Anupama Trivedi
Chapter 1
It begins on a humid evening in Bengaluru. Manav, our protagonist, sits in the dark corner of a PG in Koramangala. He’s thirty, jobless, and surviving on day-old biryani. Once hailed as a promising coder from an IIT, he now codes half-heartedly on borrowed laptops. His roommate recently left to join an ed-tech unicorn, and Manav is left with unpaid rent, broken dreams, and a used whiteboard scribbled with failed app ideas: “Rent-A-Paratha,” “GhostTalk (for ghost believers),” and “DoggieGram.”
The final blow comes when a food delivery company he freelances for fires him, citing poor performance in optimizing delivery routes. Manav doesn’t tell his parents in Pune. Instead, he pours himself a glass of flat Thums Up and scrolls through dating apps, watching couples match, swipe, and ghost.
Drunk and bitter, Manav decides to merge his two most failed projects: one, an astrology API he once built for an uncle; two, a food preference classifier. He fuses them into a joke app: “ShaadiSwipe.” The idea? People match based on their zodiac sign and food taste (because why not?). He sets random code logic:
- Gemini + Paneer Butter Masala = 98% compatibility
- Scorpio + Vegan = 15%
- Cancer + Rasgulla = Eternal love
He uploads the prototype to an obscure tech forum, mostly for laughs. Then he sleeps.
At 9:23 AM the next morning, Manav wakes up to 57 missed calls, 112 texts, and a fried modem. A Bollywood influencer, known for her chaotic love life, tweeted about the app: “Just found the love of my life through #ShaadiSwipe. He’s a Taurus and eats like my nani. Download now, lol.” The tweet is retweeted 30,000 times.
Within hours, Manav is being flooded with emails. The app’s server crashes. A shady investor offers seed money. Manav panics and uninstalls Telegram.
Manav calls Sharmaji, the retired tea-seller who makes chai at the co-working space. Sharmaji is famous for his weird but surprisingly accurate gyaan. Sharmaji enters the PG with a thermos and says, “Beta, algorithm mein mohabbat ka masala daala hai kya?” Manav laughs.
Together, they rewrite the backend, using Sharmaji’s food analogies. For example:
- “Too much spice = short-term love.”
- “Sweet-tooth log zyada loyal hote hain.”
Sharmaji becomes an unofficial co-founder. They put the app back online with a new UI.
As downloads skyrocket, Manav receives a call from Tara—the only investor who ever believed in him… and his ex. Tara is sharp, practical, and now works at a VC firm. She saw the tweet, ran a background check, and is furious. “You coded your way into love tech? Manav, you couldn’t even commit to brunch.”
Tara demands to be part of this chaos. Manav reluctantly agrees, knowing she’s the only one who can handle growth, fundraising, and PR disasters.
In a rushed investor meet, Manav presents the idea to a panel. He makes no sense. Talks about love, rajma-chawal, planetary vibes. But one accidental live demo changes everything. A cynical investor tries the app onstage. It matches him with his college sweetheart. Coincidence or fate? The crowd erupts.
“We’ll give you 5 crore for 10% equity.” Manav says, “Can I get chai first?”
As Manav walks out of the building in disbelief, he receives a notification on his own app: You’ve been matched. With: Tara Singh. Compatibility: 99%
He stares at the screen, tea in one hand, panic in the other.
Chapter 2
“This is stupid,” Tara declares as she barges into Manav’s PG flat, shoving aside two pizza boxes and stepping over a sleeping Sharmaji, who’s using a laptop as a foot warmer. “There’s no way we’re matched at 99%. You hate butter chicken.”
Manav shrugs, bleary-eyed. “Your favorite color is lavender. I coded that into the algorithm.”
Tara glares. Sharmaji wakes up, squints, and says, “Beti, compatibility ka matlab yeh nahi ki biryani aur pulao same thaali mein aaye. Kabhi kabhi ulta taste bhi match karta hai.”
Tara: “Who made this man CTO?”
Sharmaji: “Bhagya.”
