The last thing Radhika Sharma wanted to hear on a lazy Sunday morning was the word 'kundali.'
But there it was—loud, nasal, and echoing through the thin walls of her Lucknow home like a vuvuzela made of judgment.
"Aapne ladki ki kundali check karva li?"
One voice cackled.
"Haan haan, par abhi toh ladki ghar pe hi baithi hai, koi naukri-shaukri ka plan nahi."
Another chimed in, like her unemployment was a charming family heirloom.
Radhika groaned into her pillow and reached blindly for her phone. 7:46 AM.
She tapped her cousin Mahira's contact and typed.
- Radhika: Woke up to aunty squad doing marriage negotiations like I'm on OLX.
- Mahira (immediately): You ARE the product. Don't forget to smile and come with a warranty.
Downstairs, steel utensils clanged.
Her mother was yelling for chutney.
Her father coughed once—the polite way of saying get up now or face social death.
Radhika sat up, hair sticking in all directions, oversized t-shirt declaring 'Nap Queen.'
"Maybe if I lie back down and die quietly, they'll just marry my ghost."
The house smelled of fried snacks and tension.
She peeked out of her bedroom window.
Two scooters. One silver Honda City. Three chappals too fancy to belong to anyone under forty.
She closed the curtain. Then the dreaded knock.
"Radhika?" her mother's voice—overly sweet, which meant trouble.
"Thoda ready ho ja beta, auntylog aaye hain."
Radhika stared at her closet. She had two options:
First, her pink kurti with embroidery that screamed 'sanskari but not desperate.'
Second, her grey hoodie that said 'I will burn this rishta to the ground.'
She grabbed the kurti and pulled it over her head.
Five minutes later, she was downstairs, face washed, hair tamed into a bun that made her ears look like WiFi antennas.
The living room was a battlefield of smiles, tray balancing, and polite lies.
"Arre wah."
One aunty said, looking her up like a saree on sale.
"Ladki toh sundar hai. Bas thoda zyada bolti hogi?"
Radhika's mother answered for her. "Nahi nahi, very quiet. Shaant nature."
Radhika smiled sweetly and thought.
'You have no idea.'
Radhika is dragged into the kitchen chaos and forced into helping serve snacks.
Her sarcasm is ignored by her mother.
The aunties ask passive-aggressive questions.
"Any job these days?" "No cooking classes?"
Radhika balanced a tray of samosas and chutney bowls like she was carrying evidence at a crime scene.
Her mother had barked 'Don't look grumpy!' at her right before pushing her into the living room like a human offering.
"Beta, yeh hai Mrs. Mehta. Aur yeh unki behen, Mrs. Patel. Dono Rishit ke rishtedaar."
Her mother beamed with the subtle threat of a smile, or I will cancel your Netflix forever.
Radhika placed the tray down and gave a slight nod.
Mrs. Mehta adjusted her dupatta with the precision of someone reloading a sniper rifle.
"Toh beta, aaj kal kya kar rahe ho?"
"Recovering."
Radhika said.
A long pause.
"Recovering?"
The other aunty blinked.
"From… capitalism."
Radhika added.
"Burnout. Took a break from my design job. Mental health, you know?"
The aunties exchanged the look. That look. The one that meant 'She's one of those modern
girls who say things like boundaries and trauma.'
Her mother jumped in like a goalie.
"She's very talented! Good with computer design, arts, and many other things. But now she's home and helping me full-time."
Radhika wanted to reply, "Helping you avoid embarrassment doesn't count as a job," but instead bit a samosa.
One of the uncles chuckled.
"Nowadays, all girls say 'designer.' Even my niece makes memes, calls herself creative director."
"Beta, you know how to cook na?"
Mrs. Patel asked, leaning in like a prosecutor.
Radhika nodded.
"I can boil water in less than five minutes."
"Bas?" The aunties laughed.
"Sometimes I add Maggi to it."
She said with a straight face. Her cousin Mahira would've been proud..
"Radhika, jao kitchen se thoda aur chutney le aao."
"Sure. Should I get a fire extinguisher while I'm there?"
