Chapter 2: Beauty, Ambition, and Arranged Dates

I’m honest, but I admit—I’m a sucker for good looks.

I’m plain-looking, but I love handsome men. The very thought of an unattractive man on top of me? Arre baba, I’d rather die.

So I worked extra hard from a young age. Because I knew, with neither beauty nor pedigree, a handsome man wouldn’t give me a second glance.

I did well in my board exams, but it was never enough. In India, IIT and IIM toppers are everywhere; if you’re not from a prestigious college, you’re practically invisible. I still remember at a wedding, one aunty leaned over and whispered, "Achha, not IIT? Never mind, girls don’t need all that for marriage anyway." I laughed it off, but it stung.

A master’s degree wasn’t enough, so I went for a PhD. With my honest face and obedient attitude towards my guide, I racked up excellent grades and landed a job at a top research institute.

I thought that was enough.

But the moment I saw Arjun, I realised—it was still far from enough.

I drank with bosses, worked overtime after office parties, spent weekends writing project reports for the boss’s kids. Finally, while still young, I reached assistant director status. I was finally qualified to chase Arjun!

While I was running after him, people kept setting me up with other men. I went to meet them. Every time, it was the same—lukewarm coffee, awkward silences, and one uncle who tried to sell me insurance. Each meeting made me even more determined to chase Arjun.

After every arranged date, I’d go find Arjun to cleanse my eyes.

One time, at two in the morning—he needed a designated driver. I didn’t hesitate.

Arjun asked, “Do you really like me that much?”

As he spoke, a tipsy beauty sat in his passenger seat, her fragrant shoulder half-exposed.

I nodded hard, no hesitation at all. Because I don’t have a fetish for ugliness.

I said, “Arjun, I love you!”

Everyone loves beauty. That’s what it really means. If it just means loving to dress up, that’s too shallow. No matter how I look, I love myself.

Arjun was amused by my sudden confession and burst out laughing. His messy hair was blown back by the wind, showing off thick lashes—so beautiful it was almost unfair. I suspected a little cosmetic help, but I didn’t mind.

His pinkish knuckles pinched a slender, mint-flavoured cigarette, the ash trembling as he laughed. “Priya, you’re the first person to make me laugh in a long time!”

Yes, even my name is that plain.

From that night, he started giving me a little attention. From rejecting all ten of my invitations, to occasionally saying yes if he was in a good mood. Sometimes, he’d even graciously eat the biryani I brought. Of course, he’d pick out the elaichi and complain about the oil, but he ate it. My Amma used to say, “If a man eats your home food, he can’t be all bad.”

But in the end, we got together. It wasn’t some Bollywood drama where he was moved by me and turned over a new leaf. He was just tired of playing around, and his family was pressuring him to get married.

I had a high degree, wasn’t in his social circle, had a decent job, and could manage a house. Everyone in Arjun’s family except him liked me. His mother called me “bahu material” after our second meeting. His cousin Asha Didi sent me homemade pickles before the wedding, sealing the alliance with mango and red chilli.

I didn’t care about the reason. I just knew I’d never have nightmares about ugly husbands or ugly sons again.

The day I posted our marriage on Instagram Stories, I held my head high—slapping the faces of all those who said I was delusional!

At the wedding—looking at Arjun’s face, which could’ve been Brahma’s graduation project, I was so excited I was burning up. His eight-pack abs showed faintly through his kurta, seducing me. When the emcee told us to kiss, I deliberately brushed against his broad chest and little red nipples. If only I could tie him up, a diamond-patterned rope harness…

The more I thought about it, the weaker my legs became. Arjun didn’t notice a thing.

After all, I’m the honest type!

He kissed perfunctorily—he had the technique, but there was no feeling. I didn’t mind. I’d learned long ago—khush rehna toh apne haath mein hai.

That night—

I was so happy I could burst. My heart felt like a sponge soaked in monsoon rain. I let out a satisfied sigh.

The only flaw: Arjun had zero sense of service, never considered my feelings at all. After all, I might be the plainest person he’d ever slept with.

Outside, the streetlights looked like artificial stars, making up for humanity’s regret at losing the night sky. Looking at Arjun’s sleeping face, I couldn’t help but smile. Those sharp, thick eyebrows, that high nose bridge, those perfectly shaped lips—Damn, so good-looking. Even better than celebrities. Except he doesn’t like me—otherwise, he’s flawless.

But who’s perfect, really? As long as he doesn’t get disfigured, I love him!

We honest people are just that loyal. The neighbours banged a steel thali in the next flat, probably chasing away a monkey on the terrace. Life goes on, and yet I lay next to perfection, feeling grateful for such simple joys.