One Indian Girl by Chetan Bhagat

‘I can’t hide who I am,’ I said.
‘Why can’t you be like your sister?’
‘Because I am not Aditi didi. I don’t want to be her.’
We came back home. She came up with another idea. She wanted to upgrade our shaadi.com
membership to the VIP category, where special agents help you get grooms.
‘We have special needs. We need special help,’ she said.
I guess I was special. Specially fucked up. No wonder she needed an army of specialists to
trap a man for me.
She sat on my bed. I lay next to her and turned the other way.
‘Do whatever you want, mom,’ I said.
‘One of my daughters got settled so easily. I just hope and pray God helps us,’ she muttered to
herself and raised her folded hands to the sky.
‘What’s with invoking God? Am I some illness? A misfortune?’ I said, without looking at her.
‘Will you stop being so touchy? It is a fact Aditi’s marriage happened so quickly. She has
whiter skin, which helps. But she also had a good attitude. You should have an even better attitude.’
I turned towards her and interrupted her.
‘What do you mean, even better attitude? I should be more subservient? What is that word in
ads? Homely? It just means submissive, right? You want me to be more homely?’
‘Well. Yeah.’
‘I am not homely. So maybe I will just stay single.’
‘Don’t say such horrible things.’
‘There’s nothing horrible about it,’ I said.
‘This money and international job have gone to your head. You are not even a girl anymore.’
‘What?’ I said, one eyebrow up in disgust.
‘Forget it.’
‘Mom, dad used to walk me to the school bus stop, remember? When I was in primary
school.’
She looked at me, said nothing.
‘He used to tell me, “Beta, when you grow up, you can do whatever you want. The sky is the
limit for you.’’’
‘So?’
‘Why do people tell girls all this? You ask them to achieve things, but when they do, you can’t
handle it. Why does it become “you are not even a girl anymore”?’
‘I don’t know all that. I never worked. I didn’t have choices like yours,’ she said.
‘Neither did you have the courage,’ I said.
She paused for a second before she spoke again. ‘I don’t know. Okay, fine, I don’t have
courage. Anyway, I think it is better for women if they don’t work.’
‘Mom!’ I screamed in exasperation.
‘What?’
‘My job means a lot to me. Can you not demean it?’
‘Can you not demean me?’ my mother said. She broke into tears. Her sobs turned into a full-
blown crying fest, as she mourned the loss of her ten shortlisted prospective sons-in-law.
I looked around. I found a tissue box on the bedside table. I passed it to her. She wiped her
tears.
‘Do you know how much pain I had to bear when you were born?’ she said.