Are you single or married, either way you are doomed by this un-chronicled affliction dreaded as virulent and burning malady unleashed on mankind. There are signs and symptoms to study in order to prevent or cure this liaison in early stages. Thereafter, any delinquency will result in loss of a chamber of your brain as glass-cased specimen to Dr Strangelove. Follow me to inspect this amatory outbreak which usually erupts around this time of the year. Begins as a sweet smile, a charming smile,or, but nothing more than a devious wicked smile. Hold off! Don't fall for that smile, steer clear, run faster than a gazelle, duck like a platypus, don't reciprocate, don't react and most important don't blush! Save that pink flush of your cheeks to dye your socks and give a deadpan expression that only Monty Python's crew can evince. Ugh! Okay, listen, nothing is forsaken that cannot be reclaimed. So you fell for that smile... yeh yeh I'm familiar with the baloney 'such a cute and pearly smile'. The hazel eyes, the long shanks, the ribbed torso, pointed cheeks, arched brows, sleek hair, melody in the background, whispers of the air, aromatic nothings in food — everything will culminate as throbbing louder than the band's jazz which you fear will be heard, he will sense you, he will ask softly: "Is everything all right". You wish to tell him: "My brain is a contortionist's muse, I hear two meerkats playing drums in my head, I notice entire Tataouine's landscape in that ridged forehead when you frown, I crave to touch that nose of yours and twitch, I wish to run my fingers on the contours of your shapely ears, I can't stop thinking about you tomorrow, I can't stop thinking how will I stop thinking of the fact that I'll be thinking so much about you tomorrow. Someone please gag the mindless palaver of the maître d'hôtel and tell me to pour that royal plonk and scamper from here". Instead you coyly beam and tell him: "Oh! Everything is fine". Okay, it was only a date! An irresponsible day! A tick in outlook calendar and before you know the ticks increase, the reminders double, the calls last longer, the blushes run deeper, the hugs tighter, the tease sharper. You captivate as Mastani to this Bajirao, the cynical Scully in you argues with the impressionable Mulder in him, Pantalaimon's affection in him curls around Miss Belacqua's fiestiness in you. At sundown, the Celine in you knows that there have been enough sunrises to grasp the Jesse in him. You try to reason this emotion, sensation and madness enslaving you in his girth. You grapple with the euphoria and exhilaration sinking you in his stronghold. You confess crisply: "This Scully has not met a Mulder till date who is willing to transform as Pantaloimne to convince the Celine in her". He responds: "Like Tengo and Aomame, we have found and have been found by each other. I take our conversations, our wordplay, our exchange of fantastical banter very seriously". You hum the craziest songs, dance to the cutest moves, and fly like a thrilled lark while he follows you, holds you and plays for you in the harmony of mutual feelings and passions. You know that his eyes are only for you in a crowd. You sense that both are struggling to stifle those irrepressible smiles when eyes lock. You articulate in gestures that seem to convey weighted meaning across the Higgs field. You sharpen the gaze with a quizzical huh that his curled lashes bend with a wink. You hurl that dare you seductively re-huh! scowl. You call each other monikers that break species and gender. Wake up with gentle breeze of his memories. Go to bed squirming with haunted evocation of his tender smile. You charge your phone ardently when you step out. You grill him on all the uneventful incidents of his life. You make a list of all his crushes, look them up in LinkedIn and dismiss as nah none as good as me. Whereas he simply pretermits — Hun! I don't care who you have been with except "Pitambar", I just love this fella. Finally the terminal phase of the malady where you still have hope to make a full recovery. You're confounded what part of him you cherish — his intellect, his ambition, his creativity, his ingenuity, his verve, his passion, his metaphors, his insanity, his soulful indulgence, his slothful weekends, then you sense a smudged reflection and faint echo of you in him. Are you falling for him or falling for you in him? Is he trying to show him or a holding a mirror to show YOU in HIM? You ask him distraught: "What are you and who am I?" He assures: "You are that she who is revealing a life he covets, one that always seems frightening but within reach. She is Eve, no she is the snake, no she is he. She is telling him to be he, be one with her, be she. He knows not how to say no. He knows only that he wants what she wants". She reads that garbled line and lapses into a stillness induced by the realization of her vain attempt to be cured of this invidious disorder that has recorded history but no rehabilitated soul yet. Happy Valentines Season!