One Indian Girl(52)

‘What will the Gulatis think?’ she said. ‘They must be questioning their decision tonight.’

‘Okay, mom, that is enough,’ I said.

‘What enough? Drinking beer. Having charas-ganja. Is this even a girl?’

‘Their son did the same.’

‘So?’

‘What do you mean, so? Why aren’t you saying they must be ashamed of their son too?’

‘He is a boy. He will do his mischief. Why do you have to do the same? Is this your so-called equality?’

‘Mom. It’s done. Can we please be quiet until we get to the hotel?’

She faced me with folded hands.

‘I can be quiet. But you also have to behave. I beg you. Can you please control yourself until your wedding?’

‘And what after that?’ I said. ‘I am no longer your headache?’

She glared at me. I looked away.

‘Will you behave?’ she said finally.

‘Okay fine,’ I said.

‘Good.’

We reached the hotel. All of us got out of the car.

‘Sorry, dad,’ I said to him.

‘I trust you to make the right choices, beta. Don’t embarrass us.’



I sat on the bed, well past midnight. Aditi didi lay down next to me.

‘Weed? Grass? You did grass with Brijesh?’

‘One shared joint. Still we got into so much trouble.’

‘How did you even get the stuff?’

‘Brijesh scored it from the lanes in Anjuna.’

She turned to me, surprised.

‘I thought both of you are the studious types.’

‘We are not that dull, didi,’ I said.

‘Proud of you, little sister,’ Aditi didi said.

I heard two knocks on the door. Didi and I looked at each other.

‘Wait,’ Aditi didi whispered as she stepped off the bed. She went to the door and looked through the keyhole.

‘Who is it?’ she said out loud.

‘Oh, sorry. Excuse me, wrong room,’ I heard a faint voice.

Didi came back to bed.

‘Who?’ I said.

‘I don’t know. Some man in a suit. Anyway, tell me more about the police station drama. It’s too funny.’



‘One-two-three-four. Come on, start,’ Mickey, the choreographer, shouted as he switched on the music. The song London thumakda filled the room. Five of my aunts, including Richa mami and Kamla bua, were practising on stage with the choreographer.

‘Follow my moves,’ he said.

Mickey had a lean body. In black tights and a black T-shirt he looked like an insect compared to my well-fed, substantial Punjabi aunts. The aunts moved. The makeshift stage groaned under the pressure.

‘Don’t bang your feet so hard. Grace, grace,’ Mickey called out. Placing his right hand on his head he twirled.

I practised in another corner of the function room, along with my cousins. Mickey’s assistant Vikram was to teach us our moves.

‘Faster, faster, match the beat of the song,’ Mickey said and clapped on the stage. The aunts moved their bottoms left and right twice, before circling around. Kamla bua made a face. She hated so much action this early in the morning.

‘Ladies,’ Vikram said to my group, ‘I will show you once and then you follow.’

Vikram played DJ wale babu. The rap song required us to be jerky to match the erratic beat.

Bam! I heard a loud noise from the stage. Hotel staff rushed to the scene. My aunts and the choreographer huddled around Richa mami, who had fallen down. A hundred and ten kilos of Punjabi mass lay on the floor, wrapped in an oversized white salwar-kameez.

‘Who hired this idiot choreographer? Such difficult steps for us,’ she shrieked, holding her ankle.

‘Sorry, madam, sorry,’ Mickey said.

‘What sorry?’ Kamla bua said. ‘You should see who can do what step.’

‘Yes, madam.’

The hotel staff brought a first-aid kit and sprayed a pain reliever on her leg. Two waiters helped Richa mami stand up.

‘Can we take a break?’ Kamla bua said.

‘But madam, the sangeet is tonight,’ Mickey said.

‘We haven’t even had breakfast. Won’t we get weakness if we do dance without breakfast?’ Richa mami said.

She was right. Punjabis need calories, by the hour, every hour.



My cousins and I took a table by the window at our family’s dedicated breakfast buffet area. Some of them were rehearsing their steps even now. I went to the breakfast counter and picked up a plate.

‘Can I have whole-wheat toast, please?’ I said to a waiter.

‘Would you like that with peanut butter and honey?’ said a voice behind me.

I turned around. My eyes almost popped out of my face.

‘Neel?’ I said out loud.

‘Hi,’ he said. He looked the same, handsome as hell. He had gelled hair, salt-and-pepper stubble and a lithe frame. He wore a black suit and a white shirt, both crisp.

‘Neel?’ I whispered his name again, more aware of my surroundings. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I told you. I have to talk to you face-to-face. I came to your room last night. Another lady answered. So I left.’