A Very Short Long-Distance Relationship

Tara and Varun met at a friend’s housewarming and discovered they shared a love of old Hindi songs, filter coffee, and making fun of people who called meetings “quick syncs”. By the end of the evening, they had exchanged numbers. Only later did they exchange locations.

“Whitefield,” Tara said.

“JP Nagar,” Varun replied.

There was a silence usually reserved for difficult medical results, although both were perfectly healthy. They decided not to be dramatic. Bengaluru was one city. People crossed it daily. Love, surely, could manage a Saturday.

Their first date was scheduled for four. Tara arrived at five ten. Varun arrived at five twenty. Each apologised so sincerely that the waiter assumed they were discussing a broken engagement. They ordered coffee, discovered the kitchen was closing for a private event, and spent their remaining time deciding whether it was worth ordering a sandwich.

Their second date involved a film. Varun booked tickets at a cinema described online as “central”. Tara asked central to what. They arrived separately, missed the trailers and the opening scene, and spent the interval explaining the opening scene to each other incorrectly.

The third date was a video call. Both arrived early.

For three months, the relationship grew around travel windows, meeting halfway, and the sacred phrase “leave before it rains”. They became excellent planners. They knew which cafés allowed a long conversation over two drinks and which friends could offer emergency sofa accommodation without turning it into a moral enquiry.

Eventually, they told their parents. Tara’s father, Mr Srinivas, folded his arms. Varun’s mother, Mrs Leela, requested details. Both families had questions about careers, habits, and long-term plans. Varun answered honestly. Tara remained firm. Their commitment was serious.

“How often do you meet?” asked Mr Srinivas.

“Every weekend, mostly.”

“From JP Nagar?”

“Yes, uncle.”

Mr Srinivas unfolded one arm.

The parents agreed to meet over lunch. A restaurant was chosen after lengthy consultation, geographical analysis, and one suggestion from an aunt who had not visited Bengaluru since a very different traffic era. Everyone left early. Nobody agreed afterwards on what “early” meant.

Tara’s parents reached first. Mrs Leela sent an update. Mr Srinivas studied the live location, zoomed out, zoomed in, and said nothing. When Varun’s family finally arrived, there was no interrogation. Water was ordered immediately.

“You do this every weekend?” Mrs Leela asked Tara.

“Not always. Sometimes we meet nearer the Metro.”

“Good,” said Mr Srinivas. “Sensible children.”

An uncle attempted to raise a minor concern about family customs. Mrs Leela waved him aside. “They have already coordinated Whitefield and JP Nagar. Let them manage the rest.”

By dessert, the families were comparing routes instead of backgrounds. Mr Srinivas demonstrated a shortcut on a paper napkin. Varun’s father examined it and gently explained that it required driving through an apartment swimming pool. The uncle withdrew his earlier objection and ordered another payasam.

The engagement venue became the next challenge. Tara proposed choosing it by public-transport access. Varun agreed. Their parents, newly united by practical suffering, approved without forming a committee. This alone was considered evidence of divine support.

On the engagement day, both families arrived with time to spare. Tara and Varun stood together while relatives admired the decorations. A cousin asked how they had known the relationship was serious.

Tara pointed at Varun. “He once came all the way just to return my charger.”

The cousin looked impressed. Mr Srinivas, passing behind them, stopped completely.

“Original charger?” he asked.

Even the relatives who normally suggested alternative matches had stopped. Nobody wanted to explain a better commute.

“Yes.”

He placed a hand on Varun’s shoulder. “Welcome to the family.”

Read when you’re a passenger or safely off the road. Never while driving.