Tara, despite herself, arranges a demo for an upcoming Startup Expo, the biggest pitch event in South India. Manav and Sharmaji spend two nights preparing, Sharmaji using paper plates to explain server load balancing and Manav redesigning the logo using MS Paint.
Come pitch day, Manav stands frozen in front of VCs, mumbling about “love as code” and “dal-rice metaphysics.” Just as Tara buries her head in her palm, a loud voice from the audience shouts: “Try matching ME then!”
It’s one of the VCs, Rajeev Anand, known as the Shark of HSR. He swipes on stage. The app matches him with his college sweetheart, someone he hadn’t seen in 20 years. Everyone goes quiet. He shows the screen. The hall erupts in applause.
The pitch goes viral. “ShaadiSwipe brings hearts together,” screams a headline. Influencers post memes:
- “When you’re a Scorpio who loves Paneer Tikka and match a Leo who loves Chole Bhature. Soulmate confirmed.”
- Pandit Khurana seen on TV yelling, “This app is a sin! It’s replacing shubh muhurats with chutney preferences!”
Manav is called to podcast interviews. Tara fields investor calls. Sharmaji is offered a documentary.
Meanwhile, downloads explode. 100k users in a week.
But success brings bugs. The app glitches:
- A user is matched with her uncle. Twice.
- Another is matched with a dish, not a person (Mutton Rogan Josh).
- One furious lady writes: “Your app matched me with my ex-husband, and he STILL doesn’t like rajma.”
Sharmaji declares, “Time for emotional debugging.”
Tara: “What even is that?”
Manav: “He means user feedback analysis.”
Late one night, Tara sits alone in the office, reading the code Manav wrote. She notices something buried deep—a manual override line from two years ago. It’s a line that hardcodes her zodiac, food profile, and name into the matching algorithm.
Tara realizes: Manav wanted to match with her. Even back then.
She confronts him. He says nothing. She leaves. To ease the tension, Sharmaji books a table at “Butter Bistro,” a new fusion restaurant. The whole team goes. Tara arrives late, Manav flustered. A reporter spots them. Headlines the next day:
“ShaadiSwipe CEO dating his co-founder? Compatibility: 99%.”
Investors call asking if it’s real. Tara slams her phone. Manav burns his tongue on soup.
A celebrity wedding breaks off—and the bride blames ShaadiSwipe. She says their match was a “paneer-based lie.” The media descends. Pandit Khurana launches a campaign: #BanShaadiSwipe.
Manav’s investor deal is now on ice. Tara gives him an ultimatum: fix the bug, clean up PR, and stop trying to romance the app.
Manav nods. Sharmaji hands him chai and says, “Time to reboot mohabbat.”
Chapter 3
Manav wakes up to a trending hashtag: #DeleteShaadiSwipe. The streets outside his Koramangala PG are filled with banners held by angry aunties from local bhajan mandals, who are protesting the “morally corrupt algorithm.” On TV, Pandit Khurana declares, “This app is replacing karma with korma!”
Meanwhile, Sharmaji brews extra-strong chai and says, “Beta, daal mein kuch kala nahi, poori daal hi kala hai.”
Tara walks in, reading a statement drafted for PR. “We apologize for glitches. Our app is in beta… much like Manav’s life.”
Manav: “Hey!”
Tara: “Shut up. You matched a priest with a stand-up comedian. He ended his Gita discourse with a ‘yo mama’ joke.”
News breaks that Pooja Sharma, the rebellious daughter of MP Ramesh Sharma, has eloped. But not just with anyone. With someone she was matched with by ShaadiSwipe: Suraj Dagar, a man with a pending police warrant.
Tara: “Please tell me your app didn’t match a politician’s daughter with a wanted criminal.”
Manav checks the logs. Yes. It did.
Tara: “We’re dead.”
Manav: “Technically, they had 94% compatibility. Both were Sagittarius, both liked spicy food, and both had anger issues.”
Sharmaji: “Arre wah. Real masala couple.”
At a press conference, MP Sharma explodes: “This app is anti-national. It’s breaking up families. I will have it banned, I will arrest the founder, and I will cancel all weddings arranged through it.”
