LOVE ON DIET

 Love on Diet

Author: Sanjay Shharma

The last of the thepla and karela was gone. Meera sighed, staring at the empty steel dabba. She had carried enough homemade food to last most of their Europe trip, but here they were in Paris, sitting across from each other at a charming little restaurant, and she had no choice but to order from the menu.

Rahul was busy scanning the options. “Steak and red wine,” he muttered, half to himself.

She hesitated, then did something she never would have imagined. “I’ll have the house red,” she said to the waiter, keeping her eyes fixed on Rahul. His fork stopped mid-air, and for a fleeting moment, she saw something in his eyes—surprise, curiosity, maybe even admiration.

She took a sip. The taste was foreign, bold, completely unlike her simple home flavors. She wrinkled her nose, but before she could say anything, Rahul chuckled. "Acquired taste," he said, sliding his own glass toward her. "Try mine."

She did. And in that moment, she felt something shift—not in the wine, but in them.

That night, as they walked along the Seine, the city lights shimmering in the river, he reached for her hand, and she let him.

Her thoughts drifted to dinner that evening—the way Rahul had put aside his steak, opting instead for a plate of green salad, just so they could share a meal. He hadn’t thought much of it. But she had.

Not because he had given up steak, but because he had chosen togetherness over preference—knowing well that Meera, a strict vegetarian, would never be comfortable watching him eat meat.

Life had a different rhythm then—slow, indulgent, filled with small joys. They had celebrated their 25th anniversary with laughter, food, and long conversations. Love was well-fed, thriving.

But love is like that, isn’t it? When life allows, it flourishes. When life interferes, it is the first thing to be rationed.

---

Why Does Love Get Starved?

Love, like the body, needs nourishment. And yet, as time passes, love gets placed on a diet—not by choice, but by habit.

There is a physiological reason behind this. The initial rush of romance—the dopamine highs, the flutter of attraction—eventually settles. The body, ever-efficient, stops producing those intense bursts of pleasure chemicals because it expects stability, routine.

And with routine comes a slow erosion of effort.

Life takes over. Work, responsibilities, bills, and endless to-do lists. The once-intense need to impress, to woo, to cherish, gets replaced by convenience. Partners become familiar, and familiarity breeds complacency.

The brain rewires itself to prioritize survival over indulgence. Conversations shrink to necessity. Affection becomes assumed, not expressed. The thrill of being together fades, not because love has vanished, but because it has stopped being fed.

And like a muscle that is not exercised, love weakens.

---

Years passed. The doorbell rang. Twice.

Meera was in the kitchen, chopping onions. Rahul, lost in his phone, didn’t move.

She wiped her hands on her pallu and walked toward the door, mumbling, “Blinkit waala hai… koi ek baar toh gate tak chala jaaye!”

Rahul sighed, tossing his phone on the couch. “Main ja raha hoon,” he muttered, walking out.

She shook her head. Eight years, and things had fallen into routine. Love was once again on diet—rationed, unspoken, left to fend for itself amidst grocery deliveries, lost socks, and daily irritations.

It wasn’t just about the Blinkit guy.

It was about the way Rahul came home and walked past her straight to his recliner. The way Meera no longer waited for him at dinner, eating early to “finish her work.” It was about how the TV played more in their house than music, how their hands no longer brushed against each other in passing.

It wasn’t that love was gone. It was just… starved.

One evening, she sat on the couch next to him, absentmindedly picking up a cushion. Rahul was scrolling on his phone. She placed the cushion between them. A quiet, unconscious barrier.

He didn’t notice.

She sighed and got up. That night, as she climbed into bed, she felt the space between them like an empty stretch of road. A fulfilling life cannot be lived with underfed love. And yet, this was what they had settled into—a companionship that functioned but did not flourish.

She had once thought love was about big moments—anniversaries, vacations, candlelight dinners. But love, she now realized, was in the everyday. And they had stopped feeding it.

---

The trigger was unexpected.

A phone call from their son, Aryan.

"Mom, Dad, I might have to shift to the US permanently. Let’s see how things go."

It was casual, offhand. But it hit Meera like a rock to the chest.

That night, a buried memory surfaced.

Her parents' home.

Her father had always believed that money was everything. He worked tirelessly, built wealth, ensured they had a big house, the best school, and security for the future. But in doing so, he had starved love.

Meera had followed in his footsteps. She had spent her life believing that financial security was the foundation of happiness. That love could wait, but money needed constant attention.

And yet, when her mother had suffered a cardiac arrest, her father’s wealth couldn’t help her.

There was no one at home. No friend, no neighbor, no relative who was a part of their everyday life.

And then, Rahul had arrived.

By some stroke of fate, he had come to pick up Meera early from college that day. He had found her mother collapsed near the phone and rushed her to the hospital, sitting by her bedside, holding her hand as she recovered. It was Rahul who had made sure she lived.

And yet, here she was, years later, starving the very thing that had saved them all.

She had thought she had enough money to live the rest of her life in comfort. But what was money without warmth? Without Rahul?

Old age would come. Their children had their own lives. And in the end, it wouldn’t be bank balances, mutual funds, or real estate that would hold her hand at night. It would be Rahul. If she let him.

That night, she sat on the balcony, the city lights twinkling in the distance.

She picked up her phone.

Kya kar rahe ho?

Rahul’s reply came instantly.

Tumhare baare mein soch raha hoon.

She found herself leaning into their moments again—sitting beside him during the evening news, passing by him in the hallway and letting her hand rest on his arm a second longer.

Rahul noticed. His glances lingered. He started looking up more when she spoke.

One night, she made his favorite gobhi manchurian dry.

“Bas yunhi?” he asked, taking a bite.

She nodded. Love needs feeding.

Love is fed in the small things—a touch that lingers a second longer, a conversation that has no urgency but is simply enjoyed, a cup of chai made with care, a song hummed absentmindedly that makes them look at each other and smile.

That evening, Meera sat next to Rahul again. This time, she didn’t put a cushion between them.

And this time, he noticed.

Rahul smiled. "Kya hua?"

Meera rested her head on his shoulder.

“Bas yunhi.”

Love wasn’t gone.

It had just been on a diet.

But not anymore.

About the Author

Sanjay writes compelling articles and self-help insights on life, culture, and relationships, blending tradition with modern wisdom. A thought leader and creator by profession, he builds products, markets, and institutions. With 35+ years of experience as an engineer and second-generation entrepreneur, his work bridges the past and future, helping people navigate life with clarity and compassion.