Half Girlfriend by Chetan Bhagat
‘I never graduated from college. Truth be told, this is the closest I’ve ever gotten to a college graduation. Today, I want to tell you three stories from my life. That’s it. No big deal. Just three stories.’
I was immediately hooked. I didn’t know this guy but I liked him in seconds.
He spoke about how he was born to an unwed mother who had put him up for adoption. A CEO of a major global company speaking so openly about his past stunned me. He talked about dropping out of college to save his adoptive parents’ money, and then sleeping on dorm floors and attending the classes he liked.
‘I returned Coke bottles for the five-cent deposits to buy food with, and I would walk the seven miles across town every Sunday night to get one good meal a week at the Hare Krishna temple. I loved it.’
He had said nothing about his achievements yet. Still, you felt his greatness.
‘And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition.’
‘Intuition?’ I said.
‘Gut instinct, what you feel from the heart,’ Riya said.
Did I have the courage to follow my heart? Did I have the courage to propose to Riya again?
Finally, Steve ended his speech.
‘Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish. And I have always wished that for myself. And now, as you graduate to begin anew, I wish that for you.’
The crowd in the video applauded. I joined in. The cyber café’s owner turned to watch the whacko customer who clapped after YouTube videos.
‘Can I see it again?’ I said.
‘Sure. I will check my mail on another computer.’
I watched the speech three more times. I repeated some of the lines as practice. I stood up after an hour.
I saw Riya in the adjacent cubicle, her mail open on the screen. She looked grave.
‘Should we go have lunch?’ I said. I guess staying hungry isn’t so easy after all.
I glanced at her monitor. I just about managed to read the subject line: ‘Dad’.
She pressed ‘send’. The screen disappeared. She logged out and stood up.
We walked back to the haveli in silence.
27
Savitri tai served us daal and subzi with chapatis.
‘Litti-chokha is for dinner, when Ma arrives,’ I said.
‘Sounds great,’ Riya said with no noticeable enthusiasm.
‘Everything okay?’ I said.
‘Dad’s been unwell for a while.’
I did count. This was the first time she had shared something substantial with me.
‘What happened?’
‘He’s a heart patient. The last by-pass didn’t go well. It’s not looking good.’
‘Will you need to go to Delhi?’
‘Probably. I don’t know. They hide things from me,’ she said. I guess hiding things from one another is a Somani family tradition.
She was looking down at her food, her spoon circling the daal. Perhaps it was Jobs’s speech that gave me the courage to stand up and move to her side. I put my arm around her shoulders.
She stood up and hugged me back, though not too tightly.
‘I’m sure he’ll be fine. The best doctors in Delhi must be looking after him,’ I said.
She nodded and sat back down.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m such a bother.’
‘It’s not a bother, Riya. It’s okay to be down now and then. And to talk about it.’
‘No, it’s not,’ she whispered, more to herself than to me.
We finished our meal. She picked up the plates.
‘Where’s the kitchen?’ she said.
I pointed towards it. I tried to imagine her living in my house forever. She would never adjust to living in Dumraon, of course. My crumbling haveli could never be her 100, Aurangzeb Road.
I went to the kitchen and found her washing dishes.
‘What are you doing?’ I said, surprised.
‘Relax, I do this in Patna, too,’ she said.
‘My mother should see this.’
‘Why?’ she said.
‘Nothing,’ I said.
‘Is she here?’ my mother said.
‘Yes,’ I said.
I met my mother in the courtyard as she came back from school. I took her bag filled with notebooks. We walked into the house.
‘Where is she?’
‘In the guestroom.’
‘Girls are also strange these days. Go live in whichever boy’s house.’
‘What are you saying, Ma? She is a friend from college. I invited her over.’
‘Do her parents know?’
‘I don’t know.’
My mother shook her head.
‘Be nice, Ma,’ I said.
‘You like her?’
‘What kind of a question is that? You get people you dislike home?’
‘Answer straight.’
‘I need to bathe.’
The water in the bathroom tap was a mere trickle. It took me forty-five minutes to fill a bucket and bathe. I changed into shorts and a T-shirt and came down to the living room. Riya and my mother were already there.
‘You met already?’ I said.
‘Hi,’ Riya said. ‘I was just chatting with aunty.’
‘You played basketball with her?’ my mother said, sounding betrayed.
‘Sometimes.’
My mother didn’t respond. I felt guilty. I needed to give a longer answer.
‘Well, she was in the team too. Girls’ team,’ I said.
‘You never mentioned her. You used to talk about basketball so much,’ my mother said.
‘I didn’t?’ I said, pretending to be surprised.
‘No,’ my mother said.
‘We only played in the first year,’ I said.
‘Why?’ my mother said.
I paused to think. ‘Our groups changed,’ I said.
Riya and I looked at each other. Savitri tai brought nimbu paani for all of us.
My mother turned to Riya.
‘So how long were you married for?’
My mouth fell open. How did my mother know? Riya sensed my shock.
‘We were chatting earlier,’ she said.
About your divorce? I thought. She never spoke about it with me.
