One Indian Girl by Chetan Bhagat

‘You have this hang-up about qualification.’
‘Mom, how is education a hang-up? I am an MBA.’
‘So he has done BPharm. He is thinking of doing an MBA,’ she lowered her volume, ‘through
correspondence.’
‘Correspondence?’
‘You can even do it online these days.’
‘Mom. Bye.’
‘They have a kothi in Bengali Market. The boy’s own floor has four bedrooms.’
‘I don’t care. I am not looking for real estate.’
‘Talk to him once?’
‘Why? Mom, you know I am working abroad. Why would I quit and come for this?’
‘What do you want then? NRI? I can look.’
‘I don’t want anyone. Please leave me alone.’
‘What has happened to you today?’
‘I have to go. Bye.’
I ended the call. I saw the Facebook page in front of me. Avinash was still Debu’s friend. I
could ask him. I called Avinash in New York.
‘Hey, Radhika. Been ages,’ he said.
‘Yeah. What’s up?’ I said.
‘Just woke up. Sunday morning here. How’s Hong Kong? Work?’
‘It’s good. Busy. Hey, Avinash, can I ask you for a quick favour?’
‘Sure.’
‘Promise you won’t judge me, or tell anyone.’
‘Sure.’
‘I want you to check Debu’s profile on Facebook.’
‘Really?’
‘See. You are judging me, right? This idiotic girl who moved continents but can’t move on.’
‘No, no. Wait. I am not judging. What do you want me to do?’
‘I will FaceTime you. You point your phone camera to your computer screen. Load Debu’s
profile on your computer.’
He laughed. ‘That’s innovative.’
‘It is also desperate.’
‘Hey, that’s fine. FaceTime me.’
I gave him a video call.
‘Here we go. Debashish Sen,’ Avinash said. I could see his computer screen on my phone. He
zoomed in closer to Debu’s profile picture. He stood there, grinning, in Central Park with a red-
haired white girl three inches taller than him. My heart sank. He had switched at least two women
after me. I, meanwhile, had run into the wife and kids of the boss I had slept with.
‘His last post was at a colleague’s birthday party. Do you want me to enlarge the picture?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ I said.
Debu sat at a restaurant table, holding up a bottle of Corona beer. He still had his beard and
curly hair. The tall white girl sat next to him, a glass of wine in her hand. He looked happy. She
looked happy. The wine looked happy. Who did not look happy? Me.
‘You want to see more?’ Avinash said.
‘Thanks, Avinash. That’s enough,’ I said, my voice flat.