One Indian Girl by Chetan Bhagat

‘Please, Debu. The house is so empty without you,’ I said.
I held on to the pole in the subway compartment. Debu had left home five days ago. I had
called him every day, trying to convince him to come back.
‘It is your house. You stayed there alone before me, right?’ Debu said.
‘Yeah, but now it is our home.’
‘It’s not. It’s rented. Too much rent, if you ask me.’
The train shook as it shifted tracks. I found it tough to balance myself.
‘You know what I mean,’ I said.
‘It’s okay. You will get used to it,’ he said.
‘I can’t. Please, Debu. Don’t you miss me?’ I said. A part of me felt horrible for grovelling
before him like this. I teared up in front of everyone in the subway.
‘I am just a habit. Trust me,’ Debu said.
‘My stop has come. I will call you from home,’ I said and hung up. It gave me an excuse to call
him again after a while. Maybe he would be convinced this time?
How desperate are you? mini-me said. Yes, so I am a little desperate, but only for love.
There’s nothing wrong in being desperate for love, right?
At home I sat on the bed and called him again. He took my call. I heard noises in the
background.
‘I’ve come out for drinks. With office people. Can we talk later?’
‘Talk to me for two minutes, please,’ I said. The house felt lonely as hell. I needed him near
me, if not in person, then at least on the phone.
‘Come on chat. But only two minutes,’ he said. Of course, like an obedient slave, I agreed to
whatever scraps he offered me.
‘Wassup,’ he sent me a message.
‘How was your day?’ I replied.
‘Was fine. Is that what you wanted to say?’
‘I can’t sleep at night.’
‘You should.’
‘I beg you, come back.’
‘Not that again, Radhika. Please. Have told you my decision.’
‘What is my fault? Just tell me. I will change myself.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘You want me to not work? Leave my job? Just say it.’
‘Do whatever. Your life.’
‘Debu, please!’
‘Listen, office people here. Got to go. Bye.’
He didn’t respond after that. I opened the fridge, found a bottle of white wine, poured myself a
big glass. Then another and another.
I sent him a message in my drunken state.
‘I love you, Debu.’
He didn’t respond.
‘I will do anything for you. Nothing else matters,’ I sent another one.
‘Love you, Debu. More than anyone else,’ I continued my message barrage, as the wine inside
me meant I had no limits anymore. From desperate I had now moved to full-on pathetic. I saw the
‘typing.. .’ notification on WhatsApp. He was going to respond! Joy filled me in anticipation of his