Love in the time of Tinder
I was tense, even though I was pretending not to be. After months of entrance exams, we were finally in phase 2 of the long and tedious MBA admission process — the Group Discussions and Personal Interviews. I didn’t mind the interviews, but the GDs were absolute hell. A round table packed with anywhere between 7–20 people, all shouting in order to have their voices heard, not caring as they decimated people and opinions all in a span of 10 minutes.
And in each GD it was the same. I would feel a sudden nervousness creep in, a sinking feeling in my stomach — where I know I’m supposed to talk, to speak up, but find it almost impossible to.
Weekend after weekend, this nightmare continued. New rooms, new people, same all-consuming destruction.
I had a habit of zoning out beyond a point. And I could tell I wasn’t the only one in the room who so absolutely hated this process. As I squinted at the guy almost spitting out his words, his voice now pure white noise to me, I was distracted by the guy sitting in front of me — a look of pure incredulousness on his face. His face showed exactly how I felt. And it took me all my willpower to not break out into a nervous laugh in the middle of the discussion.
The next week the grind repeated — thousands of to-be-students proving their aptitude of turning into future rats in a never ending race. Another table. More spittle. More white noise. But then I looked around the table and spotted him again. Staring directly at me. No, through me, almost…at my soul. And at that momentous moment I suddenly knew that he understood. The futility of this all. That he was just like me, a misfit.
At this realization, I felt my heart suddenly pick up its pace, and as much as I tried to tell it to calm down, it refused to listen. And then he spoke. That deep, beautiful voice — the type I could listen to all day and go skinny dipping in. As he spoke, tongue in cheek, with little jokes at the cost of the table, he looked at me, and winked.
My jaw dropped. Almost like a cartoon, I could physically feel it happen. But nobody seemed to have notice it, and he was already paying deep attention to the next speaker. Or pretending to. The corners of his lips curled upwards just slightly, just enough for me to notice.
Swept up in interviews right after this, he slipped from my mind, until the next weekend. And somehow, we bumped into each other again. Up until then, I had never believed in fate and destiny, but if the universe was throwing me signs, this seemed to be everything short of a lightening strike.
From across the room, he gave me an awkward wave, which I returned, none too gracefully. Three hours of harrowing discussions and interviews later, I stepped out into the sun. And for once, I wasn’t surprised to find him standing there. Waiting.
Over the years friends have asked me how I was so sure he’d be waiting for me. But I was. I could feel it in my bones that day. That weird karmic connection. We were supposed to meet every week that month. We were supposed to meet.
I walked up to him, confidently, for once in my life.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” He smiled back, clearly very comfortable. “I think it’s time we caught up over a cup of coffee, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
Of course, I didn’t tell him I didn’t drink coffee. Why spoil such a beautiful connection with such unimportant details? My brain was jumping up and down, screaming at the thought of walking off with an absolute stranger. It took my heart all its strength to calm it down. It was, at the end of the day, just a coffee. And it was with him.
As it turned out, he didn’t drink coffee either. I heard a tiny ting noise in my heart. He had started ticking boxes in a list that I didn’t even know existed until that moment.
So we had a chat.
A very long chat.
Over hot chocolate and tea.
He talked about his army family background, the rebellious life he’d led, the single-child brat he loved being. He talked about his drunken escapades, how he liked to party, how often he smoked weed. He talked about how he had no clue what he wanted in life — no dreams — so an MBA seemed like a decent excuse for the time being.
He talked about his last vacation and next. His views on politics (none), his views on Bollywood (many) and the state of our country (didn’t care).
He talked about his school and his past girlfriends.
He talked.
A lot.
And while I love guys who can make good conversations, monologues aren’t really my thing.
Because suddenly I felt that nervousness creep in, that sinking feeling in my stomach — where I know I’m supposed to talk, to speak up, but find it almost impossible to.
I realized I had managed to put myself in yet another group discussion, this time a small round table in a coffee shop, just with a little less spittle flying around, but as much drama and as little concern for the other person.
I paid my half and left.
I’d like to say that I was less delusional from that day on. That I didn’t imagine perfect-ness and connections after that, that I didn’t swipe right just because the eyes in the photo spoke to my soul, without really reading bios.
But then, where’s the fun in that?
