Deepa Krishnan
1
It began with a samosa and a breakdown. Nithya Ramanathan, 29 years old, certified English teacher and closet emotional hoarder, sat on her balcony in Chennai biting into a lukewarm snack while a pigeon judged her from the railing. The samosa’s stuffing had slipped out like her resolve, and the WhatsApp group “Kalaiyarasan Ma’am’s Wedding – RSVP ASAP” blinked expectantly on her phone screen. Everyone was going. Even Kavitha, who once pretended to faint during sports day just to avoid social interaction, had posted “Can’t wait, girl!” followed by a waterfall of emojis. Nithya, however, couldn’t bring herself to click “Going.” The idea of small talk near a buffet counter made her stomach curdle. She imagined standing alone, balancing a plate of gulab jamun and puris, while groups of ex-colleagues asked, “So Nithya, no updates?”—which really meant: still single, still boring, still invisible? It wasn’t just weddings. It was everything. Asking for extra chutney, returning items in stores, taking selfies in public, or calling someone by name when unsure if it’s Arun or Arvind. Life had become a chess game against imagined embarrassment, and she was always in checkmate.
That evening, fueled by equal parts despair and a motivational YouTube video titled “Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway”, Nithya did something wildly uncharacteristic: she booked a train ticket to Hyderabad, departing in three days. No plan. No hotel. No clue. Just her, a tan canvas backpack she hadn’t used since college, and a growing list of self-inflicted social dares she titled The Awkward Audit. Challenge 1: Crash a wedding and eat alone at the buffet. Challenge 2: Take five selfies with strangers. Challenge 3: Ask someone a question you’re not supposed to ask. She didn’t know where it would all lead, but that night she slept better than she had in months, dreaming of dancing in a Garba circle and falling flat on her face, but laughing. When she told her mother she was traveling alone, there was a stunned pause on the phone line, followed by a simple, “Are you joining ISKCON?” When Nithya said no, just solo travel, her mother whispered, “Oh. You’re going through something, then. Okay, take a Dettol spray.”
The day of departure arrived like a melodramatic soap opera intro. Nithya, decked in the only pair of sunglasses that didn’t make her look like an undercover cop, boarded the train to Hyderabad with mild heart palpitations and a thermos of homemade filter coffee. The old man next to her tried to start a conversation about political betrayal in South Indian cinema, but she countered with strategically timed yawns and headphones that weren’t even playing music. She spent the journey reviewing her challenge list like it was a syllabus, then chickened out of initiating small talk with a co-passenger who was reading Pride and Prejudice in Hindi. Upon arrival, Hyderabad greeted her with spicy air and confusion—literally. The pre-paid tuktuk line was a chaotic mess of honking, shouting, and one angry woman who claimed her vehicle had been “hijacked by tourists with rolling suitcases.” Nithya fumbled her way to a nearby chai stall, still clutching her notebook like a talisman. Her first challenge loomed: find a wedding, sneak in, and eat alone without looking like she’d lost her way—or her mind. As she sipped the first burn-your-tongue cup of roadside chai and looked out over a city buzzing with people who didn’t seem to care about awkwardness at all, she whispered to herself: “Let’s begin.” And for the first time in a long time, she meant it.
2
The wedding was at a large, glittering hall in Banjara Hills, advertised by a blinking signboard that read “Raghav Weds Sandhya – Two Hearts, One Buffet.” Nithya stood outside the gate for twenty-three full minutes, pretending to text while working up the courage to walk in. She had worn a soft pink salwar suit—too plain for celebration, too festive for blending in—which made her look like either an underdressed relative or a confused wedding planner. Her bag felt absurdly heavy, though it only held a notebook, an emergency packet of tissues, and a tiny perfume bottle labeled “Social Confidence: Rose & Bergamot.” She took a deep breath, told herself she was a cousin from Canada who’d just flown in, and walked in like someone whose shame had been temporarily overridden by desperation. Inside, the air was heavy with rose petals, camera flashes, and the unmistakable smell of too much paneer. Nithya zeroed in on the buffet line. Challenge accepted.
