Primalsoup

The one who let his brother do the talking

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A quiet, sunlit apartment. A not-so-quiet surprise inside.

Image Credit

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This one was hard to avoid.

The boy was introduced to me by my favourite uncle, the kind of man who called me “child” well into my thirties, and always slipped an extra note into my palm when no one was looking. He was the only one in the extended family who didn’t treat me like an exotic, unmarried disappointment. So when he said, “Meet this boy. I think you’ll like him,” I agreed.

Let’s call him Maama’s Choice.

I was invited to his home, a sunlit apartment in a quiet Chennai lane. His older brother was also present, presumably as a chaperone. I remember feeling mildly self-conscious about that, but Maama’s Choice seemed sweet enough. Earnest. Unpretentious.

We settled into the arranged marriage selection script like old pros:

• Career plans (aligned).
• Money philosophy (practical).
• Parents (caring, non-intrusive).
• Children (open to discussion).
• Weekend plans (books, beach walks, maybe building IKEA furniture together if it came to that).

We were checking boxes so efficiently, I half-expected him to pull out a laminated scorecard and say, “You’ve reached Level 2: Joint Home Loans.”

It was going well. So well, in fact, that I briefly wondered if my uncle had secretly coached him.

Then, just as I reached for a second Mysorepak, the brother spoke.

“So,” he asked, “what do you think of our house?”

I looked up, confused.
“It’s nice,” I said cautiously. “Lots of light.”

He nodded, as if I’d passed a test.
“Great. Let me tell you a little more.”

What followed was not small talk. It was a sales pitch.

The brother – who I now realised wasn’t just a chaperone, launched into an enthusiastic monologue about his home-flipping business. He described how they’d bought the flat at a bargain, added modular kitchen cabinets, and upgraded the flooring to Italian tile. Then he began outlining his next project, a row of villas near the ECR, and how he was looking for early investors.

For a moment, I thought it was a joke.
But no, this man was pitching me a real estate venture. On my first date.

There was no PowerPoint, but he spoke like he had one.
I swear I heard invisible bullet points.

I sat frozen, half-nodding, half-pleading with Maama’s Choice using the universal language of “please do something” eye contact.
He looked at the floor. Then his coffee. Then the wall.

He wasn’t cringing or objecting. Just… absent.

At that point in my life, I was barely covering rent and electricity in Bombay. I wasn’t sure why this man thought I had disposable capital or generational wealth. I suspect he heard “insights director” (a rather bloated title I had at work) and translated it to “secret heiress.”

It was hard to explain to my family what had transpired.

“But the boy was okay, right?” they asked.

I suppose. But his silence stayed with me, not just in the moment, but later too.
Were they in it together? And if they weren’t, why didn’t he stop it?

I mean, if my brother ever hijacked a date to pitch floor plans, I’d personally escort him out of the building.

I still wonder if they rehearsed it.
Or if Maama’s Choice just didn’t know how to say no, to his brother, or to a script someone else had written.

Either way, I left feeling like I’d wandered into a pitch meeting, not a possible beginning.

Somehow, and unfortunately – the most memorable part of that evening was the brother.
And that’s never a good sign.

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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.