The drive to the café was only fifteen minutes long, but Radhika felt every second like an unpaid intern in a reality show she didn't audition for.
Her mother sat in the front seat, clutching her purse like it contained the family's honor.
Her father was driving like he was competing in a Formula One race for middle-aged civil servants.
"Don't sit like that, beta," her mother turned to her.
"You'll get creases on your kurta."
"It's not a resume."
Radhika muttered, pulling the seatbelt looser.
Her mother gave her The Look.
"Just sit properly. And don't talk too much. But also don't be too quiet."
"So... breathe only when required?"
Radhika deadpanned.
"Don't joke. This one feels lucky."
"You said that about the dentist who tried to show me his molar X-rays."
"He had a clinic, beta!"
"...and teeth trauma."
Her father chimed in from the driver's seat.
"This is the last one. After this, I swear, we'll stop."
"Liar. You said that after Samosa Boy."
Her father blinked.
"Who?"
"The one who wiped his fingers on the wedding card."
"Oh. Him."
Silence.
Then her mother hissed.
"You should've at least oiled your hair today. You look tired."
"I am tired."
"Tired of trying to look like a biodata.."
"You'll thank us later."
Her mom snapped.
"Now smile. Not too wide. Just... decent girl smile."
As they pulled up to the café—a posh but overcompensating place called 'Nothing Before Coffee'—Radhika spotted the other family already seated by the window.
Auntie in a beige sari. Uncle with Bluetooth earpiece still blinking.
And one man in a blue shirt, neatly pressed, eyebrows furrowed at the menu like it was a legal contract.
"That's him," her mom whispered.
Radhika blinked.
"He's reading the menu like it's a math problem."
Her father sighed.
"He's an engineer. They like details."
"Great, maybe he'll calculate the emotional ROI of marriage."
As the waitress led them to the reserved table at the back of Nothing Before Coffee, Radhika did her best not to trip over the industrial-chic furniture or her cynicism.
She was halfway through calculating how many escape routes the café had when she looked up and saw him.
Rishit Rai.
Seated straight, wearing a navy-blue shirt that looked like it had been ironed by a perfectionist with mild anxiety.
His hair was neatly combed, his shoes polished, and he held the café menu like it had personally offended him.
He looked up at the exact moment she did.
And for one solid, weirdly suspended second—everything slowed.
Radhika expected the usual awkward glance, quick smile, look-away.
Instead, Rishit blinked, tilted his head slightly, and raised one eyebrow like he'd just recognized someone from a parallel dimension.
She blinked back.
He gave a small, crooked smile—more amused than impressed.
Like he could already tell she'd rather be anywhere else.
Radhika held his gaze a moment longer than necessary.
She didn't smile back, but she also didn't look away with her usual practiced disinterest.
Something about his expression wasn't irritating.
And that, for her, was a surprisingly decent start.
She looked away first—and sat down.
"Namaste," her mother chirped, already adjusting her dupatta like a tactical move.
"Aap log se milke bahut achha laga."
Rishit's mother—a regal woman in a beige silk saree with exactly seven bangles.
"Hame bhi. Rishit was very eager to meet."
Radhika's eyebrows lifted.
Rishit coughed lightly.
"I said I was... open to meeting."
His mother patted his hand like settled that.
Then came the scripted chaos.
"So, Radhika, cooking ka shauk hai?"
"Ha, sometimes I cook."
"Just 'sometimes'?"
Rishit's father asked.
"She's very creative."
Her mother cut in.
"Does design work."
"Oh?" said Rishit's mother.
"Logos and all?"
"Mostly digital art," Radhika replied.
"Posters, branding, some magazine layouts—"
"Oh, that's nice," his mother said, the tone implying no idea what that means.
Rishit glanced at her over his water glass.
Their eyes met again.
He gave a barely visible nod, like: Hang in there.
His mother shifted to more crucial questions.
"What time do you wake up?"
"Do you watch serials?"
"Do you use Swiggy more than three times a week?"
Radhika tried not to burst into flames.
It was Rishit who saved her.
"Excuse me," he said, with the calm of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.
"Can I ask something?"
Everyone looked at him.
"What kind of coffee do you like?"
She blinked.
There was a pause.
Then she smiled, just a little.
"Depends. Is this a compatibility test?"
He tilted his head.
"Maybe. I don't trust people who drink cold coffee in winter."
She chuckled.
"Then I won't tell you about my December frappuccino habit."
Their parents blinked, confused.
Rishit's mother tried to pivot the conversation back to cutlery preferences, but he was already turning to Radhika again.
"Would you be okay stepping out for a few minutes? Just to talk."