Meanwhile, Pooja livestreams from an undisclosed location: “Papa, stop being dramatic. Suraj isn’t that bad. He’s only stabbed people twice. Also, he’s gluten-free.”
Netizens split:
- Team Love: “Let her choose her samosa!”
- Team Tradition: “No shaadi without biodata.”
To control the damage, Tara suggests taking the app offline temporarily. But just as Manav tries, they realize it’s been hacked.
A pop-up appears: “This is karma. We own your hearts now. – #LoversOfCode”
“Someone’s breached our backend,” Tara growls.
“That’s what she said,” mutters Sharmaji. Nobody laughs.
They call in a cybersecurity expert. The expert turns out to be… Pooja Sharma. Yes. The MP’s daughter is a part-time hacker.
She logs in via Zoom, says, “Hi guys. Sorry about the whole runaway thing. I can fix the app if you guys promise to stop the uncle memes.”
Manav: “Done.”
Pooja: “Also, can Suraj be CTO of something? He’s good with spreadsheets.”
Sharmaji: “Give him chai duty. Starts from tomorrow.”
Tara realizes the public loves drama. So she rebrands the scandal as a marketing campaign:
“Real Love. Real Chaos. Real Shaadi.”
She pitches it to a PR agency. They love it. Manav hates it. Sharmaji starts scripting an ad:
- First scene: Couple running in slow motion through tomato market.
- Second scene: Pandit Khurana fainting.
- Final scene: Tagline appears over kachori plate.
Downloads skyrocket again. Investors get curious.
Pooja now joins the team remotely. She codes during the day, dodges media at night. Manav decides to rewrite the algorithm—removing all manual overrides, even the one linking him to Tara.
He stares at that line in the code: if match == "Tara Singh": match_score = 99
With a deep breath, he deletes it.
Just then, Tara walks in. “You’re deleting me?”
Manav: “No. Just… letting it be real this time.”
Tara: “And here I thought you’d never grow up.”
They stand in silence. Sharmaji plays a flute tune from his phone. “Background music,” he explains.
With the bugs fixed and scandal rebranded, the app relaunches. New features:
- Family filter: to avoid matching uncles
- Chaos meter: to warn of overly adventurous matches
- Karma credit: track your past love sins
People go crazy. Pooja and Suraj trend as “India’s Romeo-Juliet 2.0.” Pandit Khurana signs a Netflix documentary. Tara is nominated for “Young VC of the Year.”
Manav? He’s still broke, still confused, but smiling.
Because as he stares at his screen, a new notification pops up:
You’ve been matched. With: Unknown User. Compatibility: 97%
He clicks. It’s Tara. Again. But this time, no cheat code.
Chapter 4
The office smells of stress and Sharmaji’s cardamom chai. Investors are arriving in less than an hour, and the team is preparing for the final pitch before ShaadiSwipe’s IPO.
Tara is rehearsing her lines, Sharmaji is tweaking the logo’s font again (“This looks more marriageable,” he claims), and Manav is trying to remember how not to sweat through a T-shirt.
“Should I say our growth is organic or astrologically destined?” Tara asks.
Manav: “Just don’t say ‘karma compounding returns’. That’s not a thing.”
Sharmaji: “Why not? It rhymes.”
Outside, the news vans return. A reporter yells, “Is the founder of ShaadiSwipe getting married on IPO day?”
Manav: “What the hell is this now?”
Turns out, an anonymous tip has sparked a viral rumor: Manav and Tara are secretly engaged and plan to announce their wedding at the IPO event.
To Manav’s horror, the app’s algorithm has re-matched him and Tara—again—with 97% compatibility. And now users are demanding they get married as proof of the app’s authenticity.
Tara: “We need to get ahead of this.”
Manav: “By calling it off?”
Tara: “By faking an engagement until IPO day.”
Manav: “So, like a startup… but emotional.”
Tara: “Exactly. A minimum viable marriage.”
Sharmaji is elated. “I’ll print invites on biodegradable banana leaf.”
Pandit Khurana, fresh off his Netflix fame, offers to officiate their fake engagement—but under one condition: the algorithm must be publicly blessed by him in a televised ceremony.
“We must cleanse your code with Vedic chants,” he declares.
