The aroma of freshly brewed filter coffee usually brought a sense of peace to Anya Sharma’s mornings. But lately, it was laced with the faint, yet persistent, scent of impending doom. Or, as her mother, Mrs. Sharma, preferred to call it, "the season of possibilities."

Anya, twenty-seven and a rising star in a digital marketing agency in Bangalore, loved her life. Her compact apartment, filled with books and a perpetually half-finished painting, was her sanctuary. Her work was challenging, her colleagues were a riot, and her weekends were a blend of art galleries, indie music gigs, and long, meandering conversations with her best friends, Priya and Sameer. She was, by all accounts, thriving.

Except, of course, for the one glaring omission in her parents' eyes: a husband.

The "season" had officially begun a few months ago, marked by an increase in casual inquiries about "eligible young men" from relatives and family friends. It started subtly, like a gentle drizzle before a monsoon. "Anya, dear, did you know your cousin Riya just got engaged? Such a lovely boy, from a very respectable family." Or, "My neighbour’s son, he’s an engineer in the US, very settled. Just thought I’d mention."

Now, it was a full-blown downpour. Every other day, a new conversation would sprout, invariably leading back to the same topic.

"Your father and I are not getting any younger, Anya," Mrs. Sharma would sigh, stirring her tea with a dramatic flourish. "We just want to see you settled, happy."

Anya would bite back the retort that she was happy, perfectly settled, thank you very much. She knew the script. Happiness, in her mother's lexicon, was inextricably linked to marital status.

Her friends offered a spectrum of experiences. Priya, ever the pragmatist, was already knee-deep in her own arranged marriage search, approaching it with the methodical precision of a project manager. "It’s like online dating, but with more parental oversight and less swiping," she'd joked, though Anya suspected the humour was wearing thin. Sameer, on the other hand, was a staunch advocate of love marriages, constantly regaling them with tales of his adventurous dating life, which often ended in hilarious disasters.

"Just meet a few, Anya," Priya had advised over their weekly video call. "You never know. My cousin met her husband through an arranged setup, and and they're genuinely happy. It's not all doom and gloom."

Anya wanted to believe her. She really did. But the thought of sitting across from a stranger, being evaluated like a commodity, made her stomach churn. She imagined the polite questions, the forced smiles, the silent judgments. Can she cook? Is she too independent? Will she adjust?

One Tuesday evening, as Anya was engrossed in a new crime thriller, her phone buzzed. It was her mother.

"Anya, darling, a very promising proposal has come through," Mrs. Sharma announced, her voice brimming with an excitement that Anya rarely heard, reserved only for festival preparations or particularly good saree sales. "His name is Rahul. He's an architect, based in Mumbai. Very well-educated, from a good family in Delhi. Your aunt's friend's niece knows them."

Anya braced herself. "Okay, Amma. What's... promising about him?"

"Oh, everything! His parents are retired, so no immediate family drama. He has his own apartment. And he’s tall, your father checked!" Her mother chuckled, oblivious to Anya's internal groan. "I've sent you his biodata on WhatsApp. Have a look, beta. We'll call them tomorrow to set up a video call."

Anya hung up, a familiar heaviness settling in her chest. She opened WhatsApp. There it was: a neatly formatted PDF. Rahul, Architect. Age 30. Height 5'11". Hobbies: Reading, Travel. Family background. Educational qualifications. A small, slightly blurry photo of a man with a polite, almost too-perfect smile.

This was it. The first official biodata. The first tangible step into the "season of possibilities." Anya stared at the screen, a strange mix of dread and a faint, unbidden curiosity stirring within her. Could this be the beginning of her arranged marriage story? Or just another biodata in a long, tedious carousel? Only time, and many more phone calls, would tell.

Anya stared at Rahul’s biodata, the polite smile in the photo seeming to mock her. "Reading, Travel," his hobbies declared. Generic. Safe. Like a template filled in by a well-meaning relative. She scrolled through the details: his parents’ professions, their ancestral village, the number of siblings, their marital status. It was a dossier, a carefully curated snapshot designed to impress.

"So, what do you think?" Priya’s voice crackled through the phone later that night. "Mr. Architect from Mumbai. Sounds promising on paper."

