One Indian Girl by Chetan Bhagat

‘Decent. Getting to know him,’ I said, plonking myself on the sofa. I took out my phone again.
Why? Why am I taking out my phone again?
Aditi didi continued to talk. ‘I didn’t know Anil at all before marriage. You just get to know
each other better after the wedding. The honeymoon helps.’ She winked at me.
I nodded, even as I wondered what to reply to Debu.
‘I really do,’ Debu texted again. The guy who earlier took ten days to reply to a text was now
sending ten texts a minute.
‘Are you high?’ I replied. Debu and I ended up having a chat.
‘No. It is 5 in the morning here. I am having my coffee. This is not a drunk text.’
‘Good. Then you need to know I am getting married in five days.’
‘What? So soon?’
‘Yes. Guests are already here.’
‘Whom are you getting married to?’
‘Someone not as insecure as you.. .’ I typed and deleted.
‘Brijesh Gulati.. .’ I typed and deleted again.
I decided to not reply. Didi held up two dresses, one blue and one red.
‘Which one should I wear for tomorrow’s bachelorette? Honest opinion,’ she said.
‘Both are good. Which is your favourite?’ I said.
‘I like the red. But it’s really short. Is it screaming for attention too much?’ she said.
Of course, it is. But that’s what you have always wanted, sister. Why stop yourself now?
‘It’s fine. Wear whatever you like,’ I said.
‘I’ll wear the blue. It’s to the knees. More elder-sister-of-the-bride types.’
‘You are only a year older.’
‘Yeah, that is also true. And tomorrow is the only day I get to wear a Western dress. I only
wear Indian after that. I am one of the few girls here who can actually carry off a dress like this.’
She lifted her red dress. Yes, Aditi didi with her super-slim soup-and-salad-diet figure could
carry it off.
‘Red, didi. End of debate,’ I said.
My phone buzzed.
‘Babes, who are you getting married to?’ Debu said.
I replied, ‘It doesn’t matter. You are not in my life anymore, Debashish.’
‘Can you call me Debu at least?’
‘I am busy, Debashish. I don’t have time for this.’
‘Where’s the wedding?’
I didn’t respond.
‘You didn’t invite me?’ he said, needling me again.
Asshole, you didn’t even return my calls, I wanted to say but didn’t.
My phone rang. Debu was trying to call me. I cut the call. I typed back a message.
‘Don’t call me. I told you I am busy. There are people around.’
‘So just reply to me. Where is the wedding?’
‘Why?’
‘Just curious.’
‘Whatever,’ I typed back.
‘I can call friends around and find out. So why don’t you just tell me?’
‘Goa.’