Perhaps We Never Understood Love
Author's Perspective
Maybe love was never meant to be understood.
Maybe that's why humanity has spent centuries writing poems about it, building temples to it, singing about it, fighting for it, leaving for it, returning to it—and still asking the same question:
What exactly is love?
We often look at love as a feeling.
A beautiful beginning.
A hand to hold.
A person to come home to.
But when I look at the stories of those who loved beyond ordinary human limits, I wonder—
Was love really about having someone… or about what you were willing to become because of them?
Look at Parvati.
She didn't simply fall in love with Shiva and wait for destiny to do the rest.
She chose him.
She performed severe penance. She endured rejection. She remained steadfast even when the path toward him demanded extraordinary patience and determination.
But Parvati's story also carries a darker and more painful truth.
When her father, Daksha, insulted Shiva and refused to honor him, Parvati did not remain silent while the person she loved was humiliated. She left her body in anguish, unable to bear the insult directed at her husband.
It is a story often remembered as the ultimate proof of devotion.
But it also leaves us with an uncomfortable question:
When does love become sacrifice, and when does sacrifice become self-destruction?
Perhaps her story was never meant to teach us that we must destroy ourselves to prove our love.
Perhaps it asks us to understand the depth of her loyalty, while also reminding us that ancient stories often contain pain that should not be blindly repeated in our own lives.
And that makes me wonder—
Would we call someone's love stronger because they suffered more for it?
If someone has to destroy themselves to prove that they love us, is that still love?
Or have we misunderstood sacrifice itself?
Then there is Radha.
A love that has become almost impossible to explain in ordinary human language.
Radha and Krishna's story isn't remembered simply because they were together.
It is remembered because, in many traditions and retellings, their love survived separation.
Krishna left Vrindavan.
Life moved forward.
But Radha's love did not simply disappear because Krishna was no longer beside her.
And some devotional traditions tell stories of Radha accepting the consequences of a curse connected with Krishna, taking that burden upon herself rather than allowing it to fall upon him.
Whether one reads these stories devotionally, symbolically, or as sacred poetry, the question remains powerful:
How much can love endure when love doesn't give you the person you love?
Would we still call it love if there was no promise of reunion?
Would we still choose someone if choosing them meant learning to live without them?
And perhaps this is where modern love becomes complicated.
We say—
"I love you."
But sometimes what we really mean is—
"I love how you make me feel."
We say—
"I'll always be there."
But sometimes we mean—
"I'll be there as long as you behave the way I want."
Radha's story asks something much harder:
Can love exist without possession?
Then comes Rukmini.
She heard of Krishna.
She chose him.
And when her life was being directed toward a marriage she did not desire, she reached out to Krishna herself.
There was no passive waiting for someone else to decide her fate.
There was choice.
Courage.
Faith.
And the willingness to act.
But Rukmini's story carries another kind of truth.
She knew that Krishna's heart was connected to Radha.
She knew she might never become his first love, the love that lived in the earliest and most sacred part of his heart.
And still, she chose to love him.
Not because she was unaware of Radha.
Not because she believed love meant erasing the past.
But because she understood that love is not always about being someone's first.
Sometimes, it is about choosing to remain with them even when their heart carries a story that began before you.
Rukmini did not demand that Krishna forget Radha in order to prove his love for her.
She chose him with open eyes.
And perhaps that is one of the most difficult forms of love—
to love someone while knowing you may never be the first person they loved, yet still believing your place in their life can be real.
So perhaps love isn't always sitting quietly and waiting for someone to choose you.
Sometimes—
love means having the courage to choose.
But then another question appears:
Should love require us to fight the entire world?
Maybe sometimes.
But maybe not always.
Because there is another lesson hidden within these stories.
Love does not always mean:
"I will give up everything for you."
Sometimes it means:
"I will stand beside you without giving up who I am."
And perhaps that is a lesson we forget.
We romanticize suffering.
We call sleepless nights proof of love.
We call jealousy proof of love.
