Modern Love: A Fairy Tale

 

The Unmasking

Bumping into each other on a dating app a decade after college felt like a glitch in the universe. Now, they were in a different city, living different lives. They agreed to meet, but she had set the terms with bureaucratic precision: “Strictly dinner. Not a date. Don’t expect anything else.” She’d added a few smileys to the message, a soft cushion for a hard boundary.

To their mutual surprise, the evening wasn’t labored; it was effortless. In college, they had been silhouettes to one another. He was the "snob"—the golden boy of a vast empire. She was the "bookworm," protected by a 'don’t mess with me' demeanor and a pair of fake, Bollywood-inspired glasses used to hide the strain of poverty and scholarship-induced pressure.

Over delectable food and wine that eased the decade-old tension, the masks began to slip. She decided to prod first.

“I’m surprised to see you actually working a job,” she said, swirling her glass. “Don’t you have an empire to run?”

“The empire wasn't doing well,” he admitted, his voice steady. “And honestly, I didn't have the aptitude for it. But what about you? What’s your story?”

“The first few years were a marathon of debt,” she said, surprising herself with her own honesty. “Repaying loans, securing a roof for my parents. I’ve only just started to look at the horizon beyond the town I grew up in.”

He looked at her, really looked at her. “Your college game kept everyone at bay. We all just assumed you were haughty. Hard to crack.”

“It was a shield,” she admitted. “It hid the complexes and the woes. But that was another life. What’s your real story, Mr. Moneybags?”

There was a faint, heavy hesitation before he opened up. “The business losses… it was too much for my father. He took his own life. My mother almost followed suit; she couldn't find a reason to stay. It took me years to untangle the mess and show her that life was still worth living.”

The air at the table shifted. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”

“Don’t be,” he smiled, and it was the first real one she’d seen. “I had never known money troubles before that. It was a sobering, brutal education. It taught me what struggle actually looks like for everyone else. I think I’m a much wiser man for it.”

“More attractive too”, she muttered under her breath. He pretended he didn’t listen, but his smile gave him away. 

The Authentic Run

It was a weekend morning date, a deliberate shift from the heavy evening wine of their first meeting. They had chosen a run in the expansive park followed by a leisurely breakfast—a plan that felt as fresh as the season. The winter chill was finally yielding to the creeping warmth of spring, making every breath feel invigorating.

They matched each other step-for-step over the seven-kilometer trail, a slow-burn pace that left them energized rather than exhausted. Afterward, they headed to a neighborhood institution—a bustling eatery where the air was thick with the scent of steaming idlis, crispy ghee masala dosas, and the sharp aroma of filter coffee.

“They serve truly authentic food here,” he beamed, taking a deep breath of the wafting steam.

She offered a noncommittal smile, watching the coffee being poured.

“I particularly love their sambar,” he continued. “It couldn’t get anymore South Indian than this.”

She took a slow, deliberate sip of her coffee before speaking. “What is ‘authentic’ is defined by time and space. What we call authentic today might be a stranger to the future, or a foreigner elsewhere.”

He paused, wondering for a second if she was being confrontational. But when he looked at her, he saw an open, reflective expression—she wasn't challenging him so much as sharing a realization. He suppressed the itch to argue and leaned in instead. “You’ve got me intrigued. Care to explain that?”

“You think this is authentic sambar and coffee,” she said. “But a century ago, it wouldn’t have been recognized as such. Our notions of cooking evolve. Even coffee is a different language depending on geography—Mysore versus Madras, for instance.”

“But we claim these things are passed down through generations,” he countered. “We exclaim that it’s just like how our Ajji or Paati used to make it.”

“And yet, sambar is likely Maharashtrian in origin,” she pointed out with a glint in her eye. “And there wouldn’t even be a sambar as we know it without the Portuguese bringing chillies to India. Yet, we’re ready to fight over whose version is the ‘real’ one.”

Understanding dawned on him, and he let out a laugh. “True! There’d be no masala dosa without the Portuguese bringing the potato, either. We crib about every variation we find, clinging to a version of history that's only a few hundred years old.”

She ribbed him then, her voice dropping into a playful quip. “Well, everyone knows the only truly authentic thing is Gobi Manchurian.”

“Ouch,” he chuckled. “That hurts.”

The Quiet Legacy

“I can’t admire this enough,” she gushed, her eyes tracing the canvas. “The play of colors... it’s both interesting and alluring.”

He could feel the sincerity in her voice, a physical rush of warmth that made him feel more seen than the art itself. “Thank you,” he said softly.

This was her first time at his home since they had reconnected, and the walls were a revelation. “I had no idea you were this accomplished,” she said, turning to him. “You never post your work. I haven't seen a single stroke on your social media.”

“I don’t make much of an effort to show it,” he admitted. “I don’t even paint that frequently. It takes a lot of internal push to actually pick up the brushes.”

“But look around! There are enough pieces here to fill a gallery!”

He shrugged, a modest movement. “They were done over a long time.”

“You should share this with the world,” she pressed, her excitement growing. “Why don’t you approach a curator? Don’t you want to be known? Anyone else in your position would be desperate for that kind of recognition.”

“I enjoy being recognized,” he said, meeting her eyes. “Like how you appreciated my art just now. But I can’t handle large-scale attention. I’m much happier with smaller doses.”

“It’s strange,” she countered. “Don’t you want these hanging in museums? Don’t you want to be remembered after you’re gone?”

“It wouldn’t much matter to me once I’m dead, would it?”

She recoiled slightly. “Gosh. That’s a morbid philosophy.”

A quiet settled between them as they left the studio. In the living room, the smell of fresh coffee filled the space between them. He sat beside her, his voice low and steady. “You and I have both lost people,” he began. “At first, the loss is all you see. Then, gradually, the memories fade into the background. We continue to live. We have to.”

“What’s the point you’re making?” she asked.

“Just that even the people closest to us don’t remember the dead every hour of every day. What matters—to them and to us—is the living. The here and now. It’s fine for some people to want a legacy, but I don't desire one.”

There was a long pause as she let his words sink in. She looked at his paintings, then back at him, seeing the man who didn't need the world's applause because he was content in his own skin.

She reached out, taking his hand in hers. “Maybe your legacy will be the choice not to leave one.”

He squeezed her hand. “I could live with that.”

The Ascent

She had chosen the hillock for a reason. It was a short but steep, lung-bursting climb that she had frequented when the weight of her family’s debt felt too heavy. To him, it was a first.

He reached the summit panting, sweat dampening his shirt as he turned to take in the panoramic view. The city below was a distant hum, bathed in a forgiving, golden light. "Incredible," he breathed. "It feels like you can finally breathe up here."

When he turned back, he found her already down on one knee.

He froze. "What are you doing?"

"I've spent my life waiting for the next disaster," she said, her voice steady against the wind. She held out a simple silver band—no box, just the metal catching the sun. "You told me you only care about the living. The here and now. I don't want to wait for a timeline that makes sense to other people."

She looked up at him, her eyes fierce. "Will you be my man?"

The surprise on his face melted into a slow, profound heat. He reached down, pulling her upward into a crushing embrace.

"It's impulsive," he murmured against her hair, his laugh thick with relief. "It's completely reckless."

"And?" she challenged.

"And," he said, taking the ring from her hand, "it’s the only authentic choice we’ve ever made."