They said to register on mudaliyarkannalam.com,
“Your match is waiting,” promised the header; calm,
with filters for caste, income, skin tone, and height,
and a checkbox for “Willing to move abroad, right?”
Profiles with smiles stretched to meet the brief,
bios trimmed like resumes so succinct to belief.
“Software engineer, vegetarian, MBA,”
Like love could be summoned through a CTA.
My parents filled it in, starting with my age, my star,
My horoscope’s flaws masked by a temple’s PR.
They skipped my poems, my tattoos, my doubt,
and clicked “Send Interest” to a boy from Kovai South.
We met. He wore silence like a stiff white shirt.
I spoke in metaphors. He blinked alert.
“What are your thoughts on permanence?” I said.
He asked if I’d be okay sharing a king-sized bed.
But somehow it worked, not all at once.
Not with fireworks, not with cinematic stunts.
We grew into shape like language and form,
awkward at first, then strangely warm.
Now and then, I still visit the site
to read new bios under dim screen light.
So much hope behind each listed trait,
as if love were just a field to populate.
Marriage, I’ve learned, is not a match found,
but a slow construction on shaky ground.
And mudaliyarkannalam.com? Just the start
a doorway, not a destination of the heart.