Bollywood filled me with dreams—dreams of epic love, unapologetic emotions, and people fighting the world just to be with you. What it didn’t prepare me for was reality: where people fight you on your worth, even when you bring everything to the table—sometimes even the table itself.
Sure, I’ve had office crushes. Sweet, fleeting things built on shared coffee breaks and the occasional compliment during a stressful day. But let’s be real—that’s not love. That’s survival fantasy. Because the truth is, real love—lasting love—isn’t found in passing glances. It’s found in choices. And I’ve loved people who couldn’t choose me.
You see, my love life hasn’t been tragic—it’s been politely painful. The kind of pain that comes with a smile. I’ve met good men. Kind men. Men who cried in front of me, shared their fears, made plans with me. But when it came to the moment—the commitment, the family talk, the “let’s take the next step”… suddenly I was “not a good fit.”
Not a good fit? For whom, exactly?
I’m 5’7″, fair-skinned with naturally glowing beauty, great hair, and that goddess vibe that enters the room before I do. I can cook like a dream, dance like I’m in a Bollywood climax, earn my own money, and still have enough grace left to host a pooja and pull off a lehenga like royalty. I’m soft when I need to be, sharp when I must. I know how to make a house a home—but I also know how to build a life.
And yet… somehow, I don’t “fit.”
Why? Because I’m too modern for their traditional tastes, or too “confident” to be controlled, or because I won’t trade my independence for insecurity wrapped in ritual. Because I have a voice. Because I have standards. Because I’m not dying to be chosen—I’m waiting to be respected.
Every time I thought “this is it”… it wasn’t.
Mummy ko vibe nahi aayi.
Papa prefers someone from our community.
She’s too career-focused.
Or the golden line: “Let’s not ruin our friendship.”
Ruin? Sweetheart, it was never a friendship. I showed up like a future. You treated me like an option.
Now? I don’t waste my softness on boys who make me beg for belonging. I won’t over-explain why I’m worthy to people who are too blind to see it. I know what I bring. I bring warmth, style, substance, tradition and ambition wrapped in one dangerously beautiful package. I bring fire and faith. And if that’s not enough for your family—maybe you should ask them what is.
But here’s the plot twist Bollywood didn’t warn me about: arranged marriage now looks like the most romantic concept of them all.
Not the creepy biodata parade, no.
I’m talking full-on Karan Johar meets Microsoft Excel energy.
Where two strangers meet, awkward at first, but then he says something like “My mom actually liked you more than she likes me.” And before you know it, you’re sipping chai on his balcony discussing honeymoon destinations while his cousin teaches you a sangeet dance.
The chemistry builds during mehndi rehearsals. There’s drama at the haldi. You lock eyes during “Din Shagna Da,” and by the time the pheras happen, you’re lowkey obsessed with this guy who once looked like just another checkbox.
That’s the new fantasy: love that’s intentional, not accidental. A man who doesn’t flinch when you speak your mind. A man whose family doesn’t need a powerpoint to understand your worth. A man who doesn’t need time to “figure things out”—because he already knows.
Until that happens, I’ll keep showing up as I am—no filters, no compromises, no “toning it down.”
I’m not difficult.
I’m just no longer available for half-love with full drama.
Because someday, someone’s going to walk in—not to complete me, but to say, “You don’t have to shrink to fit here. We’ve made space for all of you.”
And trust me, when that happens—
even Karan Johar will ask for the rights to our story.
No responses yet