Should i talk?

                             

                 "Hell is other people." – Jean-Paul Sartre

"Just make eye contact and talk," Swapnil said as we stepped out of the flat.

"Just talk?" Yeah, sure. That sounds easy, until you actually have to do it. When it’s your turn to speak, suddenly, words feel like they’ve been sidelined like a Delhi guy at a Mumbai house party, present, but nobody cares. And eye contact? Please. That’s way too much for a guy whose biggest talent is looking in every direction except the one that matters.

The Uber had already arrived. I could see the driver’s face through the window—pure rage. He must've been waiting a while. Mumbai’s Uber and auto drivers are always two honks away from an emotional breakdown. Maybe his last customer was a nightmare, maybe it's the traffic, maybe it's just the fact that he's in Mumbai. But hey, buddy, you chose this job. Deal with it. Then again, who am I to talk? I didn’t exactly "choose" to be in a wheelchair either.

Swapnil pushed me towards the car, and the driver's scowl immediately softened when he saw me. Ah, yes. One of the few perks of being disabled, instant sympathy. Works like magic. He went from "I hate my life" to "I shall now be a saint" in under three seconds.

"Aap apne time lo," the driver said, all fake patience and forced politeness.

Oh, of course, I’ll take my time, you jackass. What else am I paying you an extra ₹300 for? A five-kilometer ride that costs as much as a samosa in PVR.

We finally left, and just two hours later, we arrived. Yeah, you read that right. Two hours for five goddamn kilometers. By the time we got there, I had already gone through the five stages of grief, which are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Welcome to Mumbai.

The place was called TTF – The Third Wife. Seriously, what weed do these café owners smoke before naming their places? There was a time when restaurants were happy being called Saurabh Bhojanalay or Shree Balaji Tandoori Dhaba. But no. Now, every café has to sound like a rejected Netflix show.

And there she was, standing at the entrance—my date. She was wearing a half-red, half-black A-line dress. And, oh boy, was she looking… awful.

I mean, what’s with the two colors? Pick one and own it. It’s not a PowerPoint gradient; it’s a dress. But okay, okay, too soon for judgment. Maybe she has a great personality. Maybe she rescues puppies or saves orphans in her free time.

The Uber came to a halt, and the driver stepped out to help. Swapnil followed, because apparently, getting me out of a car is a full-fledged team effort. Meanwhile, she walked towards the taxi, side-hugged Swapnil first (weird, but okay?), and then stood in front of me, smiling.

"Chalo, I'll see you guys in… three hours?" Swapnil asked, already climbing back into the Uber.

She nodded.

And then Swapnil was gone, taking the same Uber. I caught a glimpse of the driver’s face, pure shock. You could tell exactly what he was thinking.

"Even this langda is going on a date?"

Listen, my dear driver, whatever thoughts you’re having, i think, its better to jerk off in a car than spilling it where you sit (iykyk, disabled jokes)

We went inside the café. No third wives in sight. Misleading name.

She sat across from me. I wished I could pull her chair out like a gentleman, but, well, gentledisabledman at your service.

She skimmed the menu like she was making life-or-death choices. Finally, she settled on Japanese katsu curry. I went for a chicken chipotle. Basic, I know, but let’s be real—half these fancy fusion dishes taste like disappointment anyway.

"Why did you swipe right on me?" I asked, going straight for the kill.

She blinked, caught off guard. Clearly, she was expecting the usual small talk about hobbies, star signs, or whatever people pretend to care about on dates.

"Umm... because I thought you were cute?" she said.

"And what exactly is the definition of ‘cute’?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

She launched into a monologue. Something about how "cuteness is an energy" and "how you carry yourself." I nodded, pretending to listen, but my focus had already shifted to something far more interesting, across the café, a waiter had just spilled an entire bowl of paneer curry on a man’s lap.

The man shot up, fuming, and I could already predict how this would unfold. First, verbal abuse. Then, the inevitable escalation. Sure enough, voices got louder, chairs screeched, and just as I anticipated—boom. The man flung a hot pan of curry straight at the waiter. The waiter yelped, clutching his burnt arm. Within seconds, the entire squad of café staff assembled like the Avengers, and suddenly, it was a full-blown WWE smackdown.

Punches flew. Spoons became weapons. Plates shattered. Then the furious customer grabbed a knife and lunged. Blood. Chaos. Screams.

I turned my head, wide-eyed, adrenaline kicking in.

My date was gone. The fight was gone. The café was gone.

I blinked.

It was 12 PM,.

I had legs. I could walk. But I didn’t have a date.

Swapnil’s words echoed in my head: "Just talk."

But I can't. Because I’m mute. Or deaf. Or whatever excuse I need to avoid it.

As I sit here writing this, my phone rings. Swapnil.

"You wanna talk?" he asks.

Should I?