Advait, a creature of habit and who had a set routine.
“Wake up, brew coffee, scroll Instagram, fight with Siri, attend client calls, smile at his two plants (he named them Chikni-Chameli), and eat the same dal-chawal for dinner while rewatching “Friends”.
After moving to Pune from Indore for his marketing job, life had become oddly mechanical. Quiet. Predictable.
And that’s how he liked it—until one Sunday morning when his phone buzzed with a WhatsApp notification, when he was meticulously updating his weekly budget—categorising every rupee into neat little boxes labeled *groceries*, *EMI*, *Zomato guilt*, and *mother’s guilt (aka marriage fund).
Not the usual ping from the office group or his mother’s forwarded bhajan reel. This was a WhatsApp notification from an **unknown number**.
The display picture was a blurry photo of a peacock in the rain.
The message said:
**“Mishti here. Remember me?”**
Advait stared at it, blinking like his PPT had just crashed. Mishti?
His coffee paused mid-sip. His mind filtered through memory like a search engine with bad Wi-Fi. And then—click. *Mishti Banerjee.*
The girl he’d met for an arranged marriage setup **six years ago** in a quaint Kolkata café.
She had smelled of sandalwood and sarcasm, wore a saree with hair colored in golden highlights, and simply had told him she didn’t believe in “settling” & no plans to get married, she is here just for her favourite cappuccino.
Advait didn’t minded her straight forwardness, infact was impressed by her honesty. They had just exchanged pleasantries, He’d liked her instantly, but before he could even entertain a thought, she directly said NO to this whole arrangement marriage set up, more than anything, she feels he is too serious, too organised, too “Excel-sheety” for her vibe and bid adieu.
She just ended their meet by informing it’s a NO from her and walked out of the café. He hadn’t heard from her in nearly six years.
No follow-up. No closure. No shaadi. And now… this message. Since there were no feelings involved and after Mishti’s clear NO, he didn’t pursued her.
Now,
He typed back a polite, if somewhat stiff, hesitating like a man walking into a room with emotional landmines.
“Hello, Mishti! Yes, of course, I remember. How are you?”
The reply was instantaneous.
“Great, thanks! Just stumbled upon your number in my old contacts and thought I’d reach out. Hope I’m not bothering you. Hope that’s okay.”
He typed back
“Totally okay. You just derailed my budget sheet though.”
“Good. You needed a little chaos. Told you, you are too organised.
“And you still chaotic…still retaining those golden highlights”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Let’s catch up?”
He stared at the screen, half-smiling. Should he accept to meet…
What could possibly go wrong?
+++++
They met the next evening at a cozy tea place in Pune called *Kettle Tales*. Mishti walked in wearing an olive-green kurta, chunky silver earrings, and that familiar sparkle of mischief in her eyes.
“Still Excel-sheety?” she teased, sliding into the chair opposite him. As she observed he is dressed too formally.
“And you?” he asked. “Still talking in metaphors and walking in chaos?” They both grinned.
Chai was ordered. Samosas devoured.
She talked, HE listened.
She talked about her new job as a freelance graphic designer, her love for old Bollywood movies, and her latest obsession: trying to perfect her mother’s gulab jamun recipe.
She shared how she had moved to Pune a few months ago. Single. Settled, sort of. She said life had taught her how to fold her dreams and fit them in corporate drawers, but her heart still wandered during poetry readings.
Advait found himself responding with more than just polite affirmations. He spoke about his demanding job in a financial firm, his quiet evenings spent with his plants.
He learned she had an infectious laugh and an endearing way of getting excited about the simplest things. They chatted for few hours and separated with promise to keep in touch.
+++++
Over the next few weeks, Mishti became a *middle of the day* thought and a *late-night message* habit. They weren’t dating. But they weren’t strangers.
He took her to his favourite dosa joint near Deccan. She made him attend an indie poetry slam where someone ranted about capitalism through haikus. He hated it. She laughed for days.
She complained about her PG aunty. He sent memes on “bong women in battle mode.” She called him during power cuts. He pretended to be Alexa.
They were becoming something again—something unnamed, yet deeply familiar. His evenings, once predictable and solitary, now held a new anticipation. He’d find himself checking his phone more often, a small thrill running through him each time he saw her name pop up.
Her messages flowed easily, they always made him smile, filled with emojis and a cheerful informality that was a stark contrast to his own reserved nature.
