One Indian Girl by Chetan Bhagat

‘Yeah. Save those two joints for the Marriott. We will need them.’
We rode back on the Activa. This time I held him around the waist. Maybe it was the beer and
the joint, but it didn’t feel odd. We passed through the same rice fields, now invisible in the darkness.
The headlight of the Activa showed us the road. We stopped at a crossroads to confirm the way.
‘We take a right from here, yes?’ I said, placing my chin on his shoulder.
‘Yeah,’ he said.
As we turned, we passed two cops at a checkpoint. They stopped us.
‘Licence,’ one of the cops said.
Brijesh stood up from the Activa and sifted through his pockets. He took out his wallet and
checked inside. He couldn’t find it.
‘Oh, I think I kept it in the hotel safe,’ he said.
‘What?’ the cop said.
‘I have a California licence. From the USA. I left it at the hotel, sorry.’
The cops looked at each other.
‘We have to fine you,’ one cop said. He took out a challan booklet.
The other cop turned to me.
‘Madam, this is not right. You should not drive without a licence.’
‘We are tourists. Sorry.’
We had to pay a fine of 400 rupees. Brijesh took out a 1,000-rupee note from his wallet. The
cops gave him the change. As Brijesh put the wallet back in his pocket, a small paper bundle fell out.
‘You dropped something,’ the cop said and picked it up. He held it in his hand and brought it
closer to his face. He sniffed at it once, and gave it to his colleague.
Damn.
‘Can both of you step aside, please? Give us the Activa keys.’
‘What’s the matter?’ I said.
He lifted up the paper packet.
‘This is marijuana. It is illegal. We need to take you to the police station.’