Pooja appears on a call. “Also, Suraj wants to perform a rap at the event. It’s called ‘Match That Snacc’.”
Tara: “Perfect. Nothing says IPO like rapping felons.”
Fake engagement prep begins. Outfits are sponsored. Makeup artists arrive. Manav is shoved into a sherwani that makes him look like an awkward mughal intern.
As they shoot a pre-engagement promotional reel (“Two hearts, one app, infinite bandwidth”), Manav and Tara begin to argue:
Tara: “Stop blinking so much. You look terrified.”
Manav: “Because I am. You’re terrifying.”
Suddenly, there’s a loud crash.
The ShaadiSwipe servers have gone down. Again.
The servers weren’t attacked externally. It’s a bug. A bug in the compatibility calculation.
Pooja (on call): “Oh my god… it’s been adding 7% compatibility to all matches involving the founder.”
Manav: “So… we were never 97% compatible?”
Tara: “Try 90.”
Manav: “That’s still decent.”
Tara: “Not when it’s based on extra aloo in pav bhaji.”
The team decides to go ahead with the IPO anyway. But Tara insists they tell the truth.
“We can’t sell a lie,” she says.
“It’s a startup. That’s kind of the business model,” Sharmaji replies.
They all stare at him.
“Joking! Mostly.”
The day arrives. Bengaluru’s biggest ballroom is packed. Investors, influencers, one actual astrologer-turned-YouTuber.
Pandit Khurana lights a ceremonial lamp and chants, “Om Matchmaye Namah.”
Tara walks onstage. “Before we begin, we want to share a story. Of mistakes, of code, and of second chances.”
She reveals the bug. The audience gasps. Some laugh. Some tweet.
Manav joins her. “We built this app to connect people. We failed. But somehow, in that failure… we found each other.”
The audience gives a standing ovation.
Suddenly, Sharmaji walks up. “Also, small update. App is now down due to traffic.”
Everyone laughs.
After the event, Tara and Manav sit quietly on the terrace. Below them, the IPO has been declared a hit.
Tara: “So, now that we’re billionaires… want to stay fake engaged?”
Manav: “I don’t know. You sure it’s not just the extra aloo talking?”
They laugh. Then fall silent.
Manav: “What if we tried it? Not the app. Us.”
Tara: “No algorithm. No charts. No cheat code.”
Manav: “Just bad decisions made slowly. Together.”
She smiles. “Now that’s the startup pitch I’d invest in.”
They hold hands. Somewhere in the background, Sharmaji plays a Bollywood classic on a harmonium.
The screen fades to black:
“ShaadiSwipe: Now Publicly Listed, Eternally Confused.”
Chapter 5
The IPO is done. The money’s in. The media frenzy is settling. But Manav is anything but calm.
He sits at his desk in the office-turned-newsroom, watching analysts debate his future on a split-screen:
- CNBC: “ShaadiSwipe is the next Bumble… or blunder?”
- IndiaTV: “Founder may marry. App has bug. Still investors trust. Jai Hind.”
Tara walks in, still glowing from the IPO high. “Are you still spiraling?”
Manav: “I just sold a fake engagement and an accidental algorithm to a bunch of VCs and my ex. If that’s not peak 2025 India, what is?”
Sharmaji enters with an “IPO Jalebi” box. “Beta, money sweetens all messes.”
Manav: “Even algorithmic heartbreaks?”
Sharmaji: “Especially those.”
Investor email: “Founders must take a media honeymoon trip to maintain romance narrative. Destination: Kerala.”
Manav: “Are they serious?”
Tara: “Do you want your Series B, or not?”
Thus begins the ShaadiSwipe Founders’ Honeymoon—sponsored, scheduled, and fully surveilled.
Sharmaji books the couple into an absurdly expensive backwater resort where each room has a couple’s AI therapist and towel-folded swans.
Pooja sends an auto-generated itinerary:
- Day 1: Coconut cooking class
- Day 2: Couple kayaking with camera drones
- Day 3: Temple blessings and algorithm testing
Manav: “What kind of honeymoon tests code and karma?”
Tara: “The startup kind.”
