The term love failure has a tragicomic resonance unmatched by any other phrase bequeathed by cinema to language. Growing up in Madras in the Nineties and watching whatever Doordarshan provided, I came to associate it with T. Rajender contorting his hirsute face into a tortured expression, with Charlie Chaplin’s tramp until he caught a break in City Lights, with Tom’s desperate overtures to Toodles Galore, with Popeye and Bluto vying for Olive Oyl, and eventually with one