“Love is the fire; desire is the spark. One sustains, the other ignites.”
Adolescence swept in with hormones, heightened emotions, and a head full of dreams. My ideas of love–moonlit strolls, candlelit dinners, grand declarations, and dashing heroes–were stitched together from novels and films. Every crush felt monumental; every skipped heartbeat seemed like destiny. I mistook infatuation for love, attraction for depth.
The first time my heart broke, it felt like the world had ended. He moved on, and I was left with wilted dreams and wet pillows. But even heartbreak, I learned, was a rite of passage. “Love without desire is a garden without fire; desire without love is a flame without warmth.”
Then came he. Tall, dark, and handsome—just like the heroes from my stories. He had a quiet strength and calm that drew me in. Our courtship was subtle, unspoken, yet thrilling. I believed I had finally found the love I’d always imagined.
When we married, I expected roses and poetry. But reality was different. He wasn’t the kind to bring flowers or plan surprise getaways. There were no passionate love notes, no candlelit dinners. Life with him was steady and predictable, comforting but dull, like lentils without tempering. I longed for sparks, for cinematic romance. I resented the routine and mourned the missing magic.
But slowly, quietly, love revealed itself in unexpected ways.
He ensured I ate breakfast before work. He tended to my kitchen cuts without fuss. On the days I was too tired to cook, he stepped in, never expecting praise. He didn’t say “I love you,” but he showed it—in patience, in presence, in the little acts of care.
When our children came, he was hands-on and dependable. No matter how chaotic life got, he was a constant—never loud in his affection, but always there. His love wasn’t the firecracker kind; it was the slow, enduring flame.
And then came the moment that changed everything.
I fell seriously ill. Hospital corridors, concerned doctors, a frightening diagnosis—it all blurred together. Panic set in, but he remained calm. With no family around, he handled it all—donated blood, signed forms, arranged everything. Post-surgery, he became my full-time caregiver. If I winced, he adjusted my pillows. He monitored my meds, ensured I ate, kept our home running, and shielded me from stress. Nurses called him extraordinary. To me, he was just the man I had married—revealing his love in the most profound, wordless way.
“Desire makes the heart race; love makes it beat steady.”
In those long, quiet days of recovery, I saw love clearly. Not in red roses, but in refilled water bottles. Not in whispered nothings, but in sleepless nights spent by my side. Love, I realized, isn’t always a blaze. Sometimes, it’s the warmth that keeps you going when the world goes cold.
Looking back, the passionate highs of young love were not real—but fleeting. What lasts is something deeper. Not a grand gesture, but a gentle presence. Not sweet nothings or mush, but the loyalty of companionship.
My husband may not have been the poetic lover I’d once dreamed of, but he’s the Rock of Gibraltar I never knew I needed. He’s taught me that love isn’t always dramatic—it’s dependable. Not Maggi love—quick, fiery, and over in minutes—but slow-simmered, rich, and enduring.
“The sweetest love is the one that still burns even after the fire has settled.”
Dr Preeti Talwar
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