“Because nothing says romance like skype, salwar kameez, and a jetlagged IT guy” — Divya
It didn’t begin with violins or candlelight. It began with a voice on a crackly phone line and a man in a baniyan (flimsy vest innerwear for the blessedly unaware) casually chatting with my mother on Skype.
Romantic, right?
There I was, fresh into the workforce in Chennai, chasing my financial independence with the enthusiasm of a budget analyst at sale season. Somewhere across the globe, in New Jersey, was him — chasing IT dreams, probably dunking Dunkin’ donuts, and accidentally stumbling into the preface of my life.
My mom, the proverbial Ivy League matchmaker, had paid his parents’ apartment a visit and as one does when matchmaking goes digital, she chanced upon a Skype call between my Mr. Interested (in his baniyan) with his folks and after some small talk when she came back home, she said, “He didn’t behave like it was the first time meeting me. Very casual.”
Translation: he didn’t even try to impress her. And somehow, that worked. The boy was approved (in vest).
Meanwhile, he had seen my pictures. I had seen him — in low-res webcam pixels. And yet we were flirting, sharing stories, and slowly turning Skype into our emotional Airbnb. But long-distance has an expiry date. You can only fall so far through WiFi.
Enter: my father, a man of ideas and execution.
His solution?
“We meet halfway.”
Where?
London. Wimbledon, to be exact.
Because if love is a game, we might as well play it like champions.
So now picture this: I’m in London with my mom, staying with my uncle and aunt.
My dad and brother flying in from Budapest to Heathrow with one single mission – to fetch a boy they’ve never met from Heathrow Airport. His only identifier? A photo. And a British Airways flight number. Not even a live location pin – just old-school “spot the boy with the rolling suitcase” vibes.
To my mom, I wondered. aloud: What if we don’t like each other?
My mom, ever the realist: “Then he and your brother can just go to the pub and hang out. We’ll all go home happy.”
This is not a plot twist; this is real life.
But when my uncle in Wimbledon heard “drive to Heathrow”, he nominated himself instead – a civic duty to brave the M25. Looking back now, I am almost convinced that my uncle’s lifelong dream must be chauffeuring relatives through airport traffic.
Meanwhile, my second uncle from Ahmedabad, who was originally in London to help his daughter settle into university, made a detour straight into this international matrimonial summit. The setting? My aunt and uncle’s home in leafy, well-mannered Wimbledon.
And then… the car pulled up.
He stepped out, bent over to take his bag from the boot, and I – I saw his ass first.
And I thought, “Okay, not bad. This could work.”
Truly, some stories are written in the stars. Ours started with glutes. (though I have a feeling my husband’s version starts a little… higher)
Let’s not romanticize my state though. I was deep in a PCOS-induced pimple season, had plastered my face with layers of cakey foundation, and was wrapped in a salwar kameez, with my dupatta acting like a gentle but clingy security blanket.
And there we were: alone for the first time, post-flirtation but pre-realness. After months of giggles and glances over bad Wi-Fi, we sat in awkward silence like two job applicants who accidentally turned up to the same interview.
We’d spoken for months, flirted shamelessly through call and chat, but now, finally in the same room? Awkward. Silent. Dumbfound.
He kept eyeing my bangles. I kept wondering if I should mention the weather. Finally, I blurted:
“Don’t you want to ask me anything? You don’t even know me!”
And he, with the calm confidence of a man who never overthinks text replies, said:
“Whatever I need to know, you’ve already told me. The rest… I’ll get to know.”
Well played, sir. Well played.
Confidence, charisma, and bare minimum effort – dangerous combo. I was smitten.
With that moment of mutual admiration, we casually dropped a bomb on our family: “Maybe… we should call his parents?”
Cue: gasps, squeals, and the ceremonial stuffing of sweets into mouths (mostly his).
Match Point. Because when you know, you know – and when the Indian mom knows, it’s practically arranged.