She grabbed a plate and joined the queue, smiling nervously at a woman in a lehenga who responded with a friendly nod—either because she genuinely believed Nithya belonged, or because Indian weddings are lawless zones where no one asks questions until the dessert counter. Nithya spooned small amounts of every item onto her plate, hoping to look purposeful and invisible at once. But just as she was about to escape with her dignity, a middle-aged uncle with a suspicious mustache appeared. “Beta, bride’s side or groom’s?” he asked, holding a spoonful of chole mid-air. Her brain froze. The lies came in slow motion. “Bride’s,” she said. “I’m her…father’s cousin’s niece’s—uh—roommate. From London.” She immediately regretted the British twist. The uncle stared. “Hmm. Don’t remember seeing you in the engagement. You look like you’ve just landed,” he added, eyes narrowing. “Yes,” Nithya stammered, “Jetlag. That’s why I look…hungry.” He gave a slow nod and turned away, more confused than convinced. Nithya quickly grabbed a seat at the edge of the hall, facing a decorative pillar, and began eating with exaggerated focus, as if the spoon was her shield. One spoonful in, the paneer slipped and plopped onto her dupatta. A child pointed and laughed. Nithya smiled through the horror and mentally checked off: Challenge 1: Humiliation complete.
She was still trying to scrub masala from her outfit with tissue when a young man in a velvet jacket sat across from her with a plate piled like a mountain. “This table’s free, yeah?” he asked, not waiting for an answer. “You’re from the bride’s side? Haven’t seen you before.” Nithya stiffened. “I’m…from London.” He raised an eyebrow. “So is the caterer. You look more like…a runaway teacher.” Before she could defend herself, he added, “Don’t worry, I’m not judging. I’m not even invited. I crash weddings for fun. Free food, fun music, no commitments. I’m Abbas.” She blinked. “Wait, you’re not a guest either?” He grinned. “God, no. I even brought my own tupperware once.” She couldn’t help but laugh. Abbas, as it turned out, was a former Uber driver turned “Life Field Researcher” (his words), who believed weddings were the best places to study human behavior. Over the next half-hour, he regaled her with theories about uncles who hoard gulab jamuns and aunties who create political alliances over rasmalai. Nithya forgot to be embarrassed. When he challenged her to take selfies with five strangers before leaving, she panicked. “I can’t.” He shrugged. “Then you’ll always eat alone in corners, scared of dessert drops.” And just like that, she found herself approaching a group of aunties with a shaky smile and the worst camera angle in selfie history. It was awkward. It was terrible. It was exhilarating. Something inside her had shifted—just a little, like the loosened thread on a too-tight salwar.
3
Rishikesh was supposed to be peaceful. That was the fantasy Nithya had stitched together from Instagram reels and Ashram brochures—tranquil Ganga ghats, monks with symmetrical posture, and inner peace served with a side of ginger tea. But the moment she stepped off the overcrowded bus and into the chaos of the main market, she was nearly flattened by a cow wearing a garland and a tourist who thought hula-hooping near traffic was a form of yoga. Dragging her suitcase like a reluctant child, Nithya checked into a hostel called Happy Baba Chill Nest, where the receptionist greeted her with a fist bump and offered her a mushroom sandwich “to align her inner electricity.” She refused politely, twice. Her dorm room had six bunk beds, one malfunctioning ceiling fan, and a wall mural of a winking Shiva. As she sat on her bunk trying to breathe in peace and breathe out panic, a voice behind her boomed, “You look like you’ve never used a healing crystal in your life.” Enter Reema Sethi: self-proclaimed life coach, vlogger, and expert in unsolicited transformation. Draped in a kaftan and armed with a ring light, she decided Nithya was her latest project.