‘A year and a half,’ Riya said.
‘Kids?’ my mother said.
What the hell? What is Ma talking about?
Riya shook her head.
‘Why did you get married so early?’ my mother said. She obviously had no filter in her head on what to ask or not. Of course, it was a question I wanted to ask Riya too.
To my surprise, Riya didn’t filter her responses either.
‘I was stupid. They were family friends. Everyone thought it was a good idea. But mostly, I did it because I was stupid.’
‘Where are your parents?’
‘Delhi.’
‘You’re a Punjabi?’ my mother said, like all grown-up Indians do. They just have to know your community.
‘Marwari. I’m Riya Somani.’
‘Ah,’ my mother said. ‘They let you come to Bihar and work?’
‘They don’t let me do things. I wanted to. I can decide for myself,’ Riya said, her feminist feathers beginning to flutter.
‘You can?’ my mother said. I sensed a tinge of sarcasm in her voice. Riya did too.
‘I mean, those decisions don’t always work out so well. But I do like to make my own decisions,’ she said.
‘They have a big business in Delhi, Ma,’ I said. ‘Infrastructure.’
‘Marwaris are a rich community,’ my mother said. ‘Why are you working?’
‘I want to be independent,’ Riya said.
I realized this whole conversation was not flowing like the river of milk and honey I had hoped it would.
‘Riya loves litti-chokha. In fact, I called her home for that,’ I said.
My mother’s frown vanished at the mention of her favourite cuisine.
‘Really?’ she said. ‘Whe
‘Here in Bihar. Madhav takes me to Maurya Complex in Patna all the time.’
‘All the time?’ my mother said, one eyebrow raised.
‘Well, a few times,’ I said, my tone guilt-ridden again. ‘Twice or thrice. Classes keep me so busy, I don’t get the time.’
Ma took a big sip of her nimbu paani.
‘I thought you go there to study,’ she said. ‘Is the speech ready?’
‘Going on. Riya is helping me,’ I said.
‘Is she?’ my mother said. I wished I had told her more about Riya, but I could never gather the courage. I decided the only way forward was to change the topic.
‘Should I ask Savitri tai to lay the table?’ I said.
‘I can do that,’ Riya said.
My mother looked at her.
‘If it’s okay? I know the kitchen. I can help Savitri tai.’
My mother did not respond. Riya took it as assent and left. ‘Now I see why you go to Patna,’ Ma said.
‘It’s not what you think. Riya is just a friend. An old classmate,’ I said.
‘How come she’s already married and divorced?’
‘That surprised me too. I ran into her in Patna by chance.’
‘And she latched on to you,’ Ma said.
‘Not true. I can’t study English all the time, Ma. I need friends there. Besides, she helps me practise. Her English is excellent. She is from a high-class society.’
‘I can see the class,’ my mother said.
‘I don’t know the details of her divorce. Her father is sick. Be nice to her.’
‘I am nice. She is staying in my house. What else do you want me to do?’
I rolled my eyes.
‘Why is she wearing such tight pants?’ she said next.
‘I have no idea, Ma,’ I said, my voice loud. ‘I don’t know why she got married or divorced or wears tight pants. Can you let her be?’
‘You are shouting at your mother for her?’
My mother looked away from me. It was Rani Sahiba’s classic sulky face.
‘I’m not shouting,’ I said, my voice still too loud to classify it as anything else. My mother looked away.
I realized I needed her cooperation to have a peaceful dinner.
‘Sorry,’ I said.
Ma sniffed.
En route to the dining room with a stack of plates, Riya smiled at me. I smiled back.
‘I said sorry, Ma,’ I said after Riya went back to the kitchen.
My mother glared at me.
‘I’ve suffered enough in life. Don’t add to it,’ she said.
‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘By the way, have you heard of Steve Jobs?’
I explained how watching speeches on YouTube had helped me, as had many of Riya’s unconventional techniques.
‘I have to think in English, Ma. Like high-class people. Their English sounds different, no?’
‘We are not low class either,’ my mother said.
‘Dinner’s served,’ Riya said, clapping her hands in the dining room.
We had a peaceful dinner, with no major retorts, taunts or sarcasm. When two women don’t share the right vibe, a peaceful hour together is a minor miracle.
‘I ate too much,’ Riya said and held her stomach. ‘This was one of the best meals I have ever had.’
‘We eat like this every day,’ my mother said, and stood up and left the table.
28
‘I have a confession to make,’ Riya said. We were sitting on a jute charpoy on the haveli’s roof, looking up at the millions of stars you could never see in the Delhi night sky. ‘What you said about Bihar and its simplicity in college had something to do with me accepting the Patna offer.’
‘Really?’ I said. ‘And that you hoped to run into me?’
‘Yeah, right.’ She laughed, so I couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic.
‘Don’t worry about my mother,’ I said.
‘I’m not. Why should I be worried?’ she said and smiled at me. ‘All mothers are the same, I guess.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Nothing. She’s Rani Sahiba. Literally, the queen of her castle. She is entitled to say whatever she wants.’