Suddenly, we were being treated like an engaged couple – and we hadn’t even gone on a proper date.
So we planned a romantic day out in London. Just the two of us. London Eye, Trafalgar Square, a bus tour around the city… the works.
Except.
“No no no,” said the entire desi delegation. “You can’t go alone!”
So our chaperones included:
• My brother
• Two uncles
• And a location tracker, probably
They all went off to drink Bacardi and espresso outside a random roadside pub near Buckingham Palace, while somewhere between the raindrops and the royal guards, we kissed for the first time on the top deck of the bus like two college kids pretending they weren’t being watched by James Bond Villains and my family.
We kissed again in a subway. Not exactly private, but hey – we had spectators with fish and chips and umbrellas, so that’s basically British Netflix.
Later that night, he held my hand and said,
“Now that I’ve held your hand, I’m not letting go.”
Cue: Internal swoon
External reaction: my aunt glaring like a border patrol guard, monitoring the hallways with the energy of MI6, just in case things got too romantic.
And honestly? That was enough. Because that moment – that oddly tender, slightly censored, British-Indian chaos – was perfect.
Just when we thought we’d wrapped the day like a perfectly stuffed paratha, enter: my two younger cousins, freshly returned from school. They walked into this buzzing house and were met with celebratory chaos – snacks, sweets, with my aunt and mom furiously debating dinner menu while simultaneously calculating wedding guest list.
Wide-eyed, they looked around and said,
“Wait, what just happened? Did you seriously get engaged while we were at school?”
Yes. Yes, I did. Time zones and Indian families wait for no academic calendar.
And then came the moment that could be filed under “Unexpected Reactions to Arranged Romance.”
My littlest cousin looked at him, tilted her head, and said with complete sincerity,
“I like him. Hope he said “ I LOVE YOU!”
Years ago, I remember now, how I asked with innocence pure,
“Did you say ‘I love you’ to each other?” to her parents, at a similar first meet for sure.
Oh, how time flies! From little me to her, the roles have swapped,
Turns out love’s just a question that never stops!
Meanwhile, my now-fiancé was officially being eyed like he was the last Bhaji at the buffet platter. Soon a buffet of questions bombard him – with everyone firing away at once and its a full-blown cross-talk of food, bhajis, and life advice, and the poor guy is just trying to figure out which plate to hold, with more bhajis coming his way.
That night, after we sent him off to his nearby Airbnb (because propriety and ever-traditional zoning laws are forever), we threw a casual celebration at home. There were drinks for the grown-ups, and for the underage/non-drinking section of our guest list: ice cream scoops the size of ambition.
The next day, my soon-to-be husband (still processing how quickly he’d been absorbed into this whirlwind family), looked at me and said,
“Wow, I missed drinks and dessert? Should’ve just stayed back.”
Poor guy. All he got was a bride.
Epilogue
Years later, when I bring up our Wimbledon saga – the bhajis, the cousins, the butt-first impressions, the bus-top kiss, the impromptu engagement – my husband blinks blankly like I’m narrating a documentary he never watched.
“You really don’t remember any of this?” I ask, half offended, half amused.
And with a sheepish grin, he always says,
“I’d had a couple of drinks on the British Airways flight, okay? That whole meet-up-greet-up-fiancé-up weekend is just one big hazy hangover.”
Classic.
But I remember. I remember all of it. The chaos. The awkwardness. The bangles. The dupatta defenses. The London drizzle. The protective aunt and mom squad. The executive dad mode. The cool uncles and brother with Bacardi. The sneaky first kiss. And that feeling of, “Oh wow… this is real.”
Because love, like tennis, isn’t always graceful. Sometimes you trip, sometimes you double fault, sometimes you smooch your fiancé at centre- court level visibility in front of Buckingham Palace, with uncles hydrating in pints at a nearby pub.
But somehow, we made it through. We served, volleyed, stumbled, and grinned through it all.
And in the grand match of life,
we’re still playing doubles.
Score?
Love-All.
