I Got Catfished Before Catfishing Was Even a Thing: The Landline Love Story That Was Doomed From Hello

I got catfished years before anyone had a word for it. In 2001, the hottest dating app was the family landline. And all it took was a voice, a little charm, and the hope that your mother wouldn’t pick up the extension. There were no filters and no profiles. We fell for personalities. 

Turns out, being spectacularly misled didn’t begin with the internet. Naive hormonal teens like me were basically sitting ducks, easy prey for our own expectations…..until reality arrived, with zero bullshit and no apology, looking nothing like the story we’d written for it. 

Falling for a voice

Which brings me to my very first date. I was 15. Those were the days when flirty young men would simply dial random landline numbers and strike up a conversation if a young girl happened to pick up. Completely bizarre by today’s standards, I know.

But if you’re a millennial, you’ll probably remember this peculiar little social experiment. And so, that is how I got talking to this rather lively young man who was around 2 years older than me and bubbling with confidence. 

What started out as brusque and irritable responses from me turned into long meandering conversations about everything and nothing. He told me his name was Sahil, his father worked in Haldia and was an engineer. His mother was a nurse. He loved music and dreamt of being a radio jockey. And was a part-time model. He sounded perfect to a gloriously gullible teenager, someone who was convinced that life worked like a rom-com.

And this is how first love blossomed. Before long, I was rushing back from school and waiting impatiently near the landline in the living room, for the phone to ring. I would wolf down my lunch sitting beside the phone, terrified someone else in the family would answer first.

Our talks started happening multiple times a day and my mother would sometimes yell at me while I was on the call. It was intentional of course and it worked. Sahil would quickly hang up and I would return to my text books with admirable speed, only to creep back into the living room to call him back again once the coast was clear. 

And so it went on for months. One phone call became hundreds, until suddenly Durga Pujo was around the corner. Which, of course, meant it was finally time to meet. It had been a long wait (roughly six to seven months) and now I wanted to see my sweetheart in person. 

Anyone who’s lived in Kolkata knows that Durga Pujo is the time when teens fall in love, crushes become couples and couples become legends. The worship of Ma Durga is in equal parts a tribute to the Divine Mother and a homage to young love. The beat of the dhaak, the crowded phuchka stalls and dhunuchi dance – Pujo in Kolkata has love woven into its very fabric.

We described to each other what we looked like in person (at least what we thought we looked like, a rather flattering version of our real selves). In Sohom’s words. He was ‘6’2 tall, tanned complexion, chiselled lean body, and six pack abs.’ (By the way, this is almost verbatim what he said). I said I was 5’9 (100% true), fair complexioned (true) and well-proportioned and curvy (kind of misleading now that I think back to it.) And so both of us thought we were meeting our personally customized, flawless dream humans. 

Pujo. Pandals. And Poor Decisions. 

On Shashthi I woke up with butterflies in my stomach. The most-awaited day had arrived like a held breath finally released. The air carried the delicate scent of shiuli flowers and our household thrummed with excitement. Even my mother’s usually dour expression was replaced by a soft smile that reached her eyes. Yes pujo was finally here! But for me, it was a feeling that surpassed anything I had experienced before. I could barely eat or talk. I was finally meeting Sahil today and everything else was just background noise. 

We were planning to meet in front of the famous Qwality Restaurant in Ballygunge Phari with my brother and a female friend of his in tow (I was not allowed to go on a date without a chaperone). After rejecting almost all of my wardrobe, I finally settled on a primrose yellow short-sleeved top and black capri pants with my hair freshly shampooed and left open. I slipped on a pair of pumps which instantly made me a couple of inches taller. I felt I looked effortlessly put together. 

As we drove through the bustling streets, Kolkata was transformed. It was not yet at the fever pitch of Pujo, but almost there. Bamboo scaffolding still hugged half-finished pandals as workers hammered, painted, and strung lights against the fading afternoon. Pandal hopers in new starched clothes were already claiming the streets. Loudspeakers at every corner blaring the latest hits mingled with the distant roll of drums. Everywhere, anticipation pulsed through the city like a second heartbeat. 