Within twenty-four hours, Reema had dragged Nithya to a sunrise yoga class by the Ganges, where a man named Rahul Om instructed everyone to “inhale their childhood guilt and exhale their adult confusion.” Nithya, already suspicious of her borrowed yoga mat, attempted a downward dog and—mid-stretch—let out an unmistakable squeak of gas. She froze. So did the mat. A silence more deafening than the morning chants followed. Reema, to her credit, burst into applause and shouted, “That’s just your third chakra opening!” Everyone laughed. Nithya wanted to teleport to a land far from chakras, but something surprising happened—no one mocked her. No giggles, no eye-rolls. Just a few encouraging nods and a new nickname: “Third Chakra Nithya.” She hated it and oddly liked it. Later that evening, as the two sipped overpriced detox tea from steel cups, Reema asked, “What’s the one question you’ve always wanted to ask but never dared?” Nithya hesitated. Her notebook had at least seventeen. “Maybe…asking a sadhu about flirting?” Reema gasped in delight and clapped like someone had proposed marriage. “Perfect. We’re going sadhu-hunting tomorrow.”
The next afternoon, in full sunlight and mild dread, Nithya approached a serene-looking sadhu near the Parmarth Niketan ghat, seated in saffron, petting a fat squirrel. Her heart raced. She cleared her throat and, voice trembling, asked, “Baba…um…do you think flirting is sinful?” The sadhu looked up with amused eyes and said, “Only if your intentions are bad. And if your flirting is bad, it is also a sin against language.” Reema nearly fell into the river laughing. Nithya managed a nervous chuckle, then thanked him profusely before running off like she’d robbed a shrine. But something inside her buzzed—this mix of terror and thrill, of daring and not dying. That night, as Reema uploaded a video titled “When Sadhus Talk Love: Episode One”, Nithya sat by the river, feet in the water, notebook in hand. She crossed off Challenge #3 with a shaky pen and added a new one underneath: Ask someone to dance in public. She wasn’t ready yet. But for the first time, the idea didn’t terrify her—it just itched a little, like a loose bindi waiting to be worn.
4
Vadodara during Navratri was a kaleidoscope of chaos—music, lights, swirling skirts, and coordinated claps that felt like a rhythmic language Nithya could never hope to speak. The moment she stepped into the garba ground wearing a borrowed lehenga that was slightly too large and jingled in all the wrong places, she felt like a badly wrapped birthday gift at the wrong party. Around her, dancers moved in perfect circles—laughing, spinning, striking sticks with alarming confidence—while Nithya flailed like someone trying to swat imaginary flies. She had promised herself this challenge after Rishikesh: dance in public, ideally not on accident. And now here she was, awkwardly gripping her dandiya sticks, internally chanting, “Just survive two rounds. Don’t hit anyone.” But fate had other plans. On her third attempted spin, she smacked a bespectacled uncle squarely on the temple. He yelped. She froze. The music didn’t stop, but several dancers did. Mortified, Nithya apologized profusely, dropping her sticks and nearly tripping over her lehenga hem in the process. “It’s okay,” the uncle said with a bewildered smile, rubbing his forehead. “You dance like a confused fan.” She mumbled sorry again and bolted toward the food stalls in search of anonymity—or at least a cold soda.
That’s when she met Ajji. Seated on a bench with an amused twinkle in her eye and a soda in her hand, Ajji (Pushpalatha Iyer) looked like a misplaced rockstar from a senior citizens’ flash mob. Draped in a silk saree and wearing oversized sunglasses, the seventy-six-year-old ex-chemistry teacher had the air of someone who had long stopped caring what people thought. “You swing a dandiya stick like it’s a broom,” she said matter-of-factly, handing Nithya a drink. “It was…experimental,” Nithya replied weakly. Ajji snorted. “Beta, awkwardness is just truth trying to stretch its legs. Let it.” Over the next hour, Ajji narrated tales of her travels—from confusing a Spanish matador for a waiter to accidentally joining a protest in Berlin thinking it was a flash mob. “I don’t like comfort,” she said. “It makes your muscles lazy and your spirit boring.” Nithya was equal parts fascinated and terrified. Something about Ajji’s bluntness peeled away Nithya’s polite layers. She found herself confessing her entire “awkward audit,” and instead of laughing, Ajji clapped her hands and declared, “You’re doing life right. Let’s do some more.”