She muttered under her breath.
Back in the kitchen, her father looked up from pretending to fix the fridge.
"You're pushing buttons again."
"I'm just allergic to nonsense."
Radhika whispered.
"How many more samosas till I qualify as wife material?"
"One more round," her father said, handing her another tray.
"Now comes the biodata review."
And just like that, she was back in the ring.
Radhika had just escaped to the kitchen again, this time under the pretense of refilling the papad bowl, when her mother cornered her like a determined house cat.
"Put that down," her mother hissed, dragging her toward the storage room like it was an interrogation chamber.
Her father followed, chewing a fennel seed thoughtfully.
"Okay, listen," her mother began, lowering her voice to its top-secret rishta tone.
"That family outside isn't here just for tea."
Radhika squinted.
"Oh no. Are they here for my kidney?"
Her father cleared his throat.
"Radhika. Rishit Rai. A Civil engineer from Mumbai. He belongs to a very good family. He's an IIT pass-out, now a government project consultant."
"That's a real job?"
Radhika asked.
"Or just one of those 'no one really knows what he does' type careers?"
Her mother ignored that.
"He's polite. Family-oriented. No scandals. No ex-girlfriends that we know of. Slightly boring, but maybe that's a good thing."
"I haven't even met him!"
"He saw your profile photo," her father added, adjusting his glasses.
"The one with the yellow dupatta. He said he liked your eyes."
"Oh good. Let me go iron my pupils."
Her mother rolled her eyes.
"They've asked if you're open to meeting him next weekend. Just for coffee. No pressure. And we gave a soft yes."
"A what now?"
"A soft yes. Like a trailer, not the whole movie."
Radhika rubbed her forehead.
"You know what else has a soft yes? Tylenol warnings."
"You'll like him," her father said, slipping a folded biodata from his kurta pocket like it was a winning poker hand.
"He even filled it himself. No typos."
Radhika stared at the paper.
Neatly typed. Bold header.
Rishit Rai. Age: 29. Height: 5'11. No allergies.
"…No allergies?"
Her father grinned.
"See? No drama."
Her mother, sensing victory, placed the final blow.
"Just meet him, beta. If nothing else, at least for the free coffee."
Radhika looked at them both—the hopeful glint in her father's eye, her mother's carefully contained excitement.
"Fine. But if he shows up with a guitar and starts quoting Rumi, I'm out."
By the time the guests left with burp-like blessings and leftover laddoos, Radhika had locked herself in her room, pulled her hair into a messy bun, and flopped on her bed like a dying poet.
Her phone buzzed.
- Incoming Video Call: Mahira 'Men Are Optional' Sharma
She answered it without greeting.
"Guess what?" Radhika said, flat on her pillow.
Mahira, applying eyeliner like it was a competitive sport, didn't look up.
"Another rishta?"
"Yes. Engineer. He's from Mumbai. Has a biodata formatted like a government form and listed 'no allergies' as a personality trait."
Mahira snorted.
"Sexy."
"He's probably another emotionally constipated mamma's boy who thinks ordering food counts as a love language."
"Or he's just boring."
Mahira shrugged.
"Which, at this point, might be exotic."
Radhika groaned.
"I've met six of these types. All of them smiled like insurance agents and asked if I can make round rotis."
"What if this one's different?"
"What if he's not?"
Mahira leaned into the camera.
"Go. Meet him. Worst case, you get a coffee. Best case, he's a decent human and your in-laws don't believe the Earth is flat."
Radhika made a face.
"You're way too hopeful today. Did you eat fruit or something?"
Mahira smirked.
"Or maybe I just want gossip. Either way, wear eyeliner. Pretend you're in a movie."
Radhika smiled despite herself.
"Fine. But if this ends with him quoting Paulo Coelho or trying to psychoanalyze my 'aura,' you're paying for my coffee."
"Deal."
Mahira grinned.
"And hey... maybe the universe still has jokes left."
Radhika rolled over on her bed, holding her phone above her head, staring at the ceiling.
"Let's hope it's a funny one this time."