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."

The Bridge

 

The humidity of Kochi hung heavy in the air, but inside the house, the silence was even thicker. Vikram sat with his phone in hand, staring at a name that had remained static in his contact list since a decade.

Amita.

Their last conversation had been a somber exchange nearly a decade ago, sparked by the passing of a mutual friend. In the years that followed, the silence between them hadn't been a choice so much as a habit. They were ex-spouses who had mastered the art of becoming strangers.

But today was her fiftieth birthday. A half-century. It felt like a milestone too significant to let pass in silence, yet the weight of nine years made the simple act of typing "Happy Birthday" feel like a monumental risk.

Does she even have this number? he wondered. If she sees my name, will it ruin her day?

He felt a flicker of dread—the fear of a cold response or, perhaps worse, the "Read" receipt followed by total silence. Finally, pushing past the cynicism, he tapped out a brief, warm message and hit send. He immediately turned the phone over, as if shielding himself from the potential rejection.

An hour passed in a blur of restless distraction. Then, the phone on the table didn't just chime; it vibrated with the steady rhythm of an incoming call. He picked it up. It was her.

"Hello?" he said, bracing for a formal tone.

"Hi, it’s Amita," came the voice on the other end. It was startlingly familiar, carrying the same warmth he remembered from a lifetime ago.

The tension in Vikram’s shoulders vanished. They didn't dwell on the decade of silence; instead, they spoke with an ease that defied the passage of time. Amita filled him in on the family—weddings, moves, and milestones—painting a picture of lives that had continued to bloom since separation.

"I’ve actually been thinking," she said toward the end of the conversation, "I really want to visit Kochi while you’re still stationed there. It’s been on my list for a long time. May be you could even guide me around Kerala?" 

“You are welcome!”

Vikram hung up. The marriage was done—a bridge weathered, broken, and finally gone. For years, he’d stood on the bank staring at the ruins, waiting for a revival that was never coming. And, suddenly, a new one had appeared on the horizon.  One of mutual respect and friendship. 

“Sights and Bites”

 

It was one of those late nights where the dull throb in my injured leg just wouldn’t let me sleep. I was stuck in that blue-light haze, doom-scrolling through social media to pass the time. Naturally, the algorithm decided to torture me with "Unmissable Spots in Bangkok"—stunning drone shots of shimmering gold spires, hidden rooftop bars, and vibrant flower markets.

My partner and I were supposed to have been there together in November, but familial reasons kept me home while he went solo. His entire fortnight of "sightseeing" had consisted almost entirely of Michelin-star street food stalls and legendary noodle shops.

Seeing the gorgeous reels on my screen, I felt a fresh wave of FOMO. I turned the phone toward him and pointed at a particularly breathtaking view of the city.

"Look at these places!" I said, my voice a mix of awe and accusation. "You missed seeing all of this, and only because you were too busy eating!"

He didn't even have the grace to look guilty. He didn't blink; there wasn't an iota of regret on his face. He just glanced at the screen and said calmly:

“It’s okay. I can still see those landmarks on the mobile. But I couldn’t have tasted all that food on my phone, right?”

He went back to what he was doing, and I just sat there, smarting. Because his logic was absolutely airtight and I couldn’t counter it!

Broken Spirits…

A friend was visiting Bengaluru, and my partner suggested, “Why don’t you ask him to join us for dinner?”

I looked up from my mobile. “I already did. He’s a 'maybe' right now.”

“If he says yes, we should open that new wine-flavored gin!”

“That would be nice," I sighed. "But he’s actually stopped drinking. Health issues. He’s gone completely cold turkey.”

My partner went silent, looking genuinely distressed. After a long pause, he whispered, “If you ever gave up drinking, we’d have to give away all our nice liquor to other people.”

“Why?”

“Well, what else would you do with it?”

“I’d break the bottles over people’s heads,” I said, perhaps a bit too quickly.

He stared at me. “What?!”

“I’m not just going to waste it,” I shrugged.

“And how exactly does breaking glass over people help the situation?”

“I imagine I’d get the same high.”

My partner is now looking at rental listings and checking the locks on the bedroom door. I’m honestly a bit hurt—I thought I was being resourceful.

A Different Lens

For years, she had him filed away in her mind under "Inexplicable Success."

As colleagues, they were mandated to cover for one another, giving her an intimate view of his workflow—and it irritated her. While she stayed buried in the mechanics of routine, he was a creature of the periphery, monitoring just enough to ensure deadlines were met while spending the rest of his time discussing cinema, fashion, or harmless gossip. She bristled at his ascent, convinced the "blue-eyed boy" of the company was simply a man who succeeded without effort.

Years passed. They moved away to different cities and headed new verticals in the same firm. When he was in town for a conference, she thought she would meet him out of courtesy over coffee. She couldn’t. A freak accident put paid to the plans. 

*****

She returned home from a grueling physiotherapy session, nursing a body that felt as broken as her professional momentum, and she found a massive bouquet of flowers on her table. A call from him followed almost immediately.

"I saw the flowers," she said, her voice strained. "You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to," he replied. His voice was just as before — calm and unhurried. "How are you feeling?"

"Restless," she admitted. "I’m missing key meetings. The Q3 reports are—"

He cut her off with a soft, easy laugh. "The work will happen by itself, you know. It always does. People like us spend our lives worrying about the machinery, but the machines are built to run."

"I've always struggled with that part," she said.