Over the next two days, Ajji led Nithya on a rogue exploration of Vadodara’s taboos. They bargained loudly for lingerie in an open-air market, asked a temple priest if he ever forgot his mantras mid-chant, and debated with a bus conductor about whether ‘ladies seats’ applied to senior daredevils. Ajji even dared Nithya to publicly ask a tea vendor if he believed in love at first sip. The vendor, confused but flattered, offered her a free refill. For the first time in years, Nithya wasn’t shrinking into shadows—she was stepping into them, waving awkwardly, and asking for directions. On their final evening, they returned to the garba ground. Ajji didn’t dance—she clapped from the sidelines—but Nithya did. This time, with slightly better rhythm, slightly less panic, and the quiet knowledge that if she hit another uncle, she’d probably survive that too. When the music paused and she found herself smiling—not fake, not forced—she felt something she hadn’t in years: the thrilling weightlessness of not caring. And just like that, the dandiya didn’t feel like a weapon anymore. It felt like a wand.
5
Munnar greeted Nithya with a mist so thick it felt like the sky had lowered itself for a nap. The tea estates unfurled like green quilts stitched over the hills, and for the first time in days, there was quiet—no drum beats, no overexcited life coaches, no dandiya sticks. Just the whisper of leaves and the occasional horn from a tuktuk climbing a slope that seemed more philosophical than practical. Nithya checked into a modest homestay called Serene Tea, where the host, a sleepy-eyed uncle named Sabu, handed her a brass kettle and pointed to the balcony. “This,” he said, “is where people cry. Good view for it.” She laughed awkwardly and said she was fine. He raised one eyebrow and walked away. Fifteen minutes later, she was on the balcony crying into her tea. She wasn’t sad exactly—just…full. Of everything. The past few weeks had been a carousel of discomfort and daring, but something inside still felt unresolved, like a page turned too quickly in a book she barely understood. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the guilt of pretending confidence when she still felt like a trembling grammar teacher inside. Or maybe it was the fact that she couldn’t stop thinking about a certain quiet man with chai-colored eyes and a sound recorder.
He appeared again exactly when she least expected him. Nithya was exploring a trail between tea bushes when she heard a low hum—followed by the unmistakable voice of Mihir D’Souza, crouched near a rock with headphones on and a furry mic pointed at nothing. “Recording ants?” she asked. He turned, surprised but not startled. “No. The wind through the leaves. Sounds like slow applause.” She smiled. Mihir was still the same—gentle, understated, mildly amused by life. He joined her walk, and they sipped cardamom chai from a roadside shack while discussing everything from railway announcements to loneliness. With Mihir, silence wasn’t heavy. It was like a hammock—soft, safe, suspended. Nithya found herself saying things she usually rehearsed ten times in her head. “I’m terrified of being seen,” she admitted. “Like…properly seen. Not judged, just noticed.” Mihir nodded slowly. “That’s not fear. That’s a human setting. Some of us keep it on mute.” When she asked why he was always alone, he said, “I record what others miss. Crowds interrupt the silence.” She liked that. It felt like the first metaphor that didn’t need decoding.
They spent the day walking, sometimes talking, sometimes just listening—to birds, footsteps, the occasional snort of a goat who seemed personally offended by their presence. Mihir pointed out a ruined British-era bungalow and dared her to climb its mossy stairs. She did. He challenged her to shout into the valley. She did that too, and it echoed back in a voice that sounded oddly braver than her own. They ended the evening watching the sun slip behind the hills like a shy performer exiting stage left. Back at the homestay, Nithya wrote a new entry in her Awkward Audit: “Challenge—tell someone how you actually feel.” She didn’t do it that night. But she let Mihir sit beside her on the balcony as the tea steamed between them, and neither of them spoke until the stars arrived. It was the kind of silence that didn’t need to be broken—because in that moment, awkwardness had nothing to do with words, and everything to do with the courage it takes to simply stay.
