Love is blind, and so is ableism.

I never accept follow requests from strangers. But that day, I did.

Maybe it was the Valentine air, the scent of flowers in full bloom, or just an impulsive desire that made me not only accept but also reply to a stranger’s Instagram message. His profile wasn’t the usual shady Delhi boy aesthetic—no forced gym selfies, no flashy cars. Instead, he had a staggering 11k followers, the title of a lawyer, and the look of someone from a well-off family.

Two days into our conversations—smooth, effortless, almost like we’d known each other before—he asked me to meet. Of course.

Now, you must be thinking, how was this a blind date if we had already seen each other’s pictures? Not just one, but many—carefully curated Instagram posts, giving us a fair idea of what the other looked like. But I’ll tell you why it was still blind.

Because here came the obstacle —my disability.

Online dating and blind dates are not for the faint-hearted, that’s true. But when it comes to someone with a disability, it’s a whole different ball game. I’ve had my fair share of experiences where the guys, let’s say, have vanished after the first meeting. The same ones who had fallen for my profile, my conversations, and even my voice. 

But as soon as we meet in person, something shifts. The ‘Indian mard’ in them, the one who dreams of having his own cricket team, someone to run the house, or even travel the world with him—trekking and hiking through life—suddenly rejects me. Rarely outwardly, but always mentally.

So now, as a protocol, I always inform them about what they’re going to witness the next day—if they haven’t already figured it out themselves. Despite the full-length Instagram pictures and a prominent mention on my dating profile (which, interestingly, also proves that boys rarely read what you’ve written and swipe right purely for the face card).

So, with (let’s call him) Abhinav, I had the usual conversation about my scoliosis and everything that came with it, a night earlier. And like everyone else, he managed to utter the precious words—"Haan haan, it doesn’t matter, yaar. Do you think my mindset is that narrow?" At this point, I could recite this dialogue by heart.

Anyway, dressed in an electric blue satin shirt, a dark brown faux leather mini skirt, and a fresh blowout, I walked in—looking like a damn dream, into my favorite Priyas Complex to meet him at Perch.

As always, I was on time and waiting. Now, if you don’t know, Perch in Delhi is the ultimate date spot. A place where, on any given night, you’ll find couples—first dates, fifth dates, or even the what-are-we dates—huddled over dimly lit tables, making small talk over overpriced cocktails.

Within five minutes, I saw him walk in—a 5’3” guy in a floral shirt (red flag #1), carrying an air of casual confidence on the outside but, deep down, just as unsure as I was. I stood up to greet him, watching closely for it—the shift, the hesitation, the quiet disappointment. He offered me a sweet yet forgettable side hug—zero electric shocks, no butterflies, just… meh. 

Then came the deal-breaker. "Let’s just order drinks and skip dinner."

Excuse me, Mr. Let’s Meet for a Drink, you’re meeting a Delhi girl at 8 PM and suggesting we don’t eat? Unbelievable. But I still gave him the benefit of the doubt and just ordered a cold-cut cheese platter with my Peach Bellini. He, on the other hand, stuck to his scotch—classic.

To be honest, we had a great time. The conversation flowed effortlessly, and the Delhi boy attitude I like? Check. In fact, we even realized we had a mutual acquaintance. But at around 10 PM, when I said we should get going, he casually dropped another bomb—"I have to head to a friend’s party, so I won’t be able to drop you."

Ummm, reddest flag ever. I mean, it’s 10 PM (In Delhi), and you don’t even offer to drop me home? Yeah, no—stay far, far away. But you know what the sad part is? My mind, ever the over-compensator, knows how bleak her options are, so she convinces herself to brush it off.

I booked my Uber, we clicked a selfie, he dropped me to my car, and we parted ways.

Of course, I called my best friend as soon as I got in the car. She asked the usual questions—How did it go? Did he —My mind was already spiraling, wondering how he'd see me now that I was more than just a profile. 

But my worries eased (for a moment) when my phone rang with "Abhinav" on the screen, checking if I’d reached home safely, followed by a text saying he had a great time and missed me already.

BUT... picture abhi baaki hai, mere dost.

The next day, he went MIA for 12-14 hours with the usual “busy” excuse. My mind started overthinking, but I reminded myself, "It's just the talking stage. Keep your expectations in check." 

Days passed, and the breadcrumbing didn’t stop. One night, out of sheer habit, I found myself stalking his profile and came across the mutual acquaintance—his first cousin, who also happened to be my brother’s classmate at one point. I went down the rabbit hole, digging deeper into her profile until I found myself in 2017. And then, boom—there it was. A picture of him... in a damn mandap, getting married to a girl. 

Yes, he was married. The utter disbelief I felt when I saw that picture. I mean, sure, I’ve been cheated on before, but this? This was completely out of the syllabus. Did I seriously just go on a date with someone’s husband? How sad and disgusting is that? The old me would’ve texted the wife right away, but part of me stopped. I knew it would ruin someone’s entire life (and here’s the rather funny or sad part—the wife runs an NGO or a support group where she’s the flagbearer of feminism). I just couldn’t bring myself to do that.

But the questions still haunt me: Why did he meet me so openly? In a busy restaurant, no less, as if he had nothing to hide. Was it because of my disability? Did he think I was an easy target? Or was it just a habit, another "meet-up" in his cycle? Rejection feels worse when you're already fighting against everything.

Was I just a placeholder in his loveless marriage, or did he think I wouldn’t fight back?

I’ll never know the answers. But I do know this: the world may be blind to my struggles, but I’m not blind to the masks people wear. And maybe, just maybe, his karma will catch up to him.

Two years later, I still can’t trust the people I meet online, so here’s to manifesting a couple more blind dates in 2025. Maybe this time, I’ll find someone who actually sees me for who I am—beyond my disability.