If you grow up in a traditional Indian household in West Delhi, any conversation about romance is about as welcome as roaches in your chai. My mom could talk for hours about dal recipes or never-ending neighborhood gossip, but if I even hinted at liking a boy, she’d immediately ask if I had finished my math homework.
I was the quintessential “good daughter”: braided hair, neatly ironed uniform, and zero illusions that a real kiss might ever factor into my near future. Sure, I had the occasional crush — like scribbling “Kartik is cute” in my notebook — but as for actual lip-locking? That was less likely than me starring in a Shonda Rhimes show.
By my early 20s, friends were swapping hookup stories while I had still never been kissed. My real talent lay in ghosting prospective suitors with the speed of a teenager swiping away a parental control prompt.
It wasn’t that I was against romance — it just never felt like something for me. When my friends gushed about their latest dates, I nodded along, fascinated but detached. Was I missing out? Maybe. But I also told myself that I was too focused on school, my career, and figuring out life in general. Deep down, I wasn’t sure if I was avoiding it or if romance had just. . .never quite happened for me. And the more time passed, the more daunting it felt to even try.
So when a coworker decided to play Cupid, setting me up with her cousin, Mohit — a seemingly normal, polite guy who I was confident wouldn’t murder me — I agreed to a coffee meetup. I even got dressed and left the house (which was progress for me). But halfway to the café, my mental alarm bells clanged: What if he tries to hold my hand? What if he somehow guesses I’ve never kissed anyone? What if I’m so awkward that he regrets the coffee before it’s even served?
I turned around, hopped on the next Metro home, and drowned my guilt in Netflix. Poor Mohit probably assumed I got kidnapped by a weird cult. Little did he know, I was simply the reigning queen of cold feet.
This pattern continued throughout my mid-twenties — I’d cancel dates last minute due to made-up family emergencies (sorry, Grandma), block matches as soon as we transitioned from small talk to actually scheduling drinks, and spend endless nights eating leftover samosas in my pajamas, congratulating myself on dodging the potential bullet of my secret getting revealed.
By 28, I was beyond a “late bloomer.” The aunties at weddings kept telling me, “Don’t worry, beta, your time will come,” while force-feeding me parathas as if carbs could conjure a soulmate. It was at one of those many full-production, week-long weddings where I met Rahul. He was one of the rare humans who didn’t make me think, “Gotta ghost him before he finds out I’m weird.”
We struck up a conversation over cheesy 90s Bollywood songs and a shared obsession with roadside gol gappe. He was chill in a way that disarmed my usual panic. For once, I actually went through with our first date — no disappearing acts or imaginary family emergencies. We chatted for hours over chai and samosas, and I only half-considered faking a phone call from my mom to bail.
A few weeks and several dates later, Rahul and I found ourselves strolling around after dinner. The weather was pleasantly breezy, and our conversation had a borderline romantic vibe. We ducked behind one of those colossal pillars for as much privacy as one could hope for in one of the busiest areas in New Delhi.
I decided, for once, not to overthink. We leaned in, and bam — my first kiss at the ripe old age of 28. We bumped noses, but then came the hiccups. Rahul, bless him, tried patting my back like I was choking on a gol gappa, which only made me laugh-hiccup harder.
If you can believe it, it gets worse: I was so absorbed in my giggle-hiccup combo that I failed to notice a coworker walking nearby. They paused for a second — just long enough to definitely notice — then kept walking like nothing happened. Great, so now my failed rendezvous was bound to come up in a riveting breakroom gossip sesh.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I replayed the entire fiasco in my head on an endless loop: Were the hiccups a sign from the universe? Would Rahul pretend this never happened? My best friend thought it was comedic gold, while I oscillated between sheer mortification and a sense of triumph. Hey, at least I finally kissed someone!
Thankfully, Rahul texted me later with some cheesy “Tonight was cute chaos” line that I kinda loved, so I decided not to block him or flee the country. I always imagined my first kiss would be either magical or disastrous; there was no in-between. In reality, it was awkward, hilarious, and kind of perfect?
That same Rahul eventually became my husband. We dated through my initial paranoia, survived nosy family interrogations, and decided, “Hey, we’re weird together. Let’s make it official.” Now, we have two energetic daughters who keep our home in a permanent state of comedic chaos.
If the saga of my majorly delayed first kiss were a Bollywood movie, the real villain would be my fear of failure — ironically causing me to fail before I even tried. Ultimately, being a late bloomer might feel like the end of the world, until it doesn’t. Timelines are fake and society’s expectations aren’t important. Your weirdest, most awkward moment could be the one that leads you to exactly where you need to be.
