One Indian Girl by Chetan Bhagat

‘You look,’ he paused, ‘wonderful.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘Your dress is lovely too.’
‘Look, no tag today,’ I said and turned around. Both of us laughed. I was wearing a military
green lace dress I had picked up from Gap. It ended well above the knees, exposing enough leg.
However, I still don’t think Debu noticed the hundred dollars I spent fixing my limbs. The dim
lighting and the restaurant table covering my legs did no justice to the hour I had spent in the torture
chamber.
Debu ordered a set dinner for us.
We sat down in the upper level of Tao, a large-sized restaurant by New York standards.
Downstairs, we could see a giant Buddha and the Zen koi pond.
‘Nice place,’ I said.
‘Did you know they shot the Sex and the City movie here?’ Debu said.
I didn’t. ‘So how was your day?’
‘Good. We are pitching for this new sportswear brand called Under Armor. If we get the
campaign it will be awesome. How’s Goldman?’
‘Still in training. Busy. It will get even more hectic after work begins.’
I told him about Neel’s distressed debt presentation. I recounted how I was questioned in front
of the entire class.
‘So I am thinking, I won’t apply to distressed debt. It’s quite difficult to get anyway. Plus, the
job seems too difficult,’ I said.
‘How can you not apply?’ Debu said. ‘You are from IIMA. You will crack it.’
‘People in my class are from top colleges around the world. Harvard, Stanford, you name it.’
‘So what? You answered the question the partner asked you in the presentation, right?’
I looked at Debu. He had listened to me with full attention. His deep black eyes flickered in
the candlelight. I leaned back on my seat and crossed my legs. They felt unusually smooth. I
remembered why and smiled.
‘Why are you smiling?’ he said.
‘Nothing.’ I shook my head.
‘Listen,’ he said and placed his hand on mine. ‘You have to apply. Too many Indians come to
this city and get overwhelmed. Don’t be underconfident. You can do it. You will.’
‘Thanks. And you will win Under Armor,’ I said.
‘Cheers to that,’ he said and we lifted our water glasses. The waiter arrived with our food—
chicken noodle soup and vegetable fried rice. The soup seemed a little too bland for my taste. I stuck
to the fried rice.
‘You aren’t having the soup. You don’t like chicken?’
‘I eat meat, but I prefer vegetarian,’ I said.
‘I am vegetarian too,’ he said.
‘Really?’
‘I am a Bengali. For us, fish and chicken are vegetables.’
Both of us laughed.
We chatted through dinner. He told me about his parents in Kolkata. His father owned a