When Vyshnavee met Thiru on email he promised her movie star looks and she promised him a body-building physique. Vyshnavee writes that both underdelivered, but the email did lead to love.
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I've known my husband Thiru for almost a third of my life.
We met on a blind date in 2011; set up by a mutual friend via email e-intro (a forgotten era before dating apps).
The first sign of genuine chemistry was the ease of banter.
In an attempt to provide physical descriptors, he referred to himself as a dark-skinned Brad Pitt. In return, I told him I possessed the musculature of a female bodybuilder.
Both of these were gross embellishments of course, and I couldn't resist looking him up on Facebook before we met.
A Sri Lankan Adam Brody may have been a more accurate depiction (everybody wants this).
Our first date was at Grasshopper Bar — a pioneer of the small bar scene in Sydney — located just off George St in the CBD. Caught up in our conversation, we hung out until the early hours, right until the bar closed.
A differing worldview, despite shared heritage
Despite having shared Sri Lankan Tamil heritage, Thiru and I grew up very differently, which shaped our perspective on the Australian identity and our place within it.
He grew up in Sydney's Northern Beaches, at a time when cultural diversity was virtually non-existent. I grew up in Western Sydney, surrounded by the continual waves of newly arrived migrant and refugee communities.
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As our worlds merged, this friction felt pronounced.
When Thiru would often venture across the Harbour Bridge to see me, he was treated to authentic and affordable dine-out options from a broad array of cultures.
When I hung out with him in Narrabeen and Manly, I could feel the enquiring eyes of locals staring at me.
His way of countering racism was to educate: explaining why Hindus were vegetarian on a Friday or correcting his rugby team that he was in fact Sri Lankan, not Aboriginal. He even had a teacher call him Wendell after South Sea Islander / West Indian rugby player, Wendell Sailor.
We'd often have heated debates about the discrimination experienced in our daily lives.
He'd chalk it up to ignorance. I, on the other hand, would be less forgiving, asserting those that didn't possess racial literacy should use Google.
I was raised with a strong connection to my Sri Lankan Tamil identity, while still appreciating Australian culture (Kylie Minogue was the highlight of the AFL grand final). My family was active in the Sri Lankan community, and I spoke my mother tongue at home.
Thiru was brought up being immersed in Australian culture, and whenever he would attempt to speak Tamil, his mum would tell him to stop butchering her language.
In a way, he grew up feeling like he wasn't quite Australian or Sri Lankan enough.
There was also the chasm of class.
I came from a working-class suburb with a high crime rate, which instilled a strong sense of social justice in me. Coming from an affluent area, Thiru was surprised I wasn't constantly seized by abject fear.
The differences in our upbringings created conflict and understanding in equal measure.
He would pull me out of my bubble, pushing me to justify my views; and I made him feel at one with his Tamil identity.
We've come a long, long way together
A 15-year relationship has led to a lot of shared milestones and challenges: moving interstate, marriage, therapy, home ownership, fertility struggles (mine) and an ADHD diagnosis (his).
His once-luscious curls have retreated into a receding hairline, and the toned physique I once boasted has descended into postpartum softness.
There are still major differences: he has a deep love of sports, while I'm passionate about the arts. Though, in truth, he's accompanied me to more theatre shows than I've attended cricket games.
As I've watched many friends end long-term relationships, I've queried what keeps us together — and not in a smug way. Our relationship is by no means perfect, but somehow, amongst life's logistical tango, there's an underlying friendship and emotional security that's helped us persevere through it all.
And in the modern age of ghosting and love bombing, that kind of love is ageless.