We call losing ourselves proof of devotion.
We say,
"If you truly loved me, you would sacrifice everything."
But would the goddesses and divine figures whose stories we admire really teach us that love means becoming empty?
Or do their stories show something more complicated?
Parvati's devotion had strength, but her story also reminds us that love should not be reduced to self-destruction.
Radha's love survived separation.
Rukmini's love contained choice, courage, and acceptance.
And there is another story that asks us to look at love from an entirely different angle: Sita and Rama.
Sita chose to remain with Rama even when life became difficult.
When Rama was sent into exile, she did not choose the comfort of the palace over the person she loved. She followed him into the forest, accepting hardship, uncertainty, and danger because she wanted to share his life—not only its beautiful moments.
But even after everything they endured together, Sita and Rama were eventually forced apart.
Rama was a king, and a king was expected to listen to his citizens, even when their words were unjust and deeply painful. His duty to his kingdom stood between him and the woman he loved.
Sita understood the weight of that duty, but understanding it did not make the separation less painful.
She still chose to love Rama.
She still carried love for him even when she could no longer remain beside him.
And perhaps that is one of the most heartbreaking forms of love—
to understand why someone must leave, while still wishing they did not have to.
Sita's story reminds us that love does not always defeat duty, society, or circumstance.
Sometimes two people can love each other deeply and still be separated by responsibilities larger than themselves.
But love can remain real even when togetherness becomes impossible.
And there are countless other divine stories where love takes completely different forms—
sometimes devotion,
sometimes patience,
sometimes courage,
sometimes surrender,
sometimes separation,
and sometimes simply letting go.
So perhaps the question isn't—
“How much can you sacrifice for the person you love?”
Perhaps the better question is—
“What are you willing to sacrifice without sacrificing yourself?”
Because there is a difference.
A very important one.
You can sacrifice your ego.
Your stubbornness.
Your anger.
Your pride.
Your need to always be right.
You can learn patience.
You can forgive.
You can wait.
You can fight for someone.
But should love demand that you sacrifice your dignity?
Your identity?
Your dreams?
Your boundaries?
Your entire self?
Maybe not.
And this is where I disagree with the idea that girls today should love exactly as women in ancient stories did.
The world changed.
The circumstances changed.
The meaning of choice changed.
A woman today doesn't need to suffer endlessly to prove that her love is real.
She doesn't need to silently tolerate everything.
She doesn't need to destroy herself for someone.
And neither does a man.
Because perhaps the greatest mistake we make is confusing sacrifice with self-destruction.
Love can ask you to change.
But it shouldn't require you to disappear.
Author's Perspective
Maybe that's why these stories survived.
Not because they teach us one perfect definition of love—
but because every generation can look at them and ask a different question.
Parvati asks us about devotion, loyalty, and the danger of confusing love with self-destruction.
Radha asks us about love beyond possession.
Rukmini asks us about choice, courage, and loving with open eyes.
Sita asks us about choosing love through hardship, and about remaining faithful even when duty and circumstance create separation.
And together, they leave us with something far more difficult than an answer.
They leave us with questions.
Would you love someone even if loving them didn't guarantee that they would stay?
Would you choose someone when the world told you not to?
Would you wait for someone without knowing whether they would return?
Would you sacrifice your pride for love—but still protect your dignity?
Could you understand someone's duty without pretending that their choice did not hurt you?
And perhaps the hardest one—
If you had to choose between keeping the person you love and keeping yourself, which one would you choose?
Maybe love isn't about proving—
"I can suffer more for you."
Maybe it's about being able to say—
"I can love you deeply without losing myself completely."
Because perhaps the greatest form of love isn't becoming someone's everything.
Perhaps it is becoming someone who can say:
“I choose you.
But I will not abandon myself to keep you.”
And maybe—
just maybe—
that is what we were trying to understand all along.
Not who loved the most.
Not who sacrificed the most.
Not who suffered the most.
But—
what does it actually mean to love someone without losing the person you are?
