The one who said ‘Oh. Your nose.
The arch, the traffic, the twilight. A fork in the road I didn’t take.
For the longest time, I believed the only thing standing between me and hotness was a nose pin.
Not confidence. Not better lighting. Not therapy. Just a little stud on my right nostril.
I was convinced it would instantly transform me into someone striking , the kind of girl who wore silver jhumkas, refused to explain her reading list, and said things like “I’m just wired differently.”
Every time I asked my mother if I could get one, she said no.
Which was ironic, because she wore one. As did most of my aunts.
But Amma thought it was too traditional for the modern world I was stepping into.
“You can do what you want when you’re older,” she said.
“Right now, you’re still figuring out who you want to be.”
So I waited.
Until one evening after work, a close colleague and I walked into a small piercing studio and got our noses pierced together.
When I got home, Amma was first disappointed, and then, in her own quiet way, affectionate.
The next day, she visited the bank locker and returned with her old three-stone diamond nose pin.
“I suppose you’ll want this now,” she said.
No speech. No apology. Just inheritance, slightly ahead of schedule.
At the time, the Madras Boy was in my life.
We’d met on TamilMatrimony.com – the closest Gen Xers had to Tinder.
My parents, having failed to explain my career (“she does something with focus groups… insights?”), finally gave up and let me run the search. Horoscope matching was declared optional. Weekly updates, however, were non-negotiable.
I filtered carefully. Only boys who managed their own profiles. (Bare minimum.)
Tucked between Green Card-bound software engineers and boys who listed ‘cricket’ and ‘coding’ as interests, he stood out.
He was silly, a little awkward, and unafraid to admit he liked watching old Vijaykanth movies unironically.
He was basically a Tamil Chandler Bing. And since my friends often called me a high-maintenance Monica, it felt promising.
We texted and called for four months.
There were jokes. There was banter.
There was the kind of low-stakes, high-hope anticipation you allow yourself when something feels like it might… work.
So we planned to meet.
It had been about two weeks since I got my nose pierced. I’d already moved on from the little gold starter stud to a thin silver ring – boho, bold, slightly Delhi-girl coded.
(I’m also a former Delhi girl. So it felt… earned.)
We met at a coffee shop in Adyar – strong filter coffee, too much sugar, AC on full blast.
He looked up from his phone and smiled.
Then he said:
“Oh. Your nose.”
Now, I’ve always liked my nose. It’s a strong family nose, large, a little dramatic, impossible to ignore.
I used to joke that noses run in our family, which felt apt since we also always had colds.
For a second, I waited for the compliment.
Instead, I got judgment.
No direct insult, just that quiet, tight-lipped tone of disappointment. Like I’d revealed a secret tattoo on my butt or admitted I didn’t believe in Rajinikanth (which… let’s not stir the pot).
I’d been slotted into a category.
A certain type of girl. The kind who wears nose rings and has opinions.
The kind boys are warned about but secretly swipe right on.
The mood shifted.
The warmth of our four-month flirtation cooled to cautious formality.
We talked about Madras vs. Bombay humidity levels. The bad playlist at the café.
Toxic workplaces – though in those days, we didn’t call them that. We just said, “My boss is like that only.”
From Chandler and Monica, we were now reduced to background characters – uncredited, forgettable.
Maybe it was the nose pin.
Maybe it was something else.
Maybe it was my personality. Or the lack of it.
I choose to believe it was the nose pin. Because when I tell stories about myself, I try to be kind.
I still have my nose pin.
I’ve since traded the boho silver ring of my twenties for Amma’s three-diamond one.
And honestly, I don’t even remember I have it on most days —
except once a quarter, when I turn into a full-blown snot machine.
Anyway, I never looked up Madras Boy on LinkedIn.
This is part of How I Did Not Meet Your Father, a recurring series in which I mine my non-existent love life for content, gently, and with context.
Primalsoup 
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