Another boy.
Another meeting.
Another kurta, another matching jhumka, another layer of hope that I try not to wear too close to the skin.
His name is Rohit. Software engineer. MBA from the U.S. Comes from a “very good family,” my father had said, eyes sparkling like he’d found gold. Good family turned out to be an understatement.
As we drove into their gated bungalow—a whitewashed mansion tucked in a silent lane of South Mumbai—my jaw clenched. Their house didn’t have a doorbell. It had a security system with face recognition.
“God, Ameya...” Maa muttered under her breath. “Look at that lawn. You could fit our entire building in it.”
Even Baba, who rarely looked up from his phone, seemed visibly impressed. “They must be worth crores.”
And suddenly, I felt my kurta—navy blue with silver embroidery—was too simple. My silver bangles, too noisy. My sandals, too flat.
I tried to smile anyway.
Their house smelled of expensive candles and imported polish. Every corner gleamed like it had never seen dust. We were welcomed by Rohit’s mother, graceful and poised, dressed in a muted silk saree that probably cost more than my month’s salary. She smiled politely and asked us to sit.
And then he walked in.
Rohit.
Tall. Clean-shaven. White shirt tucked neatly into tailored pants. He looked like he belonged on the cover of GQ India, not in my little world of content writing and pani puri dates.
And he smiled.
At me.
“Hi, Ameya,” he said, holding out his hand. “It’s really nice to finally meet you.”
Finally meet me?
I blinked.
This man had seen my photo—my chubby cheeks, my round face, my unapologetically wide frame—and he still wanted to meet me?
I wanted to look over my shoulder and check if he was talking to someone else. My throat dried up. My hands suddenly felt too big, too awkward. I shook his hand quickly and sat down, desperately trying to remember how to breathe.
Maa nudged me gently under the table. I glanced at her and she gave me a tiny nod. Smile, Ameya, her eyes said. Be pleasant. Be soft. Be small.
I tried.
Rohit sat beside his parents, answering the usual questions. What do I do? How long have I been working? What are my hobbies?
I kept my answers short. Polite. Safe.
But the whole time, I couldn’t stop wondering—Why is he here? Why me?
A boy like him, with a house like this, and a life so far removed from mine... why had he not said no when he saw my photo? What did he see that others hadn’t?
Or maybe… was I just imagining it? Was this another polite trap before the We’ll let you know call that never comes?
Still, I smiled. Tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. Tried not to fidget. Tried not to think about how my stomach felt too big sitting in this sofa or how I had eaten too much rice last night or whether my lipstick was smudged.
Tried not to hope.
Because I’ve learned that sometimes, the most painful thing a girl like me can do… is hope
Rohit leaned slightly forward. “I read some of your articles online,” he said, his voice calm, sincere. “The one about body image and self-worth? It really stayed with me. You write with honesty. It’s rare.”
For a moment, I wasn’t sure I heard him right.
He read my articles?
My mind scrambled to recall what I’d even written. Had I ranted too much? Had I come off as emotional, dramatic? And then—wait, he read them?
“I… I didn’t know you’d seen those,” I said, my voice quieter than I intended.
He smiled again, the kind of smile that reached his eyes. “I asked for your full name after I saw your photo. Thought I’d do a little Googling before we met.”
Maa and Baba exchanged a glance. Not suspicious, just curious.
“You write beautifully,” he added. “And bravely. I like that.”
My cheeks flushed—part embarrassment, part something warmer I hadn’t felt in a while. I looked down at my lap, at my fingers tangled in each other like they didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t used to this. Compliments were usually framed like conditions. You have a nice smile—for a girl your size. You carry yourself well—for your body type.
But Rohit didn’t mention my weight. Not once. Not with words, not with glances.
Instead, he asked, “What’s your dream, Ameya? Like if money and expectations weren’t a thing, what would you want to do?”
The question caught me off guard. Most boys just asked if I could cook, or if I was willing to move cities. No one asked what I dreamed of.
“I think… I’d want to write a book someday,” I said. “A novel. About girls like me.”
“Girls like you?” he asked gently.
I smiled, the real kind, the one I’d kept in my pocket all evening. “Girls who get overlooked. Who get told they need to change before they’re worthy of love or attention.”
He leaned back, nodding. “I’d read that book.”
My heart ached a little at that sentence. Because maybe—just maybe—he meant it.
Baba, clearly a little thrown by this unexpected deviation from typical rishta talk, cleared his throat and asked about Rohit’s job. They fell into conversation about tech and stock markets and real estate, and I finally let myself breathe again.
Maa leaned toward me and whispered, “He’s quite modern, haan? Talks well. And polite too.”
I gave her a slight nod, my chest still fluttering with a strange, unfamiliar feeling. Not love. Not yet. But something tender. Something careful. The beginning of being seen.
As we prepared to leave, Rohit walked us to the door. “If you’d like,” he said, turning to me, “we could meet again? Just the two of us. Maybe coffee, or pani puri if that’s more your style?”
I blinked, stunned. “How do you know I like pani puri?”
He shrugged. “Lucky guess. Or maybe... it was in one of your blogs.”
I laughed, the sound surprised even to me. “Pani puri it is, then.”
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