First Love

He is my first love. My too young to know what love is, love. Maybe that’s been the problem all along. Mine is the kind of love people write songs about. All-consuming, can’t live without you, love. When it’s good – it’s great kind of love. When it’s bad, it’s the I wish I listened to everyone who told me this is the wrong kind of love, love.

I have loved him since I was 18 (I’m now in my 30s). My first boyfriend, first sweaty hand hold, first heart beating so loudly I swear he could hear it, feel it, love. My first kiss. The feelings I have for this man, my husband, run to the core of me. The love is deep-rooted. We haven’t been married long but the love spans over a decade now. He is my whole adult life. My entire experience of love. Everything I know about love, felt about love, comes from him.

See we have a lot of history – not all of it good, some of it as ugly as it gets, some of it so utterly beautiful. But we’re Indian, so we don’t talk about the ugly part, not ever. I guess that’s why I’m writing this blog.

Me 18, him 20.


I was a young 18, a baby, with what I thought was a tough exterior. A studious girl. Always worked hard. Simple, really. No real life-experiences. Unsure of myself – of life, quiet and reserved. Never smoked, never even tasted alcohol, no boyfriends – those were the 3 rules I lived life by as given to by my mum and dad. I had never been rebellious, loved my parents too much and the city we lived in was too small to even think about it. A good Indian girl, tall, long-haired and pretty, terribly skinny and awkward – that was me.


He was different from me. Completely. Wild and charming. Tall. Loud with those massive, big eyes of his, soft and welcoming. He exuded confidence, always has. Life of the party – that’s what everyone says. He had this way of making me feel completely at ease. Like he could feel my nerves, my awkwardness. I loved that. From the day that I met him I think he wanted me to feel safe but he was never really prepared to make that happen.


So I married my first love – the stuff fairytales are made of, right? Right?