"On paper, everything sounds promising, Pri," Anya sighed, flopping onto her bed. "It’s the people behind the paper that are the problem. And the whole process. It feels like I’m applying for a job I don’t even want."

"Look, it’s a numbers game," Priya said, ever practical. "You filter through the resumes, you do a few interviews, and eventually, you find a good fit. Think of it as a highly structured, family-approved dating app."

Anya snorted. "Except on a dating app, I get to decide if I swipe right or left based on more than just 'well-settled' and 'good family background.' Here, my mother’s doing the swiping, and her criteria are solely based on astrological charts and the size of the family home."

The next few weeks became a blur of biodata packets. They arrived like unwanted mail, each one a new candidate for her life partner. There was the software engineer from Hyderabad who listed "meditation and organic farming" as his passions, and whose photo showed him in a pristine white kurta looking vaguely uncomfortable. Then came the doctor from London, whose family insisted on a bride who could "manage a large household with grace," a phrase that made Anya roll her eyes so hard she almost sprained them. There was even a surprisingly charming young man who worked as a wildlife photographer, but his family's biodata included a stern note about his "unconventional career path," clearly a red flag for her parents.

Each biodata felt less about finding a compatible partner and more about ticking boxes on a societal checklist. Good caste? Check. Decent income? Check. No scandalous relatives? Check. Anya felt like a product on display, her own biodata – meticulously crafted by her mother to highlight her "homely virtues" alongside her professional achievements – circulating in a similar fashion.

The first video call was with Rahul, the architect. Her mother had orchestrated it with military precision. The living room was spotless, a fresh bouquet of marigolds adorned the coffee table, and Anya was instructed to wear a "nice, traditional kurta, not too flashy." Her parents sat beside her, beaming at the laptop screen, as if their enthusiasm alone could bridge the awkward chasm.

Rahul appeared on screen, his polite smile still intact. He looked exactly like his photo, which was both a relief and a disappointment. He was handsome enough, in a generic, well-groomed way.

"Hello, Rahul," Mrs. Sharma chirped, initiating the conversation. "So good to finally connect! Anya, say hello."

"Hi, Rahul," Anya managed, her voice a little too stiff.

The conversation that followed was a masterclass in stilted formality.

"So, Anya, your work in digital marketing… very interesting," Rahul began, his voice even, almost rehearsed. "What exactly does that entail?"

Anya explained her role, her projects, trying to infuse some passion into her words. He nodded politely.

"And you, Rahul," her father interjected, "your architectural firm must be doing very well in Mumbai. What kind of projects do you handle?"

Rahul spoke about commercial complexes and residential towers, his tone professional and detached. Anya found herself zoning out, her gaze drifting to the framed family photos on the wall behind him. Did he feel this awkward too? Was he as bored as she was?

They covered the usual ground: hobbies (still reading and travel, apparently), family values, expectations from a partner. It felt less like a conversation and more like an interrogation, with both sides trying to present the most palatable version of themselves. There was no spark, no shared laugh, no moment where their eyes met and held. It was all surface, polite pleasantries masking a profound lack of connection.

After twenty excruciating minutes, her mother declared it a successful first interaction. "Such a well-spoken boy, Anya! Don’t you think?"

Anya mumbled something noncommittal. As soon as the call ended, she excused herself, escaping to her room. She collapsed onto her bed, burying her face in her pillow. This was what it was like. This was the "season of possibilities." And right now, all she felt was a crushing sense of impossibility. How could she ever find love, or even companionship, through such a sterile, manufactured process? She felt a wave of despair wash over her. This was going to be a long, long season.

The video call with Rahul had been a lukewarm affair, leaving Anya with a sense of weary resignation rather than anticipation. Her parents, however, saw it differently. "He seemed very respectful, Anya," her mother had insisted. "And he asked about your work! That shows interest."

Anya had refrained from pointing out that "What exactly does that entail?" was hardly a declaration of profound interest. Nevertheless, the next step was inevitable: the formal family meeting. Rahul and his parents were coming from Mumbai to Bangalore for a weekend, and a Sunday afternoon visit to the Sharma residence was firmly on the agenda.

The days leading up to it were a flurry of activity. Mrs. Sharma transformed the house into a showroom. Every cushion was fluffed, every surface gleamed. The scent of homemade samosas and gulab jamun s wafted from the kitchen, a culinary assault designed to impress. Anya was instructed on everything from the precise angle at which to offer the tea tray to the appropriate level of demureness in her posture.

