One Indian Girl by Chetan Bhagat

I called Debu. He cut my call. I called twice again.
‘Can you call me?’ I sent him a message.
He didn’t respond. I came back to my cubicle, sat in my seat and covered my face with my
hands. Tricia, a sixty-year-old American secretary in our group, glanced at me.
‘You okay?’
I nodded, my lips a flat line.
‘Just tired,’ I said with effort.
‘Are you going to call me?’ I sent a message again.
‘There is nothing to talk about,’ he replied.
I called him. He cut my call again.
‘Am busy,’ his message said.
‘What could be more important than this?’ I responded.
‘Can you leave me alone, please?’ came his answer.
My eyes welled up. I didn’t want to cry in the office. I sucked in my breath.
‘We have lived together for two years. Is it that simple to end it?’ I sent him a message.
‘I should have ended it earlier,’ he said.
I called him. He picked up.
‘I have told you I can’t talk. Stop calling me, please.’
‘Can we talk later?’ I pleaded as my voice began to quiver.
‘I really have to go. Bye,’ he said.
That was that. My face red, I knew I had to leave the office before I disintegrated.
‘I am just going out for a walk,’ I called out to Tricia. ‘Feeling a bit uneasy.’
‘Fresh air will do you good,’ Tricia said.
‘Tell Jonathan to call on my cell if he needs me.’
I stepped out of 85 Broad Street. The sun shone bright, taking away a bit of the chill. It was a
beautiful day weather-wise, but it felt like my worst day in New York so far. I felt like calling him
again, but resisted the temptation. I kept staring at my phone, hoping he would call me back. He
didn’t.
I roamed up and down Wall Street a dozen times. I didn’t have anyone like Debu in New York.
Sure, I had some friends at work and outside. However, I couldn’t imagine this city without Debu.
Maybe he is just upset, I told myself. But he had seemed so cold and firm when he spoke to me.
I went back to work after an hour. I somehow finished the day. I didn’t eat any lunch. I left the
office at 5 in the evening and took the subway back and reached home.
I switched on the lights of the living room. I went to the bathroom. I saw the counter didn’t
have Debu’s perfume or his beard trimmer. The clothes-hook in the bathroom did not have any of his
clothes. I went to the bedroom, opened the closet—nothing.
I felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach, hard.
No, this is just a nightmare. I didn’t sleep all night so I am imagining all this.
I sat on the bed and stared at the empty closet. Then I cried. And cried. Till my eyes were as
empty as Debu’s cupboard.