Episode 2: The Biodata Carousel

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.

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