Iqbal Bhai Chamakpattiwala was putting the finishing touches on the tram he had decorated in the style of the W11 bus of Karachi. Mick Douglas, who conceived the project for the 2006 Commonwealth Games in Melbourne, asked him to name it. His first thought was the name of his wife, Shama. Then he decided upon ‘Love is Life’ (Pyaar zindagi hai).

Love is an obsession in Pakistan, a society where public display of love is not accepted, yet every bus, rickshaw, song, ghazal, film and TV drama is centred on love; where despite all efforts by zealous religious groups, red roses are quickly sold out on Valentine’s Day. Ironic in a country the world believes is violent.

Romance is considered the staple genre for young girls and overworked housewives the world over, but in Pakistan the men are equally obsessed. I remember being intrigued by a turbaned, very macho, truck driver spending ages in the truck accessory shop deciding which set of lovebirds to buy for his dashboard. The most hardened of politicians will look misty-eyed at a ghazal mehfil where every other verse is about love.

From Plato onwards, philosophers have conceded that love cannot be explained. It is conceptually irrational. Faizi wrote: “O intellect! You may have a thousand lives, but for now, remain silent. In love’s presence, stand up and pay respect.”

South Asia has not only been comfortable with the concept of love but the ancients theorised it as Shringara, one of nine rasas, and 96 Sanskrit words exist for different kinds of love from maternal to erotic love. The spread of Arabic and Persian cultures, starting with the Ghaznavids in the 11th century, added the concepts of ishq (intense passion) and muhabbat (love).

Love in Urdu, Persian or Arabic literature is of necessity unrequited or unfulfilled.

The English word love comes from lufu developed from the Sanskrit lubhyati which morphs into the Latin libet and libido. In modern Arabic the gentler word hubb is used, and ishq is reserved for intense love deriving from ashqa — clinging ivy.

Two things happened to the expression of love as Islamic culture mediated in South Asia. The Sufis took love as their main pathway to union with the Divine, adopting the Arabic and Persian Ishq-i-Majazi (worldly love) and Ishq-i-Haqiqi (Divine or true love). The second factor was the secularisation of love by courtly life and sophisticated elite cultures which gave rise to great poets, musicians and singers. Poetry moved away from heroic epics to the realm of love in both Marg (elite) and Desi (folk) traditions.

Rather than a break, as Rachel Dwyer has noted in her essay Kiss or Tell? Declaring Love in Hindi Films, ancient and modern, folk and historical narrations of love are kept alive and relevant, revisited, renewed and refreshed, crossing languages and genres from poetry to novel and film.

Love in Urdu, Persian or Arabic literature is of necessity unrequited or unfulfilled. While in Sanskrit literature desire must remain unfulfilled to preserve the sneha or vital fluid that gives power from being dissipated, in Muslim traditions unrequited love or tragic romance are the only ways love can bypass religious and social taboos. The beloved is always unattainable, indifferent and cruel: “Hum kaheñge haal-i-dil aur aap farmaaingey kia” I will pour out my heart and how will you respond. The lover is wounded by the arrows of the beloved’s eyes, crazed by desire, rejected by both the beloved and society. Love is an intoxicating madness or junoon, the lover circling the beloved like a moth around a candle.

Love defines cinema, decorated transport, poetry, qawwali, folk songs and novellas. From Turbat to Malakand, from Umerkot to Faisalabad, there are folk stories of tragic lovers — Sassi Punnu, Heer Ranjha, Mirza Sahiban, Sohni Mahiwal, Umar Marvi, Adam Durkhanai, Hani and Sheh Mureed. Equally inspiring are imported love stories Laila Majnun, Shirin Farhad, Yusuf and Zulaikha and Romeo and Juliet.

The Taj Mahal has become an iconic symbol of love. Umrao Jaan Ada, the penultimate courtesan, immortalised by Mirza Hadi Ruswa, is a symbol of another kind of beloved. Artists like Abdur Rahman Chughtai, Abdul Hameed Nagi and Hajra Mansur depict the desired female. Love poetry abounds in the repertoire of ordinary people. Even a homeless street boy, Lahori, recited a poem he wrote for Ruby, the girl who collects old rotis from the street: “Anghuti parri hai bench pe, uthati kyun nahin? Muhabbat karti ho mujh se batati kyun nahin?” [The ring lying on the bench, why don’t you pick it up? You know you love me, why don’t you admit it?].

Shamsur Rahman Faruqi writes, “Emotions distilled in a ghazal verse have long been one of the most powerful means of sentimental education in South Asia.” Or as Sahir Ludhianvi says, “Ishq insaan ko insaan bana deta hai.” [Love makes humans human]. Love is the one emotion shared by all classes and cultures, evoking the eternal struggle between hope and despair.

Muhabbat and ishq dwelt in extramarital frames and often with an unspecified gender. From the late 19th century onwards the concept of romance ending in marriage was introduced, mainly through the emergence of the novel. The visuality of film replaced the imagined beloved, but also brought love into an interior space and along with music recordings and the novel, privatised the enjoyment of love.

In Western societies where public violence is restrained, violent films and video games allow audiences a space to acknowledge this primal instinct without consequences.

In Pakistan where public and in many cases domestic expressions of love are not possible, cinema, art and literature similarly allow a space to evoke these emotions without consequences.

Durriya Kazi is a Karachi-based artist and heads the department of visual studies at the University of Karachi

Published in Dawn, EOS, October 15th, 2017