Episode 1: The Proposal Season

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.

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