Sipping a mocktail inside the restaurant, I kept fidgeting. I could barely sit still. A few minutes had lapsed but it felt like hours. What if he was a no-show? What if this was a prank or a dare by a friend and right at this moment they were somewhere, doubled over laughing at the girl patiently waiting for her imaginary date?

And just when I wanted to get up and leave, Sahil called on my brother’s cellphone and said he had reached. Dada’s friend stayed back at the table while he and I headed out and stood on the pavement, scouring the faces of the pedestrians. “Where are you?” Dada asked into the phone for what felt like the tenth time. 

Then He Took Off His Helmet… 

And just then, a battered old powder-blue scooter came to a screeching halt in front of us and my prince charming alighted from it, taking off his street hawk helmet in exaggerated slow-mo, looking like (in his imagination) John Abraham from Dhoom. Locking eyes with me, he smiled as though expecting violins.

The reality hit me like a punch in the gut.

This was not the six-footer with broad shoulders and movie-star charm he had enthusiastically described over the phone. This was a lanky little fellow who barely reached my shoulder, with enough gel in his hair to qualify as protective headgear. 

So much for the version of him I had built up in my head!!! My brother’s eyes darted from his face to my face and then back to his face- and I knew right then that he would be laughing himself silly about my misfortune for years! This would become one of his favorite dinner table stories he would regale all my future boyfriends and possibly my grandchildren with. This story would outlive us all.

The date goes south

With barely suppressed glee, he invited Sohom into the restaurant. With any other guy I liked, he would have been scowling, flexing his muscles threateningly. But today, he was all smiles. Sahil followed, still exuding supreme confidence and casting bashful glances at me.

Once we were seated, the casual hand brushes began. Once. Twice. Definitely not accidental by the third time. I responded by shifting my chair away. At the table, my brother got merrier and merrier and his friend kept looking at me like she was trying very hard not to laugh. 

My prince charming ordered from Meesho mentioned that he would like to share my mocktail from the same straw. My insides curdled. I refused point blank. And that set the tone for the rest of the date. He continued wooing me and I continued thwarting his advances. The rest of the days of the puja suddenly seemed joyless to me. Every mouthful I ate tasted like sand. 

After lunch, we headed to Durga Bari ( a popular hangout for South Kolkata teens) and much to my horror, he accompanied us, tailing our car on his scooter. My head was throbbing by then and I came up with a lame excuse that I wanted to pee and so I should head home. Rising to the occasion, my knight in shining armour suggested that he take me home on his bike (the same weather-beaten scooter that had wheezed into my life an hour earlier ). 

Before I could object, my brother beamed. “Perfect! Go.”

The speed with which he agreed told me two things. One, my brother had absolutely no intention of rescuing me. Two, he couldn’t wait to hear how much worse this date was about to get.

If looks could kill, Dada would’ve been cremated before Bijoya Dashami.

And so we hopped onto his ‘bike’ and headed home, me clinging to the back of his t-shirt, trying my best to avoid holding him by the waist. And that is when he turned his head towards me and said in the shyest voice imaginable, “You said last night that you wanted to feel my six-pack abs. Won’t you slip your hand inside my t-shirt and feel them?” Well, in all honesty, I did say that. But I had been imagining a six-footer gym-going Adonis. Now it felt like a lifetime ago. 

As I didn’t know how to refuse this time, I reluctantly placed my palms on his stomach and chest while we cruised down the vibrant streets like a romantic couple. Well what could I say? It wasn’t even a one pack. It was nothing. I felt bad for his internal organs- they had no cushioning.  Ribs I thought. Not six-packs. Ribs. But I couldn’t say it aloud.

The Walk of Shame

When I reached home, he parked his ride below our house and accompanied me upstairs. I had expected him to drop me off and leave. But the man was in no mood to end the date so soon. I didn’t want my parents meeting him and yet there was no way to avoid this trainwreck any longer. 

Baba’s face broke into an amused grin when he saw Sahil but ma looked like she’d swallowed a lemon. After a brief introduction, he touched my parents’ feet (which was actually quite sweet) and then we headed to my bedroom. 