6
Kochi was a patchwork city—Dutch tiles, Portuguese balconies, Chinese fishing nets, and tuk-tuks that honked like impatient uncles with nowhere to be. Nithya arrived with frizzy hair, tea-stained notebooks, and a strange new habit: sending herself postcards. It had started in Munnar, after a walk with Mihir, when she’d found a dusty souvenir shop and impulsively written, “Today I climbed a broken staircase and didn’t apologize for the creaking.” Now, in Kochi, she bought six postcards, each featuring slightly faded pictures of backwaters or Kathakali eyes, and decided to chronicle her growing collection of small, cringy victories. She addressed one to her school principal, Manorama Ma’am—the same woman who once told her, “If you want students to respect you, never let them hear you say ‘I don’t know.’” Nithya scrawled across the card: “I asked a sadhu about flirting. I still don’t know the rules. Hope you’re well.” She laughed nervously as she dropped it in the red postbox outside Santa Cruz Basilica, wondering if she’d just committed social suicide. But the act felt like peeling off a tight blouse after a humid day—awkward, but weirdly satisfying.
By then, Mihir had reappeared—again—as if the universe had assigned him to her route. This time, he had a podcast gig covering local street performers. “You keep showing up,” she said, mock suspicious. “You keep being found,” he replied. They wandered through Jew Town together, listening to a man sing love songs to pickles outside his spice shop. That evening, Mihir invited her to a public storytelling event on the beach. It was casual—no stage, just people sitting in a loose circle, sharing stories under a string of fairy lights powered by a sulky generator. Reema would’ve called it “raw energy.” Nithya called it terrifying. But she had promised herself honesty. So she stood up, heart hammering, and told the story of how she once tried to compliment a boy in college by saying, “You smell like well-folded laundry.” There was a pause, then a ripple of laughter. The kind that doesn’t hurt. The kind that holds you. She sat down before her legs betrayed her, cheeks burning but chest lighter.
The next day, Mihir found her on a bench near the Dutch cemetery, hunched over her notebook. “Another challenge?” he asked. “Postcards,” she said. “One for each city. I’ve decided to document my embarrassment in 4×6 inches.” He smiled. “What’s today’s title?” She looked at him, hesitant. Then slowly, she wrote: ‘The Day I Laughed Without Asking Permission.’ Mihir reached into his bag and handed her a small envelope. Inside was a hand-drawn map of the places they’d met—Hyderabad, Rishikesh, Munnar, and now Kochi. “In case you forget your path,” he said. Nithya felt something warm spread through her ribcage, like sun after a long drizzle. She wanted to tell him everything—how his quiet made her braver, how her fears had started feeling like petals instead of armor. But all she managed was, “You make silences feel…roomy.” He didn’t laugh. He just nodded, like someone who already knew. That night, back in her hostel room, Nithya looked at her growing pile of postcards. They weren’t declarations—they were footprints. And for the first time, she didn’t care if anyone else read them. Because she had.
7
Gokarna was a sleepy coastal town that smelled of salt, incense, and self-discovery. It welcomed Nithya with waves that whispered secrets and foreign backpackers who walked barefoot like enlightenment came through the soles. After weeks of facing down her social fears—wedding crashing, stick-whacking, sadhu-interrogating—Nithya had arrived at her next Everest: wearing a bikini on a public beach. It wasn’t about vanity or rebellion. It was about taking up space without apology. She had packed it weeks ago—stuffed at the bottom of her bag like a ticking dare. The floral two-piece now felt radioactive in her hands as she stood in her beachside guesthouse, staring into the mirror. Her brain offered helpful commentary: Everyone will look. Everyone will judge. Everyone will remember your thighs forever. She almost chickened out. Almost. But then she remembered the postcard she’d just mailed herself: “If you keep waiting to look perfect, you’ll miss your own life.” So she slipped it on, threw a cotton wrap around her waist, and walked to the shore like a fugitive headed for confession.
The beach was alive but not crowded—clusters of families, young travelers playing frisbee, and a shirtless man doing yoga on a paddleboard. Nithya chose a quiet patch of sand, removed her wrap, and sat down quickly before she could run away. No one screamed. No one gasped. The world did not end. She lay back and closed her eyes, sun on her skin, pulse in her ears. It felt…exposed, yes. But also oddly freeing—like shedding a layer of hesitation. That illusion of control shattered ten minutes later when she stood up, stumbled on a wet patch of sand, and landed unceremoniously on her backside with a loud yelp, right in front of an elderly banana seller arranging his cart nearby. Her wrap flew in one direction, her dignity in another. For one mortifying moment, Nithya sat there, blinking, sandy and stunned. The banana seller, without so much as a chuckle, looked down and said, “Don’t worry. First timers always fall. Ocean blesses you.” Then he offered her a banana, on the house. She accepted it like a peace offering from the gods of public humiliation.
