Edited by Bhavika Rawat
I would like to think of Valentine’s Day as a day that is just about love. No grand gestures or elaborate gifts or the perfect Instagram story for everyone to see. For me, it is about handwritten letters, cooking together, and the quiet kind of affection that doesn’t need an audience, shouldn’t need an audience. Love, at its core, is supposed to be whispered, not performed.
But somewhere along the way, things have changed. Valentine’s Day has become a mere spectacle, a day not just for showing love but for proving it. Suddenly, the quiet, effortless warmth of the day has been replaced by something louder, something shinier—something that often comes with a price tag and market value.
Using Ashoka as a setting, the excitement leading up to Valentine’s here is undeniable. Posters pop up on walls weeks prior, announcing themed events, love confessions, and handmade tokens of affection, all available for purchase. The campus transforms into a marketplace of love, with clubs and individuals offering everything from chocolates and crochet items to custom star maps and algorithm-matched admirers. It’s fun of course, it’s festive too, and it even brings people together. But sometimes, I can’t help but wonder: why does love need a receipt? Why is everyone opening paytm to show their love?
Of course, it isn’t just an Ashokan phenomenon. The commercialization of Valentine’s Day has been in motion for decades, carefully crafted by industries that thrive on turning emotions into transactions. What once was a day for lovers to celebrate each other has become a day for brands to celebrate their sales. Love is marketed like a product—romantic gestures, once spontaneous, now come prepackaged, with limited-time offers and free delivery.
And yet, while it’s easy to blame capitalism, that isn’t really the heart of the problem. The problem is that we, too, have learned to measure love in tangible ways. We’ve come to associate deeper feelings with bigger gestures, to equate effort with expense. And so, even within our own communities—within the very clubs and student groups that make Ashoka feel like home—Valentine’s Day has turned into something transactional. Let’s ask ourselves– what would we prefer on the 14th of February? The perfect bouquet of bought roses or a handmade bouquet of love letters written by our partner or even our best friend?
That’s not to say these celebrations lack sincerity. In fact, they are often created with great thought and warmth. The Art and Design Collective selling love postcards isn’t just selling paper; it’s offering people a way to express emotions they might not have the words for. A serenade arranged through a flash mob by HerCampus itself isn’t just a performance; it’s a chance for someone to feel special, to be on the receiving end of a public declaration of affection. Even algorithm-generated love confessions by The Women In Computing Society, playful as they are, remind us that love—romantic, platonic, or otherwise—exists in unexpected places.
But the question remains: has love become something we perform rather than something we simply feel?
There is a kind of love that doesn’t fit neatly into a Valentine’s package. The kind that lingers in conversations stretched into the early morning, in a friend remembering how you like your coffee, in a partner who tries to make a card for you even though they know it would turn out to be hopeless. The kind that isn’t loud or curated, but quiet and persistent, asking for nothing in return.
And that’s the love I miss the most.
It isn’t that Valentine’s Day at Ashoka is missing love—it’s everywhere. In the enthusiasm of those organizing events, in the laughter that fills the air as friends take part in themed competitions, in the way the campus buzzes with a shared excitement. But in all the noise, I long for the love that doesn’t need to be bought or proven. The love that exists in the spaces between all these celebrations. I know this may sound repetitive but I believe this desperately needs to be said. Maybe love has always had an element of performance, of public declarations, of grand gestures designed to make hearts race. But even so, I want to believe that at its core, love has always been—and should always be—something simpler.
This isn’t a call to abandon the celebrations. No one wants to take away the fun, the joy, the collective spirit that makes Valentine’s Day feel special. But I do wonder what would happen if we allowed ourselves, just for a moment, to step away from the spectacle. To sit with the people we love, without expectation, without exchange. To celebrate in a way that isn’t about what we can give or receive, but simply about being present with one another. Why don’t you find your loved one this valentine’s day and make ramen together? Go out for a walk and spin your partner until they are dizzy with laughter. Click their photo in their rawest candid moment and hang that up in your dorm. Play a board game together, maybe tickle them when they start winning. Spill your coke on the bed sheet while cuddling and clean up together.
Because at the end of the day, love is not a product. It is not a service, not an event, not a perfectly orchestrated moment designed to be captured and shared. Love is in the pauses, in the quiet understandings, in the little things that cannot be sold or staged. And that’s the kind of love I hope we never lose.