Episode 3: The Family Meeting

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.

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