"Don't," he said firmly. "The reports aren't going to check on you, and the office won't miss you the way your health will. You matter. The rest is just noise."

When he signed off, the silence in the room felt different. While many of her "diligent" peers hadn't uttered a word, the man she had once dismissed had shown a side she never had paid attention to.

She realized then that she had mistaken his humanity for a lack of interest. Or, as his entitled behaviour. His success was no longer a mystery.

Blind Birder’s Guide to Dandeli!

An Indian paradise flycatcher in flight

The Great Non-AC Escape

It was another "Harsha Special," and after missing the last two trips to Dandeli, I was determined not to let this one slip away. I readily agreed and even dragged Sambhu into the mix. Naturally, in true "me" fashion, I delayed booking until the very last second. This resulted in a charming journey via a non-AC sleeper bus, followed by an hour-long cab ride (bless Harsha for organizing that, or we’d probably still be on the side of the road).

Flame or ruby-throated bulbul. It is the state bird of Goa!

We arrived at the Old Magazine House early—far earlier than our upgraded suite was ready for us. However, any frustration was quickly muffled by a sumptuous breakfast and the sight of a small army of tripods already stationed at the bird-hide, looking like a metallic forest.

Malabar grey hornbill

Gear, Gadgets, and Forgetting Everything

The three-day workshop was under the Fuji banner, giving all participants access to some serious glass - including medium format cameras and some telephoto primes. Harsha led the workshop as Fuji’s brand ambassador. 

Grey jungle fowl is endemic to India. It is a protected species

I’ve known Harsha and Shweta for six years now. We have done several wildlife trips together, led by Harsha (including Masai Mara, Kenya). Association with Harsha extends beyond photography. There are other friends too - notably Sathya and Deva - but they weren’t part of this trip. 

Shweta and Harsha

Unfortunately, my packing skills haven’t improved with age. I managed to arrive without adequate memory cards and forgot my battery charger adapter. Harsha and Shweta stepped in to rescue me—a recurring theme in my life that I suspect hasn't seen its series finale just yet.

Red-breasted flycatcher

Also called a taiga flycatcher, it is a winter migrant to India. 

A Colorful Dilemma

To appreciate my love for birding, you have to understand my starting point. The first bird I ever photographed was a Magpie Robin; at the time, I didn't know its name, nor was I aware it existed. Before I started these trips, my avian classification system was simple: Crows, Sparrows, Chickens, Peacocks, and Swans. Everything in the water was a "Crane" (imagine my shock learning that's not a real catch-all term), and every raptor was an "Eagle."

Malabar trogon male

Malabar trogon female

To make matters more interesting, my vision is a disaster—I am both shortsighted and colorblind. It’s a bit like trying to solve a Rubik's cube in a dark room. My companions are incredibly patient saints who help me not just see where the bird is, but also point my lens in the right direction, for which I am eternally grateful. Thank God birds don't judge; they just sit there being majestic while I squint at them.

Indian blackbird. Belongs to the thrush family, and is known for a rich, flute-like song 

The Art of Sleeping In

On the day we arrived, the group headed to the local timber depot in pursuit of Hornbills. We didn't join them, and judging by their disgruntled faces when they returned bird-less, we hadn't missed much. We were supposed to join the second attempt the following morning, but the alarm clock lost the battle. When the "nature walk" call came at 7:00 AM, I politely declined in favor of my pillow.

In retrospect, laziness was my best tactical decision.

Orange-headed thrush

It is known for its vibrant colours and complex, melodious song

The Grand Prize

By skipping the depot and the nature walk, I was stationed at the hide when the Star Attraction appeared: the male Paradise Flycatcher. I have been chasing a glimpse of this elusive beauty for six years, ever since seeing Harsha’s photos. Seeing those long, flowing tail feathers in person right at the start of the day was worth every missed alarm and forgotten memory card.

Paradise flycatcher (male). Distinct for its flowing white tail feathers

The last day of the trip, Sayambhu and I headed to the timber depot in Dandeli. Surprise! There were tree-full of Malabar pied hornbills to see and and click. It’s another matter I missed clicking them while they took off into the skies, thanks to the speed at which I operate! We also managed to sight some owls and a couple of other birds while at the depot. 

Black naped monarch

It’s also called black-naped blue flycatcher 

Over the two days, we saw roughly twenty species, including various Flycatchers, three types of Hornbills, the Malabar Trogon, and the legendary Pitta. Along with clicking pics, we also made some new friends! 

Malabar pied hornbill

Hornbills are known to pair for life!

After a satisfying trip, we returned to Bengaluru by train—having already decided that if the train failed, we were simply going to flee to Goa and fly home. The best thing about the trip? Sayambhu picking up clicking skills like a past master. All pics of pittas and trogons are to his credit.  Left to me, I’d still be ruing that I couldn’t focus in time!

Indian pitta. Also called navrang because of its colourful feathers!

Birding trips are great to learn not just about birds, but the importance to preserve our nature, ecology, and earth. Any birding trip invariably teaches you loads of patience. Also, you realise that you have to click a few hundred pictures of each bird to get a few good ones! I wonder how those who clicked with film cameras managed back in those days!

White-bellied blue flycatcher

I’ve shared the pictures of birds from the trip all through this write-up! (Captured despite my best efforts to forget equipment). If you need any tips about a birding trip to Dandeli, reach out with a comment!

Jungle owlet, a variety of small owl