A week later, Mishti suggested they meet for coffee. “Or tea, if you’re a chai person,” she’d added playfully with a cheeky emoji.
Advait, who usually avoided spontaneous outings, found himself agreeing without a second thought. He even ironed his favourite linen shirt, a rare occurrence outside of formal events.
Advait, noticed Mishti, is even more charming in person, and as cheerful as her messages. She looks beautiful wearing a simple cotton kurti and jeans, her hair tied in a messy bun. Her eyes, he noticed, sparkled when she talked.
Advait realized he hadn’t felt this comfortable, this genuinely himself, with anyone in a very long time. Mishti had a way of making him feel seen, not just as Advait, the serious guy who lived a mundane life. but as Advait, the slightly awkward, introspective man with a dry wit and a hidden love for Bollywood dance numbers.
Their meetings became more frequent. Coffee morphed into dinner, which morphed into strolls through streets, visit to local sites, shopping groceries together over weekends.
Advait found himself looking forward to their time together with an eagerness he hadn’t experienced before.
Mishti, with her infectious energy, was slowly chipping away at his carefully constructed walls of routine and reservation. Their chatting, Midnight calls. Shared playlists. Advait found himself grinning like a fool over her voice notes.
Advait’s phone buzzed during meeting, he instantly pulled out, already imagining what funny reel Mishti might be sharing. But he was surprised it was a text from his mother, woman who believed marriage was the ultimate goal in a son’s life, had been subtly nudging him towards various “suitable” matches for months and just now, she shared bio-data of another prospective girl.
He stared at the message like it was a misfired bullet. He didn’t reply. Instead, he texted Mishti:
“If you were given a second chance at something you once walked away from, would you take it?”
Her reply came instantly.
“Depends. Would the other person still be waiting?”
+++++
“You know,” Advait began, his voice soft, “I never thought I’d find someone who could make me laugh even when I’m stressed about family expectations. Or someone who actually gets my terrible puns.”
Mishti smiled, a warmth spreading through her chest. “And I never thought I’d meet someone who could make me look forward to spending time, Or someone who makes even family dramas feel a little less dramatic.”
He reached across the small table and took her hand. Her fingers, soft and warm, intertwined with his. It was a simple gesture, but it felt monumental.
“I never got to tell you,” he began, nervously, “but six years ago, when I saw you first time, I was hoping you’d say yes.”
“And, I walked out hoping you’d chase me,” she said softly.
Silence. And then—
“I don’t know what this is now, Mishti. But I know I don’t want to let it slip through my fingers again.”
She looked at him. “You still drink coffee with two sugars. Still mess your hair when you’re nervous. Still fold your napkin after eating.”
He chuckled. “Still pay attention, I see.”
She stepped closer. “Maybe this time, we don’t let it stay unfinished.”
“So,” Advait said, a mischievous glint in his eyes, “what do you say before we announce to our parents and they pull us in whole wedding circus, should we escape for a road trip?”
Mishti’s face lit up. “A road trip? Are you serious, Advait, the king of spreadsheets and meticulous planning, wants to go on a spontaneous road trip?”
“Well,” he grinned, “an unexpected message changed everything, didn’t it? And I’m realizing that sometimes, the best plans are no plans at all.”
The unexpected message had indeed changed everything. It had opened up a world Advait never knew he was missing, a world filled with laughter, spontaneity, and a connection that felt as real and comforting as a perfectly brewed cup of chai. And as they planned their escape to the mountains, leaving behind the well-meaning chaos of their family expectations, they knew this was just the beginning of their own beautiful, unplanned story.
They took it slow. Weekend brunches turned into weekday dinners. He taught her how to manage SIPs. She taught him how to read Gulzar without Googling metaphors.
++++
A year later, Mishti and Advait hosted a small celebration after they registered their marriage. There was filter coffee, sandesh, and no blingy stage, it was close knit family, Just parents and cousins, newly wed husband wife awkward dancing, and a handwritten poem Mishti read aloud:
“I walked away once,
Thinking he was too much routine.
Turns out, love sometimes hides
In colour-coded spreadsheets”
Advait smiled and pulled out his laptop connecting to screen behind playing a PPT he prepared.
“Reasons Why Mishti is The One”
Mishti cracked up as slides presented various reasons, accompanied by her candid pictures, she didn’t realised when Advait clicked them.
Mishti smiled at his romantic PPT, surprised & overwhelmed pulled him for a soul staring kiss.
+++++The End±+++++
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