They arrive in Kerala to flashing cameras. Every moment is livestreamed. Fans comment:
- “Omg they blinked together. TRUE LOVE.”
- “He’s awkward. Marry him now.”
- “Why hasn’t she dumped him yet?”
Sharmaji, from HQ, now serves as PR chief, running polls like “Will they kiss under the banana tree?”
But beneath the social façade, things are tense. Tara wants Manav to take real CEO control. He just wants to disappear into the ayurvedic spa.
Tara: “You can’t keep ghosting decisions.”
Manav: “I’m not ghosting. I’m… silently iterating.”
Tara: “That’s not a thing.”
In a cooking class, Manav finally loses it.
While trying to crack open a coconut, he yells, “Why are we pretending? We’re not a couple. We’re a PowerPoint deck!”
Silence. Then applause.
The cooking instructor: “Finally! Some spice.”
Tara storms off.
That night, alone on a boat in the backwaters, Manav records a drunken video apology:
“I matched the wrong people. I failed. But I want one real thing. Just one.”
He forgets to turn off livestream.
#ManavUnfiltered trends. Again.
Back in Bengaluru, Pooja and Sharmaji notice the system glitching again. Some users are reporting matches with their old enemies, gym trainers, and in one case, a vending machine account.
Turns out, Manav’s late-night experiment code (titled: heartOverHash.py) has gone live.
New Matching Variables:
- Mutual trauma history
- Shared meme reactions
- Late-night snack alignment
Pooja: “He coded feelings. This idiot coded feelings.”
Tara, watching the logs in silence, smiles faintly.
The next day, on a banana boat ride (yes, per itinerary), Manav and Tara are alone again.
Tara: “You really wrote an empathy index into the algorithm?”
Manav: “Yeah. Because I realized… it’s not about perfect matches. It’s about mutual madness.”
Tara: “What’s our compatibility now?”
Manav checks his phone. “92%.”
Tara: “Down from 97?”
Manav: “Yeah. But this one’s real.”
They laugh. The boat flips.
Underwater, they hold hands.
The couple returns to the office. Investors are thrilled.
- App growth is steady
- Media loves the honesty angle
- A new campaign launches: “ShaadiSwipe 2.0 – For the Real, The Flawed, The Mostly Fine”
Pandit Khurana shows up with a small brass bell. “I bless this iteration. But also, have you considered franchise temples?”
Pooja gets an offer from Netflix to develop a coding-themed dating reality show. Suraj is hired to compose the intro.
Sharmaji gets a new title: Chief Matcha Officer. No one knows what it means.
Late night. Manav and Tara sit on the office rooftop again.
Manav: “We’ve faked an engagement, survived public heartbreak, wrote emotional code, and built an empire.”
Tara: “Yup.”
Manav: “So… want to try a real date sometime?”
Tara: “With you?”
Manav: “Well, the vending machine’s taken.”
Tara laughs. “Fine. But I’m paying. You still owe me chai from 2019.”
As they laugh under the stars, Sharmaji peeks through the skylight and whispers to himself, “Love found in version two. Just as predicted in my tea leaves.”
Chapter 6
ShaadiSwipe’s next big PR move? A live wedding onboard an Indigo flight between Bengaluru and Delhi—two influencers matched by the app. The couple met over a shared hatred for pineapple on pizza and a fondness for Bollywood conspiracy theories.
Tara: “We’ve literally reached new heights in absurdity.”
Manav (sweating): “What if this ends in divorce by baggage claim?”
Sharmaji: “Don’t worry. Divorce features are in beta.”
The wedding is officiated mid-air by Pandit Khurana, who keeps forgetting his mantras due to turbulence.
Pilot Announcement: “Ladies and Gentlemen, please put your tray tables up and your egos aside. You may now kiss the algorithm.”
Back at HQ, it’s quarterly review day. The boardroom is filled with suits, snacks, and skepticism.
Investor: “So this quarter we spent 40 lakhs on a floating honeymoon, 25 on coconut-related therapy, and 12 on drone coverage for weddings?”
Manav: “Yes. Also we launched PetShaadiSwipe—beta for matching lonely dogs.”
