One Indian Girl(4)

That day I realized I had only one thing going for me—academics. In class twelve I was the school topper. I ranked among the top five in Delhi, which, come to think of it, was a major loser-like thing to do. Unlike me, Aditi didi had barely passed class twelve a year ago. However, she did win the unofficial title of Miss Hotness at her farewell. In some ways, oh well, in every way, that was a bigger achievement than topping CBSE.

Have you heard about the insane cut-offs at Delhi University? I am the kind of student that causes them. I scored a 98 per cent aggregate in class twelve. Then I joined Shri Ram College of Commerce, or SRCC. People say it is one of the best colleges for nerds. At SRCC, I realized that I was nerdier than even the regular nerds. I topped there too. I never bunked a class. I hardly spoke to any boys, I made few friends. With bad school memories, I wanted to survive college with as little human contact as possible.

I finished college and took the CAT for MBA entrance. As you can guess, nerdy me hit a 99.7 percentile. I made it to IIM Ahmedabad. In contrast, Aditi didi had finished her graduation from Amity University the year before and wanted to get married. She had two criteria for her groom. One, the boy had to be rich. Second, well, there was no second criterion really. She said something like she wanted to be a housewife and look after her husband. Fortunately, rich Punjabi men in Delhi who can’t woo women on their own are only too happy to oblige girls like her. Aditi didi married Anil, owner of three sanitaryware shops in Paharganj and two Honda CR-Vs. They had their wedding the same year I joined IIMA.

‘You should also get married soon,’ didi had told me. ‘There’s a right time for a girl to marry. Don’t delay it.’

‘I am twenty-one,’ I said. ‘I haven’t even done my master’s yet.’

‘The younger the better. Especially for someone like you,’ she said.

‘What do you mean especially for someone like me?’

She never explained. I guess she meant for someone as nerdy as me or as wheatish as me or someone whose breasts weren’t the size of footballs, as Punjabi men prefer.

I joined IIMA. I finally found nerd heaven. Everyone studied, and just when you thought you had studied enough, the institute gave you more assignments. My mother called on a regular basis, primarily to discuss her favourite topic. ‘Start looking at boys at least. Anil’s circle has many good, rich guys.’

‘I am not going to marry a man from the circle of sanitaryware shop owners, mom.’

‘Why?’ my mother said, genuinely confused.

‘You know what, I am not getting married for several years anyway. Forget it. I have class now. Bye.’

I finished with IIMA. Overachiever me had a job offer on Day Zero, the prime slot for recruiters. I got an offer to be an associate at Goldman Sachs, New York. The job paid an annual compensation of 120,000 dollars.

‘Forty-eight lakh rupees a year, four lakhs a month, mom,’ I told her on the phone.

I heard nothing in response. Most likely she had fainted. My father had never crossed a third of this amount in his twenty-five-year career with the State Bank of India.

‘Are you there, mom?’

‘How will I ever find a boy for you?’ she said.

That was her prime concern. Her twenty-three-year-old daughter, who grew up in middle-class West Delhi, had cracked a job at one of the biggest investment banks in the world and all she cared about was its impact on her groom-hunt.

‘Stop it, mom. What boy?’

‘Who wants to marry a girl who earns so much? If the boy earns less, he won’t consider you. If he earns more, why would he marry a working girl?’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about. But I am moving to America. I have a great job. Can you save your melodrama for another time?’

‘Your father wants to speak to you,’ she said and passed him the phone.

‘Goldman Sachs? American, no?’ he said.



My room phone rang, startling me back to reality. I am in Goa, not IIMA, I reminded myself.

‘Where are you? The Gulatis are ten minutes away,’ my mother said.

‘Huh? I am here, mom. In my room.’

‘Are you dressed?’

I looked in the mirror.

‘Yeah, almost.’

‘Come down fast. What are you wearing?’

‘The yellow salwar-kameez. Zari border.’

‘Silk?’

‘Yes.’

‘You wore a chain?’

‘Yes.’

‘Come then.’



‘Hey, remember me?’ I heard a voice behind me. I turned around.

‘Brijesh,’ I said to my husband-to-be. ‘Hi.’

I didn’t know what to do next. Should I look shy? Should I giggle? Should I give him a hug? Like an idiot, I shook hands with him while he adjusted his black-rimmed spectacles with his left hand. Unlike how he’d looked in the Skype calls of the past few weeks, he was thinner, his white kurta and blue jeans hanging a bit on him. His neatly combed side-parted hair made him look like those schoolboys whom teachers first ask to become prefects. I smelled strong aftershave.

I was in the lobby. The boy’s side had arrived. They crowded around the special check-in desk. The hotel staff brought in trays filled with glasses of coconut water.

‘I made them get the coconut water. It wasn’t part of the package,’ Suraj told me. He was trying hard to compensate for the rooms’ disaster. He gave me a printout of the week’s plan. I glanced at it.