One Indian Girl(87)

‘Debu!’ I said, looking around to ensure nobody saw us. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Baby, I tried calling you so many times. You don’t pick up.’

I couldn’t talk to him here. Anyone from my or Brijesh’s family could walk in anytime. I saw a staff door near the function room. I pushed it open. Debu and I entered the kitchen area of the hotel.

‘You can’t land up here like this,’ I said.

‘I had no choice. I thought you would be at the sangeet practice. I didn’t see you there.’

A chef next to us fried a kilo of onions on full heat.

‘You went in?’ I said, aghast.

‘I pretended to be lost. Another guest in the hotel.’

‘Never do that again, okay?’

‘Sorry. We only have one more day, Radhika. I called to tell you I spoke to my parents.’

‘About what?’

‘About us. About everything we had. And the situation we are in now. I had a two-hour call.’

‘Debu, I am not exaggerating this. But my head is a big mess and might explode right now.’

My phone rang—my mother was calling.

‘I have to take this,’ I said. My mother shouted at me as soon as I picked up the call.

‘Are you mad? Where have you disappeared? Your cousins are looking for you all over the hotel.’

‘I am here only,’ I said.

‘Where?’

‘In the toilet.’

‘Why are you taking so long? Is your stomach okay? Eat carefully, don’t get loose motions on your wedding day. You need medicine?’

‘Mom, I am fine. Two minutes. Okay, bye.’

I hung up and looked at Debu.

‘You heard that?’ I said. ‘See how everyone is looking for me?’

‘I am sorry. Anyway, my parents protested a lot, but I convinced them. They want to come here.’

‘Please, Debu.’

‘I just need your decision. I am your first love, Radhika. First and only. You don’t even know this guy you are getting married to.’

I have more choices now, I wanted to tell him.

‘What do you want me to say?’ I said instead.

I tried to walk past him. He blocked me with his arm.

‘Stop this wedding. Tell your parents. I will come with you. It’s now or never.’

‘Can I,’ I said and paused, ‘can I think about this, Debu? Really? I have practice now.’

‘Yeah,’ he said and lowered his hand.

‘Thanks,’ I said.

‘I will love you until the last day of my life,’ he said from behind me.





38


‘Focus, Radhika madam. Your feet are not matching the beat,’ Mickey, the choreographer, said to me. Though he was ticking me off for the fifteenth time he had remarkable patience in his voice. In his place, I would have slapped my student.

‘Neither do I have chittiyan kalaiyan in real life, nor can I do the steps for chittiyan kalaiyan,’ I said.

He played the original song with Jacqueline Fernandes on the LED screen behind the stage. My six cousins who had to dance with me had mastered each move down pat. I couldn’t keep up beyond five steps.

I couldn’t hear the lyrics or Mickey’s instructions. I only heard the following in my ears: Debu. Neel. Brijesh.

Debu. Neel. Brijesh.

I heard ‘I love yous’ in Debu’s and Neel’s voices. I heard Brijesh saying he wants to go apartment-hunting in San Francisco. I heard Neel talking about the waiting plane. I imagined Debu’s Bengali parents packing their bags along with their monkey caps and buying rasgulla tins for their Goa trip.

Mickey paused and replayed the song for the sixteenth time.

‘One-two-three, Radhika madam, start,’ he said.



Chittiyan kalaiyan ve, o meri chittiyaan kalaiyan ve.

Chittiyan kalaiyan ve, o meri white kalaiyan ve.



I tried to dance. The image of Neel making love to me on the Philippines island flashed in my head. It switched to Debu and me sitting in our Tribeca apartment and watching TV together. I came back to reality, and tried to remember the steps.

‘Madam, again you are missing the beat. What is happening? Cut, cut. Restart.’

Three more attempts for Radhika the wobbly-toed bride. Well, turns out I sucked at these attempts too.

Finally, Mickey stopped the music.

‘Only Radhika ma’am now. Cousins, please leave stage,’ he said. He meant business. He played the song again. I came to the middle of the stage. In the first stanza, I had to lift my wrists to my face and move my eyes. Instead, I stood still. My legs felt weak. I dropped to my knees. I sank on to the stage floor and burst into tears. I cried loud enough to make the choreographer come running to me. He feared he would lose his job.

‘Sorry, madam. I am sorry. We don’t have to do this dance.’

It wasn’t the dance. It was the thoughts that danced in my head. What on earth was I supposed to do?

‘Madam, I change song? Romantic song? Aashiqui 2? “Tum hi ho”? Just walk around looking sad. Easy. Try?’

I shook my head. My cousins ran up to the stage and surrounded me.

‘What happened, didi?’ Sweety said.

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I am so useless. I can’t get these stupid steps.’