Another investor: “Is this a company or a parody film?”
Tara presents the numbers—surprisingly strong. Engagement metrics are up. Media coverage is nonstop. And surprisingly, user retention is highest among couples who initially hated each other.
Investor #3: “Wait. Your worst matches are now married?”
Pooja (grinning): “We believe in algorithmic chaos theory.”
Pandit Khurana appears again, this time with protestors: priests, aunties, and a guy dressed as Mercury retrograde.
Khurana: “This app has mocked marriage, insulted Saturn, and worst of all—disrupted my family business.”
He files a PIL (Pandit’s Irritated Lawsuit) against ShaadiSwipe in the Karnataka High Court. Claims:
- “Emotional manipulation through code”
- “Unauthorized karmic recalibration”
- “Towel swan fetishization”
Manav: “Can I countersue for spiritual harassment?”
Tara is summoned to Mumbai for a high-stakes investor meet. The new demand? Take Manav off as CEO. Bring in a polished, Harvard-returned VP named Jayant who doesn’t believe in emojis.
Investor: “We need stability. Not stand-up comedy in the boardroom.”
Tara: “But chaos is our USP.”
Investor: “We prefer chaos in PowerPoint. Not in real life.”
Tara returns, conflicted. She meets Manav at their old college chai stall.
Tara: “They want to replace you.”
Manav: “With whom? Alexa?”
Tara: “Jayant. He once fired a developer for using Comic Sans.”
Manav: “He’s a monster.”
Tara: “He’s profitable.”
At an emergency board meeting, Manav announces he’s stepping down as CEO.
Gasps. Claps. Silent heartbreaks.
Manav: “I started this app with a joke. But you all turned it into a company. Thank you. I’ll now return to what I do best—accidental innovations.”
He hands the mic to Tara. She doesn’t take it.
Tara: “Wait. I quit too.”
Investor: “What?”
Tara: “This was never about money. It was about magic. If we lose Manav, we lose the magic.”
Investor #3: “Can magic be quantified in Excel?”
Sharmaji: “Yes. It’s in the chai budget.”
Outside, Manav and Tara sit on the pavement, eating vada pav.
Manav: “So… unemployed again.”
Tara: “Yeah. But richer, weirder, and wiser.”
They decide to start a new version of ShaadiSwipe—this time bootstrapped, nonsense-proof, and blessed by Sharmaji’s tea leaves.
New mission: Help people date, argue, make up, break up, and maybe get married. But only if they want to.
Sharmaji: “And chai. Don’t forget chai.”
Pooja joins them, dropping a box labeled “Vibe Engine 3.0.”
Pooja: “Ready to mess it up again?”
All: “Always.”
Chapter 7
Manav, Tara, Pooja, and Sharmaji find an old, abandoned bakery in Indiranagar. They clean it up, install Wi-Fi, and name it “ShaadiSwipe Labs.”
Sharmaji: “We also sell samosas from 4 to 6 PM. Swipe and snack.”
They decide to relaunch the app with full transparency—no astrology gimmicks, no fake matches. Just vibes. Literally. The new app slogan: “Find your frequency.”
Pooja builds a Vibe Scanner that uses emojis, Spotify playlists, and late-night texts to gauge compatibility. Users must answer questions like:
- “Would you share fries with a stranger?”
- “What’s your go-to excuse for cancelling a date?”
- “Do you believe in ghosts, or just ghosting?”
Jayant takes over as CEO at the original office. He bans samosas, sarcasm, and standing desks.
Jayant: “We are a matchmaking firm, not a meme page.”
Pandit Khurana becomes his advisor and launches “ShaadiPure”—a competitor app where matches are based entirely on birth charts and weekly temple donations.
Tara’s former investors watch cautiously. They miss the drama.
Investor: “We may have removed the madness, but also the magic.”
ShaadiSwipe Labs hosts a pop-up event called “Match Mess Rewind”—inviting users whose chaotic matches went viral earlier.
- The priest and the stand-up comedian? Now a YouTube couple with a show called Pooja & Punchlines.
- The MP’s daughter and the small-time criminal? They started a cybersecurity firm.