That banana changed her entire afternoon. She stayed on the beach, wrap forgotten, and began to move freely—walking, collecting shells, letting the sea soak her without fuss. Mihir, unsurprisingly, found her again, approaching with his headphones around his neck and a bemused look. “You’re…glowing. Did you levitate?” She grinned. “I flashed a banana vendor and survived.” He laughed—fully, openly—and they sat watching the sunset together, shoulders barely brushing. As the sky bled orange into indigo, Mihir said softly, “You look at ease.” Nithya tilted her head. “Or maybe I’m finally okay with being awkward out loud.” They didn’t kiss. Not yet. But something passed between them—a steady, quiet assurance that didn’t need romance to be real. That night, Nithya stood under a thatched roof strung with fairy lights, joining a circle of travelers drumming badly and dancing worse. She flailed. She missed every beat. She laughed so hard her stomach hurt. And when someone asked if she was a regular, she replied, “No. I’m just finally showing up to my own life.”
8
Chennai felt both familiar and foreign when Nithya stepped off the train, tan lines peeking from beneath her kurta and sand still hiding in the folds of her backpack. Auto drivers yelled with trademark impatience, the humidity slapped her like a sweaty hug, and somewhere in the distance, temple bells clanged over traffic horns. But Nithya didn’t flinch. She smiled. She didn’t rush home either. She took the long way—past Marina Beach, past the tea stall where she used to avoid eye contact, past the stationary shop where she once panicked while buying a birthday card. Now, she walked in and bought six. Her awkward audit notebook was nearly full, but her courage had outgrown its pages. The girl who once planned her life around avoiding shame had become a woman who could now say things like, “I accidentally asked a sadhu about flirting,” and mean it with pride. It wasn’t that the fears had vanished—she still worried about saying the wrong thing, taking up too much space, mispronouncing foreign words—but something had shifted. The fear no longer dictated her choices. It simply walked beside her now, quieter and less persuasive.
Back at school, the students stared at her like they were trying to place what was different. “Ma’am, you went for a meditation camp?” one asked. “Ma’am, did you…get a tattoo?” another whispered hopefully. Nithya just smiled and said, “I had tea with strangers and fell down on a beach. I learned things.” The other teachers noticed it too. She no longer apologized before asking questions in staff meetings. She wore brighter colours. She even started a new bulletin board outside the classroom titled “Awkward Wall of Fame,” where students anonymously submitted their most embarrassing stories—and earned chocolate for each one. The principal, Manorama Ma’am, pulled her aside one afternoon, held up the postcard Nithya had sent from Kochi, and said, “I laughed. Then I worried. Then I laughed again. You’re not quitting, are you?” Nithya shook her head. “No, I’m just showing up differently now.” The principal raised an eyebrow. “Good. Carry Dettol spray.”
Postcards kept arriving at her own doorstep—each one from her, to her. She pinned them on her bedroom wall in a strange, beautiful timeline of discomforts turned declarations: ‘The day I danced like no one was filming (they were)’, ‘The day I asked a priest about missed mantras’, ‘The day I wore a bikini and didn’t combust’. Mihir, ever elusive, sent her a postcard too—handwritten, full of smudged ink and soundwave doodles. It said simply, “Every frequency you feared is now your song. You don’t need a mic, just keep singing.” And so she did. Nithya didn’t become fearless. She didn’t start skydiving or lead TED Talks. But she began hosting monthly “Awkward Evenings” at a local café—events where strangers gathered to share cringy stories and laugh about them together. Her life didn’t get louder—it got braver. And every time she stepped into a room alone, asked for an extra chutney, wore something slightly too bold, or stumbled through a conversation with her chin up and her humor intact—she knew: she was no longer waiting for life to happen politely. She was showing up, awkward and alive. Just the way she’d promised herself she would.
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