Without an iota of doubt, I bought into the soulmate saga dished out by countless movies - both Bollywood and Hollywood- in the 90's. This was the era of pure romance, tinged with dollops of drama and saccharine sweet toppings encrusted with dishy, melting flavours.
Years later, and after several attempts at romance which failed on a sweet and grand level, I finally found a kindred spirit, one whose soul was so intertwined with mine that it was difficult to look away. The colour of that soul was red, blood red, rose red, carnation red, and heartfelt red. Imagine a person whose eyes light up when he writes about you, whose dimples make you smile longer and wider, and whose perfection is embedded in the sort of genuine vibes which can send the heart racing faster than the Race sequels make your patience race. A perfect person, one who seems too good to be true, but is actually an embodiment of how we should all be, but fail at, because hey! perfection ain't that easy.
Writing about him is like writing about how the earth smells after a heavy bout of showers, about how ice-cream tastes in the first month of summer, and about how it feels to swim in the sea with your best friend. It feels like dreamy midsummer nights which can send Shakespeare reeling after a bout of panic attacks. It feels better than being soaked up in melodious jazz, in the dog-eared pages of your favourite book, in the first taste of cold coffee and after hugging the sweetest bunny. It feels like perfection was invented for his smile, for his eyes, and for his soul - all wrapped in this multi-hued splendour- all splashed with colours of rainbow joy, and all felt with candid hues of watertight salvation.
A being whose magic was in being inhumanly human, one whose was silly and deep and wonderful and adorable and talented and fluffy, one whose eyes were coated in dreamy vibrations which made the heart and soul melt.
Romance wasn't dead, and his chivalry was radiantly flamboyant, crisply evident, and daintily spread all over his friends and people who loved him with every ounce of their hearts and souls. Yes, he was popular without being smooth, genuine without being showy, and intellectual without being pretentious. A dream presented as such, but that was because he had overcome all his weaknesses and was down to earth to a fault.
He was not put on a pedestal, he was sweet as honey dipped in wine, and he was mine. Well, almost.