- Manav’s match with Tara? Complicated, but still swiping each other jokes.
Users begin flocking to the new version of the app, loving the honesty and oddity.
One user: “I matched with someone who hates coriander but loves sad ghazals. He’s perfect.”
Jayant launches a sabotage campaign. He creates fake profiles on the new app that auto-send cheesy pick-up lines:
- “Are you a parking ticket? Because you’ve got ‘fine’ written all over you.”
- “Let’s make a PowerPoint presentation… of love.”
Pooja detects the spam bot within hours and counter-hacks into Jayant’s public demo—replacing his keynote slide with: “Swiping right on mediocrity since 2025.”
Investors begin pulling out of Jayant’s company.
ShaadiSwipe Labs throws a party called “Not A Wedding.” Dress code: Sherwani or pajamas. Menu: Paratha tacos and filter coffee mojitos. Entertainment: Open mic break-up stories and auntie karaoke.
Manav: “This is our version of the IPO.”
Tara: “Initial Pyaar Offering?”
They raise funds via crowd-sourcing: people send chai money, memes, even marriage proposals (for Sharmaji).
Sharmaji: “Someone sent me five kg of elaichi. I consider that true love.”
One quiet evening, Manav and Tara sit on the bakery rooftop, watching lights flicker in Bengaluru.
Tara: “We failed up, didn’t we?”
Manav: “That’s the only way I know how to succeed.”
Their phones buzz. A notification: Trending Again: #SwipeShaamTak
It’s a video of two 70-year-olds who matched on the app. They met over a shared love of Kishore Kumar and bitter gourd curry. They’re eloping to Goa.
Tara smiles. Manav tears up.
Sharmaji (from below): “Time for night chai!”
They clink paper cups. Swipe. Sip. Sunset.
Chapter 8
With the new ShaadiSwipe Labs version gaining traction, Manav and Tara are invited to a matchmaking conference in Jaipur called “RishtaVerse 2025.” The crowd includes:
- Ex-Founders turned couples counselors
- Pandits-turned-UX designers
- And an entire panel of divorcees who became best friends
Manav sees Jayant at the venue. Awkward nods. Jayant’s company is now “ShaadiPure Lite,” focused on “vibrations and vedas.” He is wearing a kurta over a three-piece suit.
Jayant: “No hard feelings. But if you hug me, my aura might suffer.”
Tara: “Don’t worry. We carry sanitizer and sarcasm.”
At a keynote titled “Love, Lies, and Location Services,” Pooja presents their breakthrough: the Emotion Graph—a real-time emotional compatibility monitor that grows smarter with each awkward date.
Live demo:
- Couple #1: Compatible, until one reveals love for pineapple pizza. Graph dips.
- Couple #2: Starts low, rises after shared hatred for gym selfies.
- Couple #3: Married for 15 years. Just wanted free snacks.
Applause. Someone throws a samosa in appreciation.
Meanwhile, Sharmaji is invited to judge a matchmaking game show, “Rishta Royale.”
Round 1: Chai brewing Round 2: In-laws impersonation Round 3: Emotional budgeting
Final task: Write a poem on your ideal partner using only ingredients from your kitchen.
Sharmaji’s pick wins with:
“You are the elaichi to my chai, unexpected yet defining.”
He weeps. National TV catches it. A major VC firm offers Tara a solo opportunity to lead a global expansion of ShaadiSwipe—but without Manav.
They offer:
- Offices in Dubai, London, and Bhopal
- Custom gold-plated app icons
- An option to rename the company “TaraMatri”
She’s torn.
Pooja: “You can build anything. But will it be as mad and magical?”
Tara: “Do I want scale… or soul?”
While Tara deliberates, Manav revisits his early prototypes:
- “Date-O-Meter” (rejected by IIT)
- “Biryani or Breakup?” quiz (used by three people—his mom twice)
- “SwipeLeftOnSanskriti.com” (flagged by government)
He laughs, cries, then laughs again. He writes a letter to himself:
“Dear Manav, You failed beautifully. Don’t stop now. Love, Future Manav.”
