The Hypocritic Hue

By Khushi Roy

Everything is fair in love and war, in passion and aggression. Because every lover is a warrior and every warrior a lover. Let it be, the vulnerability of a warrior or the violence of a lover, to protect what must be protected. But when a lover wages war and a warrior falls in love, named it is, as a “Beautiful Disaster.” However, a stab in the back or a stab in the front, and Julius Ceaser falls yet again. Without love there is no war so without war there is no love, as neither Bajirao nor Akbar would be drenched in love, if they were not first drenched in blood. The bloodiest battle of Kalinga was required to awaken the dormant love of peace in even the Great Ashoka. If not poison or by sheath did Romeo and Juliet die, if not separation or by madness did Laila and Majnu lose their mind, would eternal their love had become, if not the world had gone at war with them. 

                                  A rose of love or a poppy of lament, both daintily blossom upon the same earth under the same sky. But there is no rose without thorns and no poppy without opium, proving thus true the words of Helen Keller, “Nature hides treacherous claws under the softest touch.”  Maybe thus, people see red with the running time even when every town is painted red at every sunrise and every sunset. The poisonous red apple of snow white led to the red kiss of revival. While the bold red wine tastes as an arsenic in disguise of a biblical blessing. 

                                 Whether it is the auspicious sindoor at the mandap, or the apocalyptic bloodshed at the battlefield, smeared with red, are both the beginning and the end. From the red coloured Shino shrine gateways to the Hindu ritual of Grihapravesh, purity of the colour gets authenticated. But isn’t this the very crimson hue that names the streets of every Brothel. Be it the traditional red dupatta, a parting gift, overflowing with affection as well as adoration, from a father to his daughter or the inescapable cursed web glowing under the red lights, where thousands of wars are fought every day, won are none. The dynamic nature of love engraves fatal wounds upon the soul while war delicately weaves feeble worries in the mind.  

                                Both the cupid and the devil, reside, dressed up in red garments, so whether you are in love or are in hell, only time will tell. Love and war seem to be entwined with the red string of fate, or as those two strangers who stumble upon each other inside the invisible fated red circle of Buddhism. So maybe, love and war are the opposite sides of the same coin, dipped in the colour red from both ends.                

By Khushi Roy