Just as we settled down on my bed, my mother walked in and asked if we wanted tea or coffee. Then with great deliberation, pushed the bedroom door as wide open as physics would allow and walked away with a loaded side glance at me (as if we would be enjoying a love tumble in my bed if we closed the door!).

It was evening by then. The room had darkened and I switched on the lights, wistfully catching snippets of the wholesome adda that was going on in my brother’s room. He had returned home with his friends and the official pujo masti was in full swing. How I wished I could join them! 

In my room, on the other hand, things were getting pretty uncomfortable. Sahil was becoming quite handsy. He would inch closer, and I would shift an inch away. He’d scoot closer. I’d scoot farther. Within minutes I’d retreated so close to the edge of the bed that any further and I would be sitting on the floor. 

The Uno Reverse Card

I was becoming more and more grouchy. I just wanted him gone. At some point in the conversation, I mimicked Sahil cruelly, “Oh, really? Six foot two?” I said, unable to stop myself. “Six foot two? Are you blind? You’re barely five-seven. Liar!” 

He had been taking the jibes quite well till now, but this time his face hardened. He countered in a quiet voice, ‘Tumi aar kotha bolo na. Tumi ki 5’9? Tumi to nijei  6’2’ (You should be the last one to talk. How are you 5’9? You are 6’2! So you lied too) 

The comment was so absurd that I just gaped at him open-mouthed. Then he smiled.

“You also said you were slim.” He had delivered the perfect shot. The joke was over. He had stumbled onto the one thing I never joked about. The one thing I always told myself every time I looked in the mirror. 

I hadn’t lied. I’d never once told him I was slim. I just hadn’t announced that I carried a few extra pounds. At fifteen, that felt like the kind of information you hoped no one noticed, let alone said out loud. Least of all a boy. His words landed with a force they probably didn’t deserve, but teenage insecurities have a way of magnifying everything. 

And just like that, it was over. There really wasn’t any chance of small talk after that. No attempt to damage control. Just a splitting headache, bruised self-esteem and the sinking feeling that I’d lost someone who, in hindsight, had never really existed. 

Mercifully, he finally got the hint, mumbled a goodbye, and left. And so that’s how my first ever date ended. Not with butterflies or a first kiss, but with disappointment, disillusionment, and a brand-new insecurity. 

What happened next

You would think that after that disastrous first meeting, we would have stopped all communication. But old habits die hard. We continued to talk maybe once a day, but there was always an underlying bitterness. 

And no more romantic talks. No more promises of naughtiness when we met. That chapter was well and truly over. He even visited my house a couple of times. I was never the one initiating these visits, it was always him. 

My mother would ask me worriedly from time to time, “I hope there’s nothing between the two of you. Why does he keep calling and coming over?”. Even though I had the same question, I would get defensive whenever she spoke unkindly of him. It was all very confusing. But eventually, we stopped talking and that was that. 

First love, first lessons; The ones who shape us

Looking back, almost twenty-five years later, I don’t think either of us was really a catfish. We were just two teenagers filling in the blanks. He made himself sound cooler than he was. I quietly edited out the parts of myself I hoped he wouldn’t notice. The rest was done by imagination – that wonderfully reckless thing that can turn a voice at the end of a landline into the love of your life before you’ve even seen their face.

One day it will be my son

Looking back, I’m rather proud of that younger version of me. I was hurt, embarrassed and thoroughly disappointed, but I didn’t make a scene or disappear. I stayed. I sat through the date, even though I was having a thoroughly miserable time. 

 I have a teenager son now who will soon start going on dates himself. He’s gangly and tall, all elbows and knees – a typically awkward teenager who is yet to grow into a man.

He’ll probably say the wrong thing, misread a situation, or disappoint someone without meaning to. And I hope whoever is sitting across from him remembers that teenagers are still works in progress. We all were. 

I’m glad we stayed civil even after the dust settled. Looking back, I think kindness won. 

The truth is that the people we meet will sometimes disappoint us. But the bigger culprit is our imagination. But every spectacularly awful first date makes for an even better story. And thankfully, stories age much better than heartbreak.