One Indian Girl by Chetan Bhagat

‘Wow! Destination wedding and all.’
I didn’t respond. To distract myself I asked Aditi didi a deep existential question: ‘What shoes
are you wearing with this?’
‘Oh see, now that’s an issue too. I have these four-inch-heel red stilettos, but that’s definitely
attention-seeking.’
‘Yeah, plus we are going dancing. Would be difficult in high heels. I am wearing flats.’
My sister feels her deepest bond with me when I discuss clothes and shoes with her. She came
up to me and pulled my cheeks. ‘You can’t wear flats for your bachelorette. How cute you are. You
don’t know anything.’
Yes, I may be a distressed debt specialist. I may have rescued bankrupt companies and
structured complex takeovers. I may be a vice president at Goldman Sachs. But if I prefer flats
because they are comfortable, I know nothing. I had kept a black dress for tomorrow’s party. Didi had
a look at it. ‘Too simple,’ she said. She went on to accessorize it for me. As she opened her jewellery
box, I checked my phone again.
‘Where in Goa?’ Debu had sent me a message.
‘Why?’ I said.
‘Can I call, please?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘It’s at a resort?’ he said.
‘Debu, you are in New York. Focus on your work there. Didn’t you have a girlfriend?’
‘Who?’
‘Never mind.’
‘I am sorry, Rad.’
‘It’s okay. Life goes on. It has gone on.’
‘Yeah, true. But I made the biggest mistake. And you are getting married now. Like now!’
I sent a smiley back.
‘Where will you live after your marriage? Hong Kong?’
‘No. I moved to London from Hong Kong a year ago.’
‘Oh. So London?’
‘San Francisco.’
‘Ah. IT guy?’
‘I have to go, Debashish.’
‘Still mad at me?’
‘No. I really have to go. I have to get ready for dinner with the guests.’
‘Okay. I am just asking casually. Where is the wedding?’
‘Marriott,’ I said.
‘Nice! Must be beautiful.’
‘Stop chatting on your phone. Who are you talking to anyway? Everyone we know is here in
Goa for the wedding,’ Aditi didi said.
‘Huh? Nobody. Just.. .work,’ I said, keeping my phone aside. After the bridegroom, the bride
had lied to her sister.
‘Take this, my body necklace. Your dull dress will liven up,’ she said.
‘My dull dress is Prada, didi,’ I said.
‘I don’t care. It needs to have a get-up, no? It is too sober. You are too sober.’
I didn’t think I was going to remain sober. Not after Debu’s next message.