One Indian Girl(42)

‘I am gonna have to keep the meter on,’ he said, chewing gum.

‘Sure, I will call you when I reach the other side.’

I stepped out of the taxi and climbed the steps up to the pedestrian walkway of the bridge. The Brooklyn Bridge is an old cable-stayed-cum-suspension bridge in New York City. Completed in 1883, it connects the boroughs of Manhattan and Brooklyn by spanning the East River. Around a mile long, it has a pedestrian walkway in the middle, above the automobile lanes.

If you have seen movies set in New York, you would have probably seen scenic shots of the Brooklyn Bridge. I began my walk. The orange-coloured sky at sunset and Manhattan’s skyline on my left seemed like a perfect last memory of the city. The peak hour traffic passed below me. I noticed that the bridge with its trusses resembled the Howrah Bridge in Kolkata.

Pain singed my heart; Kolkata reminded me of Debu. I had told myself to not think of him. That’s what sucks about love. It takes away your control over your thoughts. Any trigger, anything that somehow could be connected back to Debu, would spark a fire of memories inside me. I just wanted my last walk in the city to be peaceful. Alas, no such luck. I approached Brooklyn. I wondered if Debu would be home already. Or if the tattooed white girl would be waiting for him. One of his roommates had told Avinash, who then told me, that the girl was a waitress at Chipotle, a Mexican fast-food chain. I didn’t ask further. I wondered if he loved her so much that he never thought of me. Or did he miss me?

Focus on the walk, breathe, I told myself. Why doesn’t the brain listen once in a while? Why can’t it just take in the beautiful view? Isn’t it the brain’s job to figure out a way to avoid pain? So why is it only generating thoughts that kill me?

I reached the midpoint of the bridge. Tourists took pictures of the panoramic scenery. I took out my phone to take a last snapshot of New York as well. After I clicked the picture, I opened my WhatsApp. I don’t know why I did it, but I checked Debu’s profile. He had the same picture as always, of him posing next to The Lake, in Central Park. He was online. I took a deep breath, typed ‘Hi’ and pressed send.

He read my message but didn’t respond. I didn’t want him to think I was chasing him again. I typed another message.

‘I am leaving New York.’

You know the most annoying thing in the world? When it says ‘typing. . .’ on WhatsApp but then the ‘typing. . .’ vanishes. I have a cab waiting. Debu, say what you have to say fast, please, I said in my head.

‘Good’ came his response. Could he be any meaner? So okay, I had barged into his apartment. I had even entered his bedroom. Sure, he was mad at me. But did he realize that the person he’d lived with for two years was leaving the city, the country or even the continent?

‘I meant I am leaving now. On my way to the airport.’

He then did another mean thing you can do on WhatsApp. He sent me a thumbs-up smiley. Who made that stupid smiley? What the fuck is that thumbs-up supposed to mean?

Like an idiot I continued to send message after message. All in the hope of a scrap of emotion or validation. This man had the ability to make me feel wretched in seconds.

‘I am moving to Hong Kong.’

‘Great. More money for you, I hope.’

Really? He had to say that? I decided to ignore his snide comment.

‘So I am leaving New York forever,’ I said. I meant, I love you so much, this is what I have to do to get over you. And I am so lonely and scared, can you please say something nice before I go to a strange country, I beg you.

He did not respond for a minute. I checked the time. I had to reach the other end soon. I sent him another message to prompt him to respond.

‘Just wanted to let you know. No chance of me bothering you now, I guess,’ I said. I am grovelling now. At least say something nice.

‘Thank you for that. This way you can achieve your goals. And I can find someone caring,’ he said.

That hurt. I gripped my phone tight, to prevent my fingers from typing again. I like to humiliate myself, but I guess I had to set limits on how much.

No more, I said to myself. I took a deep breath. On an impulse, I tossed my phone into the East River. Tourists around me gasped in disbelief as I tossed a working iPhone into the water. The next minute I felt stupid. However, it ensured I didn’t have a phone on me for the next few hours, particularly at the airport. Of course, I could have simply deleted his contact. However, that wouldn’t stop me from expecting him to respond or from checking my phone every two minutes. No, I had to toss that humiliation device into the river. People with little emotional self-control must take drastic steps. I resumed my walk towards Brooklyn. As I stared at the wooden pathway, a question crossed my mind.

Damn, how will I reach the cab driver without my phone?



I did manage to find the taxi—by borrowing a tourist’s phone and using the card the driver gave me. In twenty minutes we reached JFK airport.

‘Terminal 7 please, Cathay Pacific,’ I said to the driver as we approached the airport driveway.

I checked in and waited to board in the Cathay Pacific lounge. A part of me felt glad I had lost my phone. If I didn’t I would be calling Debu right now. I thought about his curt responses. Couldn’t he have said, ‘All the best, baby. I am sorry it ended this way’? He could have even sent a ‘Let’s be in touch. I still care about you’. Was I so horrible? Was he so relieved to be rid of me?