Radhika glanced at her parents.
Her father nodded. Her mother looked like she was about to warn her not to talk about therapy.
"Sure."
Radhika stood up.
They walked toward the glass-panelled balcony where the café kept its tall stools and overpriced potted plants.
And for the first time, Radhika's heartbeat sped up—not with dread, but curiosity.
—
The balcony of Nothing Before Coffee wasn't designed for rishta diplomacy.
It had just two stools, one chipped table, and an ambitious bonsai tree dying in the corner.
But it gave them enough distance from curious parental ears.
Radhika sat first, tugging at the edge of her kurta to keep it from sticking to the metal stool.
Rishit sat across from her, carefully placing his phone face down on the table like it was a symbolic gesture of seriousness.
For a second, neither spoke.
Radhika decided to get ahead of the awkwardness.
"So. This is where I say something profound like 'You're not what I expected.' And you say something safe like 'You look different in person.'"
Rishit smiled.
"You do look different. Less like a biodata. More like... a person who hates this process."
She laughed softly.
"That obvious?"
"Painfully."
Another pause.
But this one felt less strained.
Rishit leaned forward, elbows lightly on the table, tone casual but direct.
"So, Radhika... are you okay with all this?"
She blinked.
"All this… as in marriage?"
"As in your parents setting this up. Meeting strangers in overpriced cafés. Feeling like you have to perform the role of Future Wife."
That caught her off guard.
"Honestly?" she said, tilting her head.
"No. Not really."
He nodded.
No judgment, no surprise.
Just quiet understanding.
"I told my parents I'd only meet people if I could be real," he said.
"No job interviews disguised as courtship. No pretending to be into yoga. No pretending to like TV serials."
Radhika narrowed her eyes.
"You don't like serials?"
"I like some drama. Just not the kind where someone turns slowly with a flute playing in the background."
She laughed again, louder this time.
The bonsai tree trembled slightly in the breeze.
"So what do you like?"
She asked, more curious now than cautious.
"Long walks to the fridge. Mediocre crime novels. Planning road trips I never take. And making spreadsheets for fun."
"You make spreadsheets… for fun?"
He nodded, completely serious.
"Conditional formatting is deeply satisfying."
She looked at him like he had just confessed to enjoying tax forms.
"Wow, you might be the least dangerous man I've ever met."
"I try."
"You're not trying to impress me, are you?"
"Nope. I'm trying to make sure you feel like you can say no, if you want to. No strings. No awkwardness."
That—more than anything else—threw her off.
Not the charm, not the jokes, but the lack of pressure.
Radhika sat back, studying him in a way that wasn't defensive anymore.
And quietly, her shoulders loosened.
Maybe she didn't trust him yet.
But she didn't feel like she needed to protect herself either.
"You're very... normal," she said finally.
"I consider that a high compliment."
A breeze ruffled his shirt collar.
Inside the glass walls, their parents were smiling too hard, pretending not to stare.
Radhika looked at the bonsai.
Then at Rishit.
And for the first time during any rishta meeting in her life, she didn't want to leave yet.
The walk back from the balcony felt weirdly... calm.
No sudden realizations. No violins. Just two people who didn't need to fill the silence with small talk.
When they rejoined the table, the parents immediately snapped back into polite panic mode—rearranging teacups, adjusting shawls, and pretending they hadn't been staring through the glass like bored zoo visitors.
"So?"
Rishit's mother said, too casually.
"We talked."
Rishit replied, sitting down.
"She didn't run."
"Yet," Radhika added, sipping water.
There was some nervous laughter.
The kind of chuckling that tastes like anxiety and secondhand hope.
Within ten minutes, the conversation was gently wrapped.
Promises of 'we'll let you know' were exchanged.
Everyone pretended like they hadn't already started mentally designing wedding cards.
Back in the car, her mother turned around in her seat before the engine had even started.
"He seems nice, no?"
"Hmm."
Radhika said, looking out the window.
"Polite. Simple. No unnecessary showing off," her father added.
"He asked for consent to talk privately," her mother said.
"That's rare these days."
Radhika didn't respond.
But she wasn't rolling her eyes. Or plotting her escape. And that, in itself, was new.
Halfway home, her phone buzzed.
- Mahira: "Did he use the words soulmate, vibes, or destiny?"
Radhika smirked and typed back.
- Radhika: "No. He said 'conditional formatting is satisfying.'"
Pause.
- Mahira: "So... he's broken?"
- Radhika: "No. Worse. He might be... functional."
She stared at the message a moment, then added one more.
- Radhika: "Also... I didn't hate it."
She locked her phone and looked out the window.
And smiled.
Just a little.