"Remember, Anya, speak only when spoken to, but don't be silent," her mother coached, adjusting Anya's new silk kurta. "And smile! A pleasant smile is always inviting."

Anya felt like an exhibit in a museum, or perhaps a prize animal at a county fair. Her stomach churned with nerves and a growing resentment. This wasn't about getting to know someone; it was about performance.

Promptly at 3 PM, a black sedan pulled up to their gate. Anya heard the familiar honk, and her heart sank. Her parents rushed to the door, their faces alight with welcoming smiles. Anya took a deep breath, pasted on her "pleasant smile," and followed.

Rahul entered first, looking slightly less stiff than on the video call, but still radiating an aura of polite neutrality. His parents followed – a dignified couple, his father with a stern but kind face, his mother with sharp, observant eyes that seemed to take in every detail of Anya and her home in a single sweep.

The initial greetings were a symphony of polite deferrals and formal pleasantries. "Please, please, come in. So glad you could make it." "Thank you so much for having us. What a lovely home."

They settled into the living room, a space now charged with unspoken expectations. Anya poured tea, her hands trembling slightly, ensuring each cup was placed just so. Her mother launched into a monologue about Bangalore's weather, the rising cost of living, and the joys of retirement, punctuated by her father's occasional, booming agreements.

Rahul's mother, Mrs. Mehra, finally turned her attention to Anya. Her voice was soft, but her questions were direct. "So, Anya, your parents tell us you work in digital marketing. That's quite a modern field. Do you enjoy it?"

"Yes, aunty, very much," Anya replied, trying to sound enthusiastic. "It's dynamic, and I learn something new every day."

"Hmm, very good," Mrs. Mehra nodded, her eyes assessing. "And do you find you have time for... other interests? Like cooking, perhaps?"

Anya felt a flush creep up her neck. "I enjoy cooking, yes. When I have the time." It was a half-truth. She could cook, but her culinary adventures usually involved quick, healthy meals, not elaborate feasts.

"Of course, of course," Mrs. Mehra said, though her tone suggested she wasn't entirely convinced. She then shifted her gaze to Anya's mother. "She seems like a very sensible girl, Mrs. Sharma. Very well-mannered."

Anya felt a surge of irritation. She was being discussed as if she weren't even in the room, a specimen under a microscope.

Finally, her father cleared his throat. "Rahul, Anya, why don't you two step out into the garden for a few minutes? Get to know each other a little without us old folks hovering."

Anya's heart hammered. This was the moment. The dreaded one-on-one.

They walked in awkward silence to the small, manicured garden her mother was so proud of. The air was thick with unspoken words. Rahul stopped by a potted hibiscus plant, seemingly admiring its vibrant red blooms.

"It's... a nice garden," he offered, turning to her.

"Yes, my mother loves gardening," Anya replied, clutching her hands behind her back.

Another silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the distant hum of city traffic. Anya racked her brain for something, anything, to say.

"So, Mumbai," she finally managed. "Do you enjoy living there?"

"It's a fast-paced city," he said, his voice as uninflected as ever. "Lots of opportunities. Good for work."

"Right. And... your work? Is it challenging?"

"Yes, quite. We have a new project coming up, a residential complex in Bandra."

It was like pulling teeth. Every answer was a dead end, a polite brick wall. There was no attempt at humor, no shared observation, no flicker of genuine interest. Anya felt herself deflating with each passing second. She tried to imagine a life with this man, filled with such conversations. The thought was chilling.

After what felt like an eternity but was probably only ten minutes, her mother's voice drifted from the living room, "Anya, Rahul, tea is getting cold!" It was their cue.

They returned to the living room, the polite smiles back in place. Anya felt utterly drained. The rest of the visit passed in a haze of more polite conversation, more sweet snacks, and the subtle, unspoken evaluation that hung heavy in the air.

As the Mehras finally departed, her mother turned to Anya, her eyes alight with hope. "Well? What did you think? He's a very decent boy, isn't he? And his family is so cultured!"

Anya forced a small smile. "He's... decent, Amma." Decent, yes. But also utterly, completely uninspiring. The "season of possibilities" was proving to be a season of polite disappointments.