One Indian Girl by Chetan Bhagat

printing press. It didn’t really make much money now. His mother stayed at home. Debu grew up
dreaming about being a painter. He settled for commercial art as the practical choice. His parents had
saved enough to send him to do a course in design and arts in the US. He secured his current job
through campus placement.
‘Advertising sounds cool,’ I said, ‘that too Madison Avenue. Best place to do it in the world.’
‘It’s not as cool on the inside. There’s constant politics. The money isn’t great. I have been
lucky to work on good campaigns. However, juniors don’t usually get much creative work.’
‘I am sure it is not just luck. You must be really good.’
He looked at me and smiled. He ate with chopsticks. I tried but failed. Mini-me told me not to
make an ass of myself and use a fork and spoon. I complied.
‘Thanks for the compliment,’ he said. ‘Dessert?’
I saw the menu. It had choices like sweet red bean pudding and tofu ice cream.
‘Red bean pudding?’ I said. ‘What is that?’
‘Rajma,’ Debu said. ‘Rajma kheer of sorts.’
‘Yuck,’ I said.
‘Chinese desserts are not famous. There’s a reason—they suck,’ he said.
‘Bengali desserts are the best,’ I said.
Debu’s chest swelled with pride.
‘Bengali men aren’t too bad either,’ he said.
Did he just flirt with me? Is this flirting? Am I supposed to respond with something clever?
‘As sweet as their desserts?’ I said, one eyebrow up.
See, I can flirt back. Nerds can flirt.
He never expected a comeback. He took a second to take in my response.
‘Why don’t you try and find out?’ he said.
That’s enough, Radhika, this is going into dangerous territory, I told myself. Deflect, change
the topic, fast. You don’t want to be judged as a slut on the first date. See, this is what I do. When I
am with a man, I behave like I am sitting for a test. Answer the question properly. Act naïve as if I
don’t understand his double meaning. Don’t just be. Perform.
‘Don’t know about the men. I’d love to have a rasgulla though,’ I said, my voice as innocent
and dumb as possible. ‘Alas, this is Manhattan.’
‘Fear not. We Bengalis have left imprints everywhere. Would you like to go to a rasgulla
place?’
‘Here? Now? In Manhattan?’
He nodded and smiled. The bill arrived.
‘Should we split?’ I said and took out two twenty-dollar bills.
He thought about it for a second.
‘Actually, no. Can I treat you this time?’ he said.
Isn’t that what dates are? I said to myself. But then, what about gender equality?
‘Why?’ I said. ‘We can split.’
‘No,’ he said as he took the money out of his wallet. ‘It’s not that much. You can buy the
rasgullas.’