One Indian Girl by Chetan Bhagat

temple. Marigold flowers in parabolic shapes adorned the walls. At the centre was a huge picture of
Sai Baba. My parents believed in him more than any God. Statues of other Hindu gods—Krishna,
Ganesha, Lakshmi and Vaishno Devi—were also kept. The bhajan singers set up their mikes.
The younger lot sat at the back of the room. Most of them were holding their heads. Brijesh’s
friends and cousins wore crisp silk kurta-pajamas. They had taken a shower in order to look fresh.
They passed around strips of Combiflam and bottles of water to nurse their hangovers.
My girls did no better. Most of them leaned back against the wall and snoozed in their
elaborate lehengas and salwar-kameezes. The way Indian girls transform themselves from party
chicks in short dresses to fully clad, chaste, virginal bhajan attendees is almost a visual effects’
miracle.
The bhajans began. The singers had wonderful voices. However, when you are hungover even
the best melody sounds like an electric drill. Brijesh looked at me and smiled. I gestured that I wanted
to sleep. He passed me a Combiflam strip. I popped a pill.
‘You are not well?’ Kamla bua said.
‘Just tired,’ I said.
‘I have an Ayurvedic medicine. It works better,’ Kamla bua said. Nothing in the world works
better than Combiflam, I wanted to tell her.
‘Nice bhajans, bua,’ I said instead.
The angels of Marriott brought us cups of black coffee. I had two. I swore not to drink again,
ever. Okay, at least not this week. The coffee helped me wake up somewhat.
‘Come and pray in front, beta,’ one of my aunts told me.
Brijesh and I went ahead and bowed before the gods. The singers sang a special song for us. I
looked at Brijesh. He had his eyes shut and hands folded. He was actually praying. I felt guilty for not
praying with as much sincerity. Because you are a fraud, mini-me told me. Will you ever shut up? I
said to mini-me.
I went back and sat with the girls. Brijesh joined the boys. The crowd participated in the next
bhajan, one of the more popular ones. Despite the loud music, I found it hard to keep my eyes open.
However, I woke up with a jolt when a bearded man in his late twenties entered the room. He had
curly hair and wore a white kurta-pajama.
‘Oh God. Debu?’ I blurted out.
‘What?’ Rajni, who sat next to me, said.
‘Nothing,’ I said.
He went up to the Sai Baba picture with confidence. He knelt down, bowed and touched his
forehead to the ground. Done with his prayers, he went to the men’s section and sat down. He clapped
his hands as the singers sang the next bhajan.
What the fuck is he doing here? Did I just say, or think, the F-word in the puja room? Who
cares? Am I imagining this? No I am not. What the fuck is Debu doing here?
He looked at me and smiled. Brijesh smiled at me at the same time as well. I fake-smiled at
both of them. I had to talk to Debu. How? Where is my phone? Damn, where is my phone?
‘Where is my phone? Haven’t seen it today. Did I leave it in the club?’ I whispered to Rajni.
‘Aditi didi kept it last night, right?’
I tapped Aditi didi’s shoulder. She sat in front of me, wearing a magenta salwar-kameez with
the dupatta covering her head. She sang with full fervour. Nobody could have guessed how well she
had matched every step of Sunny Leone’s Baby doll at LPK last night.
‘What?’ she said. I gestured that she return my phone. She rummaged through her handbag.