He doesn’t send it. He uploads it as a blog. It goes viral.
At the conference’s closing night, the stage is empty. Crowd restless. Suddenly, Sharmaji appears with a harmonium.
He hums an old Hindi tune. Slowly, Manav and Tara join in.
They deliver the most honest keynote of the year:
“We’re not here to guarantee love. We’re here to give it a chance. One swipe, one samosa, one smile at a time.”
The audience claps. Someone yells: “Propose already!”
Manav turns to Tara.
Manav: “So… partner?”
Tara: “In business?”
Manav: “In beta and beyond.”
They high-five.
Pooja throws confetti made of rejected biodata resumes.
Scene 7: App Update & A New Beginning
Back in Bengaluru, ShaadiSwipe Labs launches Version 3.0
- No filters
- Optional parent login
- Built-in break-up recovery playlist
The slogan?
“ShaadiSwipe: For all your beautiful mis-matches.”
Sharmaji gets a fan club. Jayant goes on sabbatical. Pandit Khurana becomes a viral YouTuber.
Manav and Tara stay madly un-married, still debating over biryani and boundaries.
But always—swiping forward.
Chapter 9
It’s wedding season in India, and ShaadiSwipe is flooded. Not with users, but with invitations. Every couple who met through the app wants the team to attend their shaadi.
Manav: “We created a monster… of mandaps.”
Tara: “We’ve received 237 invites. One is themed after Mughal-e-Azam. Another is a ‘Startup + Sangeet’ mixer.”
Sharmaji: “I’m packing elaichi.”
They pick 5 weddings to attend as a team—North to South, coast to hills. Their goal: document how digital matches look offline.
Darjeeling. A tea estate wedding. The couple met on the app through their shared love for silence.
No band, no bhaarat. Just wind, vows, and five guests.
Manav: “This feels like therapy.”
Tara: “Or a nap.”
Sharmaji: “They gave me tea without sugar. I think it’s a test.”
Outcome: Emotional, minimal, deeply touching. They give the couple a Spotify playlist called “Sip & Swipe.”
Bangalore outskirts. A temple wedding turned afterparty rave.
Bride: coder. Groom: DJ. Their vows include debugging metaphors and a dubstep remix of the pheras.
Pooja: “They met over mutual hate for blockchain bros.”
Guests wear LED bindis. Pandit has noise-cancelling headphones.
Outcome: Confusing but cool. Sharmaji gets motion sickness from the lighting.
Lucknow. A joint wedding of four couples—all cousins who found partners through ShaadiSwipe.
Uncles thank the team like they’re government servants.
Auntie: “Beta, your app did what our astrologer couldn’t in 10 years.”
Sharmaji is gifted a handmade shawl. He tears up.
Outcome: Traditional, chaotic, heartwarming. Manav and Tara almost sign up for matching coaching.
Mumbai rooftop. A couple who unmatched each other three times before finally bonding over a meme.
Wedding theme: “Cancelled Plans Forever.”
Everything runs fashionably late. Groom shows up with wet hair.
Manav: “Are they even serious?”
Bride: “No. That’s why it works.”
They gift the couple a hand-stitched quilt of their chat screenshots.
Outcome: Quirky, hilarious, very online.
Surprise twist. Last stop: Delhi. A wedding where neither person used the app—but they met at a ShaadiSwipe popup booth.
Bride: “We were laughing at the questions. Then we started answering together.”
Tara: “Our best match isn’t even in the database.”
Manav: “That’s the best bug report we’ve ever had.”
On their way home, a courier arrives.
An invite from… Sharmaji. He’s getting married.
Sharmaji: “Her name is Kalpana. She sent me elaichi first.”
Their wedding is tiny. Just tea, tulsi, and laughter.
Manav officiates. Tara sings. Pooja hacks the fairy lights to blink “LOVE.”
Sharmaji: “I never believed in apps. But I believed in people. You made me believe in both.”
Tears. Toasts. Chai.
Manav and Tara look at each other. No wedding bells. But definitely something blooming.
Final Notification:
“Thank you for swiping. Thank you for staying. Love is not guaranteed. But it’s always worth trying.”
THE END
