Kavya Raman & Neel Vaidya

We tried the weekends first. That seems obvious when you live two hours apart. You make a plan, check the journey, choose somewhere to go and try to ensure that the time together will justify the effort of getting there. What we had not expected was how tiring it could become to make every visit a special occasion.

When people ask how we met, we usually give the short answer: a conversation on WaBanja that we both wanted to continue. The longer answer includes a question about a photograph of a badly organised bookshelf, a disagreement about whether books should ever be arranged by colour, and the discovery that both of us had stayed up too late answering messages on a work night.

Kavya was the one who asked about the shelf. Neel was the one who admitted that the photograph had been taken before he bought another stack of books and made the situation worse. Neither of us was looking for somebody with the same furniture problem. It was just a detail that made it possible to begin without sounding as though we were interviewing each other.

We discussed the distance before meeting. It mattered, but not in the dramatic way it sometimes appears in a story. There was no ocean between us. There was a journey that cost money, took time and became less appealing after a long week. We each had work and commitments that would not disappear because we happened to like someone. It seemed sensible to admit all of that before making plans.

Our first meeting was halfway between our homes, at a public café near a small market. We chose it because neither would be responsible for hosting or planning the whole day. Neel brought a book Kavya had asked to see. Kavya brought an umbrella that sheltered neither of us particularly well when it rained. We remember the conversation more than the weather, but we still disagree about whose shoulder got wetter.

At first, the travel made everything feel deliberate in a good way. We chose to see each other. We set aside time. We looked forward to it. On Friday evenings, one of us would send a photograph of an overnight bag or a station clock. We found small things to do and larger things to postpone because we wanted a reason to meet again.

After a few months, we had become competent planners and slightly less honest people. If one of us was tired, we said we were fine because the other had travelled. If a restaurant was disappointing, we tried too hard to enjoy it because we had spent a week choosing it. If a conversation became difficult, we often saved it for later because neither wanted to spoil the visit.

The problem was not the distance itself. The problem was that we had started protecting the weekend from the truth about our lives. There was room for the version of us who had packed clean clothes and brought an interesting story. There was less room for the person who had slept badly, worried about a bill or simply wanted an hour without talking.

Kavya noticed first. We had spent a Sunday afternoon at an exhibition neither of us particularly liked. On the way back, Neel said it had been a good day. Kavya answered, “Was it? Or are we saying that because we arranged it?” It was not meant as a challenge, but it sounded like one. We had an uncomfortable conversation in a place where we could not easily walk away and collect our thoughts.

We did not solve it then. We went home and gave ourselves a little time to think. Later, Neel admitted that he sometimes worried an ordinary visit would not be enough to keep Kavya interested. Kavya said she worried that needing rest would make her seem ungrateful. We were both behaving as though the other person had purchased a ticket to be entertained.

The next plan was an ordinary Tuesday. Kavya had a day off during the week. Neel could finish work early. There would be no exhibition, no restaurant booking and no attempt to fit several weeks of affection into one elaborate afternoon. Kavya arrived while Neel was answering the last of his work messages. She read for a while. Then we went to collect a parcel before the counter closed.

There was a queue at the parcel counter and a handwritten notice nobody could read from the back. Neel thought we had arrived too late. Kavya asked the person at the door, who waved us through. Afterwards we carried a disappointingly small box home and found that we had forgotten to plan lunch. We made toast and let a conversation stop without rushing to replace it.

That afternoon told us things a beautiful weekend could not. We learned that being together did not have to mean using every minute well. We learned that somebody could be distracted for half an hour and still be pleased you were there. We also learned that ordinary time can reveal irritations quickly, which is useful if you are willing to discuss them without pretending they are charming.

The distance has not disappeared. Some weeks the journey still feels longer than it should. We have missed trains, changed plans and spent evenings explaining that we were tired rather than angry. We do not keep a perfect balance sheet of who travels more, but we do pay attention when one person is carrying too much of the inconvenience. Taking it seriously has been kinder than declaring that distance should not matter.

The photograph with the hills behind us belongs to one of the occasions we did make a little more effort. We were visiting friends and had dressed for an afternoon gathering. We took a short walk before everyone arrived, and somebody offered to take our picture. There is no special milestone attached to it. We like that about the photograph. It records a day we enjoyed, rather than a future we had to announce.

We are still deciding what comes next. A shared home is a conversation, not a promise we made because it would give this story a tidy ending. For now, we know that we want more time together, including the kind that would not look interesting in a photograph. If we have an unexpectedly free day, one of us will usually send the same message: “An ordinary Tuesday would be nice.”