: “Exactly. That is why I trained you in warfare. Not because you must always use it, but so that you and others understand that violence is not the solution to all problems. When a weak man preaches non-violence, people dismiss it, saying he speaks so only because he cannot fight. But when a strong man, fully capable of fighting, chooses non-violence—people listen. They know it comes from wisdom, not weakness. Remember this: it is always better to be a warrior in a garden than a gardener in a battlefield. When you have strength yet choose peace, people will respect you, because you are showing them a higher path—that strength must be used only when necessary.”
The disciple bowed.
Disciple: “Thank you, Guruji, for enlightening me. But just as we disciples listened to you and became who we are today, won’t others also do the same?”
Guruji: “Let me tell you the story of Raja Hemanand Pratap Varma…”
The Tale of Raja Hemanand Pratap Varma
Raja Hemanand Pratap Varma was a just and kind king. His people loved him deeply, for he was wise and compassionate. Under his rule, there was peace and prosperity—no crimes, no wars, only flourishing trade and happiness.
Whenever rival kings threatened war, Hemanand would ask them: “What is it that you truly need? Why waste lives and resources? Let us resolve this peacefully.” He always extended the olive branch, providing what they sought to avoid bloodshed.
This attitude stemmed from his past. As a child, Hemanand was weak and often bullied. His father, a warrior king, had died in battle. From that time, Hemanand vowed never to follow the path of violence. He shunned warfare and physical training, choosing instead to rule through peace.
His ideals made his kingdom prosper. Neighboring kings saw him as harmless, and merchants from far and wide flocked to his peaceful, wealthy land. But this very prosperity attracted the attention of Virata Samrat, a cruel and greedy ruler.
Virata challenged Hemanand: “Let us wage war. The victor shall rule both kingdoms.”
But Hemanand stayed true to his ideals. He refused bloodshed and instead sent 1,000 carts of gold, saying: “Let us avoid war, for it will only destroy our people. Accept this token, and let us live as friends.”
Virata was astonished—yet insulted. He thought: “If Hemanand can spare 1,000 carts of gold for peace, how much more treasure must he hold? And how dare he imply that I can be bought?”
His pride wounded, Virata decided to exploit Hemanand’s weakness—his kindness. He accepted the offer, pretended friendship, and slowly gained Hemanand’s trust. Soon, he sat in the king’s court, influencing matters of state.
Once he had learned enough, Virata struck. He betrayed Hemanand, killed him, and exiled his wife and son. Virata seized the throne and ruled the once-prosperous kingdom with cruelty.
Guruji’s voice grew solemn.
Guruji: “Do you see, my child? Raja Hemanand had peace in his heart, but no strength to protect it. Peace without strength is fragile, like a lamp in the wind. Strength without peace is destructive, like fire in the forest. True wisdom is in having both—strength to defend, and the will to choose peace.”
The disciple bowed deeply, his doubts dissolved.
Disciple: “Now I understand, Guruji. Peace is indeed the greatest weapon—but only when it is guarded by strength.”
Edit courtesy: ChatGpt
My Journey 