‘She’s not bad at heart,’ I said.
‘I know. Did she mention me? When I went to the kitchen?’
‘Not really. Why?’
‘My clothes. My divorce. Anything?’
‘Nothing important,’ I said, thinking of little else but how to casually hold her hand. When I did gather the courage to do it, I lunged forward suddenly and grabbed her hand. It was not a subtle move.
‘Careful,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘My left wrist. It’s a little tender.’
‘How come?’
‘An old injury.’
‘Basketball?’
She gave a hesitant, non-committal nod. I released her left hand and held her right.
‘Your mother is downstairs,’ she said.
I took her words as encouragement. She had not said that holding her hand was wrong, she only mentioned my mother.
‘She’s asleep,’ I said.
I entwined my fingers with hers. She didn’t protest.
I turned my face towards hers. She freed her hand and slid a few inches away.
‘Hey, you want to do speech rehearsals here? It’s a good place to do it,’ she said. It is unique, the grace with which girls can deflect situations and topics.
‘Not now, I’m tired,’ I said.
‘Should we go downstairs then?’ Riya said, all innocence.
I looked into her eyes. She understood that look. We had shared it years ago in college.
I leaned forward, my lips an inch from hers.
‘No, Madhav, no,’ she said and gently placed her hand on my chest. However, she didn’t push me away. Her fingers were directly over my heart. I leaned back a bit.
‘Why not?’ I said.
‘We agreed to be just friends. No more.’
‘Why not?’
‘Don’t ask the same question twice.’
‘I can try twice.’
I leaned over again. This time, she pushed me back.
‘Don’t do this. Please.’
Her eyes were wet. I withdrew.
‘Can we at least talk?’ I said. Losers get words from girls; winners get kisses.
‘We are talking.’
‘Are you worried about your dad?’
‘Among other things.’
‘Which you won’t share with me.’
‘Madhav, you are a nice guy. An amazing guy, okay?’
‘If you say so,’ I said.
‘But.’
‘There’s always a “but”.’
‘Can we please not do all this other stuff?’
‘Not now,’ I agreed. ‘But maybe later?’
‘Madhav,’ she said, ‘I don’t want to get your hopes up. So no “maybe later”.’
‘Why? Because of what I did in college?’
‘Are you crazy? Do you really think I will hold on to something from years ago?’
‘So what is it? I’m not good enough for you?’ I said.
She smiled at me.
‘What?’ I said.
‘I just said you are an amazing guy.’
‘Give us a shot, Riya,’ I said.
‘A shot? Wow. Someone knows English slang.’
‘A chance. Whatever. Anyway, let it be. Okay, fine, friends.’
I realized I had blown my moment. A failed attempt at kissing has to be aborted, not converted into an argument.
We stayed silent for a minute.
‘My father is dying,’ she said. ‘And I don’t know what to feel.’
‘He is your father.’
‘Yes, I hope he makes it.’
‘I can’t live without you, Riya,’ I said, or rather, blurted out.
She turned to me.
‘Not again.’
‘Sorry,’ I said.
She held my hand. I pulled it away. Be a man, they say. Well, it sucks to be a man sometimes.
‘Stop sulking, Your Majesty,’ she said.
‘One kiss,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Just one kiss. After that I promise we will be friends. Just friends.’
‘How does that work?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t get that one kiss out of my head. I need to know I mean something to you. I understand your situation—the divorce, your dad and your job. I won’t expect anything. I will let you be. I will be a friend and value you as one. But just one kiss.’
She applauded.
‘What?’
‘You said that entire thing in English. Oh my God, Madhav.’
For a moment I forgot about the kiss. I reflected upon my achievement.
‘I really did,’ I said, surprised.
‘Awesome,’ she said.
I returned to reality.
‘So, yes, one kiss.’
‘But. . .’
‘Shh. . .’ I said and kept my hand on her mouth. I came forward and kissed my fingers placed on her lips. Her eyes blinked in surprise.
I removed my fingers. My lips landed on hers. We had kissed exactly three years, four months and eleven days ago. She put her arms around me as if to keep her balance. The kiss was light at first, and then picked up intensity. Frogs croaked, crickets chirped and the breeze soared as Dumraon’s night sky witnessed Bihar’s, if not the world’s, best kiss ever.
She buried her face in my shoulder. More than kisses, I could tell she wanted to be held, as if she had not hugged anyone in a really long time.
I held her tighter, landing kisses wherever I could, on her face, neck, lips. After a minute, or maybe an hour, she stirred.
‘That lasted a while,’ she said.
‘Still counts as one kiss. Was it nice?’ I said.
‘Madhav.’
‘What?’
‘You said one kiss. Not one kiss, then an in-depth discussion on the quality of the kiss, or what did the kiss mean, or can we do this again or let’s get carried away. I did it for you. So you know you mean something. But please don’t discuss, mention or bring this up ever again.’
I looked at her, shocked. How can you brush aside the most incredible kiss in the state, possibly the world, without even a basic review? But I said, ‘Fine.’