'Miracle'

A grihapravesha. A group of chattering aunties. It must have been one of their routine casual (read: politically incorrect, misogynistic, pretentiously caring / funny) conversations. An acquaintance repeatedly chanted the mantra: “Don’t rush… Marriages are made in heaven.” 

Of course they are - by diligently matching religion, class, caste, language... and more diligently mismatching levels of loves, thought-planes, commitment-phobias, political affiliations. 

Then, down here, the society cheers the matches that match, but rigorously takes to task the mismatches that mismatch. To the extent that it squeezes, hard, the love out of the lovers. Love’s voluptuous flow reduces to a stream, then to a trickle, then to a nerve-ending of a crevice in barren land. Then, they’ll force a flower to bloom there, with the nourishment of dead love… 

And ‘Miracle’, they’ll call it.