“I’m a first-generation entrepreneur. My annual income runs into seven figures. You can say that I, Nikhil Nandan, am the crown jewel of my community,” said Nikhil smugly, taking a sip of his cappuccino.
“What kind of partner are you looking for?” asked Rimjhim hesitantly.
“I’m looking for a woman, preferably with a master’s degree, younger than 25, at least 5’4″ but no taller than 5’6″, weighing 50–56 kilos, with long hair, dressed conservatively, earning at least a quarter of what I make but ideally less than half. Do you fit the bill, Miss Rimjhim?”
“Mr. Nikhil Nandan, instead of wasting my time, you should have ordered a factory to build the woman of your choice. Goodbye,” Rimjhim replied through gritted teeth and stormed away from the café.
Devang, her Relationship Manager, had recommended Dr. Mayukh Chowdhury’s profile on Projapati.com, the matrimonial app where Rimjhim was searching for her Mr. Right. Devang had sent a message through the app:
“He is a very nice guy. You’ll surely like him. If you have any problem, kindly contact me at 9830XXXX42.”
Mayukh was very polite. Just when Rimjhim had started to think that maybe he was her prince charming, he announced grandly, “One thing I want to make clear. I wouldn’t consider marrying someone who is active on social media because these apps are for cheaters. I’m protecting my peace.”
Her next date was Soumya Mitra. He was a software engineer—good-looking, sharp-witted, well-read and well-travelled. She enjoyed the first date. That night, however, Rimjhim received a text message from him asking for her nude pictures. She stared at the message in disbelief, then, after regaining her composure, politely declined.
Rimjhim was furious with Devang now. She had spent a ridiculously large sum of money hiring a Relationship Manager on Projapati.com. She opened the app, noted down Devang’s number and punched in the digits angrily.
“Hello… Rimjhim this side. Do you know how my dates went? They were simply disastrous. Do you even check the profiles of these men before recommending them to unsuspecting women?” Rimjhim shouted into her phone.
“Madam… this is—”
“What madam? I have spent a fortune on Projapati.com, and this is the result.”
“Madam… please listen to me.”
“No… you listen to me. One of the men you recommended even had the guts to ask for my nude pictures. Can you imagine?”
“Madam, you have dialled the wrong number. I’m Arindam Sen, Sub-Inspector, Cyber Crime Cell.”
“What? Isn’t it 9830XXXX42?”
“No. It’s 9830XXXX24.”
Silence.
“I’m extremely sorry,” Rimjhim said meekly.
“That’s all right,” he said. “But you mentioned someone asking for your nude photographs. Don’t delete the messages. Keep the screenshots. We can take appropriate action.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sen. Bye.”
She was about to disconnect when he said, “Though, since you’ve already told me so much about your disastrous dates, perhaps you should let me buy you a coffee.”
He paused, then added, “By the way, I’m single and ready to mingle.”
Rimjhim smiled at her phone.
Image source: Unsplash
