The language of Love

Sometimes you travel to a person; sometimes you travel to a place of love. Here's a look at the many musings and moods of love

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LOVE & OTHER DRUGS

For writer Siddharth Dhanvant Shanghvi, love has always been a shape-shifting emotion that has changed with age, place, companions and state of mind

By the time we got to the photography festival in Arles, the three of us had little to say to each other. We had been friends for over a decade; we travelled together and art fairs were a shared joy. But this trip was souring. Perhaps one of us had been disappointed by the choice of the rental, where a French family in the larger house connected to our cottage broke into high-octave arguments over the air conditioning.

Another of us had realised, belatedly, that a party of three is still a partygreat for a Friday evening but a terrible idea for a road trip. There was a talk by Martin Parr; we had tickets, but I bailed. The only thing worse was if there had been something to say; by then, none of us had the ear for it.

I stayed in, where boredom had me taking stock of the sheets. They were flecked with stains-indecipherable, like impressionist daubs; I didn't dare to guess their origins but I stripped the mattress and resolved to sleep on it bare. I opened the screen door to the small dry garden at the back, a hot breeze came through, ruffling the bundle of lavender we had bought on our arrival to brighten up a cottage whose soul had been exorcised by far too many visitors. I sat in the yard with a beer until the tyres crunched gravel.

When we planned the trip, we had done so with great stores of curiosity, hope and tenderness. We wanted to see one flea market in particular (Brocante d'Arles) to shop for old silver; I was in my grandmother era, my friends joked.