The First Meeting

Bangalore’s weather was at its best as I walked from my friend’s office on Infantry Road. It was the 6th of September, 2005—a Tuesday. The sun playfully hid behind clouds, and a gentle breeze stirred the city, which, usually so busy, seemed to ease into a leisurely pace—or maybe that was just my imagination.

What I distinctly remember is that I was smiling to myself, feeling a rare sense of ease as I crossed Cubbon Road, took a left at Anil Kumble Circle, and stepped onto MG Road. It felt like a day shaped by destiny—something good was bound to happen, and all I had to do was go with the flow. I was about to meet Smitha for the first time; we had arranged to meet for lunch at the 13th Floor restaurant (which was indeed on the 13th floor) at Barton Center.

I waited outside the towering building as the clock neared 12 noon, watching the street ahead. For a moment, something distracted me, pulling my attention away. When I looked back, there she was—Smitha, walking up the gentle incline in an off-white and yellow dress, with a small paper bag in her hand and her million-watt smile making it seem as though she’d known me forever.

We had met online and had spoken over the past few months over phone. Right from the start, I’d felt comfortable with her. Here was a lovely, intelligent woman—a teacher by profession, with a clear passion for her work. Through countless phone calls, we’d shared stories and grew to look forward to each other’s calls. One night, during one of these conversations, she said something quietly meaningful: “I hope our relationship doesn’t stay only on these phone calls.” I knew exactly what she meant, and my feelings mirrored hers.

We arranged to meet on September 6th, the day after Teacher’s Day. Her school had declared a holiday after the celebrations on the 5th. I had taken a bus from Kochi to Bangalore, arriving over the weekend, and now, here we were.

With a warm smile, she stretched out her hand and said, “Hi, I’m Smitha.”

Of course, I already knew that, but I guess she too was a little nervous and maybe that was the best way she could break the ice. While I can’t recall my response, I only remember feeling a little tongue-tied as I suggested we head up for lunch. When we reached the restaurant, however, we learned we were a bit early, so we made our way back to a cafe on the ground floor instead.

After ordering our coffees, I decided it was time and gently said, “Shall we go ahead?”

She looked at me, slightly confused. “What?”

Even today, I’m a bit daft in such situations, so I dumbly repeated, “I mean, shall we go ahead?”

Again, she responded, still hesitant: “What?”

My heart skipped a beat. Had she understood, but didn’t want to? I decided to try once more, this time putting it simply: “Shall we get married?”

She smiled. “Thanks…Yes.”

Well, I should have said it that way to begin with.

A huge sense of relief washed over me, though I like to believe I didn’t show it on my face. But what touched me most was her “Thanks.” She didn’t have to say it, but she did, in a way that made me feel truly special. That was enough—more than enough.

As we sipped our coffees, she said, “I got something for you.” She dipped her hand into the paper bag and brought out a beautiful clay figurine of Ganesha, followed by a framed Warli Art painting in bamboo. Smitha always had an eye for traditional art, as well as flowers, plants, birds, and butterflies.

For instance, when most people first land in Dubai and exit the airport, they look upwards and marvel at the skyscrapers. But, her gaze held steady and noticed the Neem trees planted in the medians. She exclaimed in happiness, “Look at all these neem trees!”.

Who would ever associate neem trees with Dubai? I hadn’t noticed them either, and I’m not sure anyone else did. But you get the drift.

Handing me the Ganesha and the painting, she said, “I didn’t know how our meeting today would end. But I wanted you to remember me, regardless.”

I didn’t know what to say. Here was someone who treasured our friendship, no matter what. I don’t remember what I mumbled in response, but it was probably nothing smart.

The rest of the afternoon, we wandered the streets and a mall. I remember my shoelaces coming undone every few minutes. Each time I bent down to tie them, she would smile and wait patiently. Our day ended at Shivaji Nagar bus station, where I saw her off, as she waved as the bus left the platform.

That night, as I took the overnight bus to Kochi, she called again, and we talked until I drifted into dreamland.

We married a few months later, overcoming stiff opposition from my side of the family, as is often the case in Indian weddings. Over the years, we’ve had a few forgettable and countless unforgettable moments. We built our lives, atom by atom, molecule by molecule. Looking back, I think we did pretty well.

The Ganesha and the painting still adorn our first home. The warmth I felt in my heart when she gifted them to me, trusting our destiny but not yet knowing it, still gives me strength.

In a few months, we’ll be celebrating our 19th wedding anniversary.