Randomness of Melbourne in love

By Nandita Chakraborty

The one thing that ticks in all of us is not food, not shelter, not money, but love.

We defy nature against all odds to find love. But what is love?  Do we know it yet or do we all hang somewhere between the dictionary meaning of love and our feelings?

Love as we know it enlightens our mood, for rich or for poor, in health or sickness. It overlaps our entire quest for belonging. Sometimes, though, love becomes too much to handle and we separate ourselves from whatever we believe is love.

The sense of loss and our need to belong ebbs into the flow and the equation is nothing more than feeling …

Engulfed by fury at our loss, love leaves us with nothing but to succumb. As humans, we all fall too easily into that sweet, intoxicating illusion. Love is blind and like perfume, we smell but cannot see. Some see it in the eyes, or in the lips. For others, it’s some other reason and feelings.

Some months ago I was rushing for an appointment and running behind schedule. Knowing the traffic would be my worst enemy on a Friday and racing against time, I decided to hail a cab.

Jumping in to the first taxi in waiting, I began to relax when suddenly the conversation between the cabbie and I became more than a greeting and social chit chat. After we exchanged stories such as how he came to study in Melbourne and the cities we came from back in India, he began to talk of his overpowering love for the woman he had married a few months ago.

She was Australian and he was in total awe of how she took care of him with the brilliance of perfection.

She kept his house clean and would wait for him after late shifts to share meals with him. He then made comment that not even an Indian woman would have done that for him.  

I had to stop him there, not that he scratched my ego nor did I have much pride in defending Indian women. This was not political agenda. I told him that it had nothing to do with nationality; it had everything to do with love. “Mate you have found the right woman and you are in love.”

He looked at me from the rear view mirror and I looked at him with conviction.  He seemed powerless and nodded with approval. “You are right! But what is love?”  I looked away.

I had been asked this question many times but this time a total stranger had asked and perhaps seen me more clearly than I had seen myself. Had I been summoned to ponder my own feelings? Was I asking the same question myself?

I reached my destination and wished him good luck and didn’t even check the dashboard for his name.

I’ll never forget that cab driver. I don’t remember his face but that’s not important. What is important is the intermittent connection that the universe sends us, a messenger, a teacher or a guide. For me it was the cab driver. That’s the way we are, love drives Melbourne and cab drivers and passengers.

Four weeks later, I am on a plane to India, who would guess, the passenger by my side is the taxi driver…  

This time I asked him a question ...“ What is your name?