Primalsoup

The one I had no good reason to reject

The coffee was warm. The conversation was polite.
The chemistry? Pure LinkedIn.

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His parents had already met mine.
Not in a vague, floating “let’s see” way, but in the full-blown exchanging rasam ratios, best-retirement-plans, and let’s-go-to-Kashi-together kind of way. Our fathers had both retired from the government. Our mothers, both former Tamil literature enthusiasts and frighteningly competent home managers, had already bonded over dosa techniques and their children’s rapidly receding hairlines in their twenties.

He was three years older than me, which Amma considered the exact right age gap, scientifically proven.
He made three times my salary.
He worked in marketing, which my parents took as a sign that he’d “understand your research job.”
He lived in Bombay. Drove a sensible car. Seemed progressive. Liked pets.
Tick, tick, tick.

So I went to meet him.

We had dinner at a stylish but not overdone restaurant in Worli. He was already seated when I arrived, and he stood up, not in that performative over-mannered way, but quietly, like he meant it. I remember thinking: Oh. He’s not performing. He’s just like this.

He asked me thoughtful things. Not “what do you do” in a resume way, but “how did you get into that line of work?” in a way that made me feel like my job wasn’t just tolerable, but interesting. He asked what I liked most about my fieldwork. Whether I ever got scared traveling alone. And at one point, when I mentioned a story from a small-town study, he paused and said, “Wait… you actually went there? That’s amazing.”

And I… I couldn’t reciprocate.
Not because he wasn’t smart, or kind, or decent.
But because from the first five minutes, I knew I wouldn’t marry him.

I didn’t feel curiosity. Or attraction. Or even that vague buzz of maybe.
Instead, I found myself shrinking. Offering polite answers. Holding my coffee cup like a shield.
And, quietly, looking for a reason to say no that would sound better than he didn’t make my stomach flip.

At one point, he said, “You haven’t asked me anything yet.”
And I panicked.
I asked him about marketing. About brand strategy.
It felt like a LinkedIn coffee chat. Any moment I’d ask about his KPIs.

Later, when the conversation drifted to things we liked: books, music, food, he mentioned his love for single malts. He spoke about them with such detail and affection, it should have been charming.

I filed it away.

That night, I told my parents, “I don’t think it’ll work. He’s very into alcohol, and I don’t drink.”
It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either.

He messaged me a few weeks later.
Said he’d enjoyed talking to me. Asked if I wanted to meet again.
I didn’t reply.

Some cruelties are too small to apologise for,
too large to forget.

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.