Half Girlfriend

by Chetan Bhagat

  ‘Client information is confidential,’ he said.

  ‘She disappeared. I’m trying to find her.’

  ‘Is she missing? Do you have a police report? We could help then.’

  ‘She went on her own.’

  ‘Sir, how can I reveal someone’s bank account information?’

  I hated doing this, but I called MLA Ojha from the branch manager’s office. Ojha loved to do favours so he could ask for one in return later. He asked the Patna city MLA to give Roshan a call.

  Five minutes later, I had Riya’s accounts.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t know you knew our MLA, sir. . .’ Roshan said.

  I scanned her statements. On 14 April, Riya had withdrawn the entire balance of three-and-a-half lakhs. The transaction had ‘FX’ written next to it.

  ‘What is FX?’ I said.

  Roshan looked at the account statement.

  ‘It’s foreign exchange conversion. She has withdrawn the funds in another currency.’

  ‘Which currency?’

  ‘US dollars.’

  ‘To travel to the US?’ I said. The lamp of hope flickered in me.

  ‘We don’t know. Indians often take US dollars to whichever country they are visiting, and change it there.’

  ‘She has travelled abroad. Right?’

  ‘That’s likely.’

  I left the bank and called Ajay at East India Travels.

  ‘Ajay, Madhav Jha here. I need to book a flight to Delhi, please.’

  ‘Ah, lucky, lucky girl,’ Samantha said.

  ‘Is she?’ I said. ‘Married at nineteen. Divorced at twenty.’

  Samantha and I sat in the American Diner at the India Habitat Centre in Delhi. She swirled the straw in her orange juice as I told her Riya’s story.

  ‘That is indeed tragic,’ she said. ‘However, she is lucky to have you love her so much.’

  I smiled.

  ‘Madhav, most girls would kill for a lover like you. I would,’ Samantha said.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  She took a deep breath. The waiter came with our food—a chicken burger and a large order of French fries.

  ‘Anyway, so what can I do for you?’ Samantha said, a fry in one hand.

  ‘I have to find her. Nobody seems to know where she is.’

  ‘That’s not a great place to start. Any clues?’

  ‘I have a hunch.’

  ‘Like an intuition?’

  ‘Well, a guess. A decent calculated guess. She could be in New York.’

  ‘Oh, really? That’s my city.’

  ‘I’m not sure. I have to first confirm it is the US.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The US consulate. I need to find out if they issued a visa to Riya Somani. Do you have contacts there, through your American circle in Delhi?’

  ‘I do. But that sort of stuff is confidential.’

  ‘I don’t need details. I just need to know if they issued a visa to her and when.’

  ‘It’s. . .difficult.’

  ‘That’s why I’ve come to you.’

  She finished every single fry as she considered my request. She took out her phone and flipped through the contacts list.

  ‘There’s Angela at the US consulate. We hang out sometimes. I can’t promise anything.’

  ‘That’s fine. Whatever is possible.’

  ‘The best rural school in Bihar. That is super news, Madhav. You have any documents to show that the CM said that?’ Michael Young, the CEO of Gates Foundation India, said.

  I sat in his sunny office. It had a view of the trees on Lodhi Road. Over the last two years, I had interacted with Michael on several occasions, and received delegations on his behalf to my school.

  ‘I have local newspaper articles. I can send you scanned copies,’ I said.

  ‘That would be wonderful. Little me will look good to my bosses in New York,’ Michael said and winked at me. Americans can make you feel you are their best friend in the whole world.

  ‘I need a favour, Michael,’ I said.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I need to be in New York for a while. Can the foundation give me a job, an internship, anything for a few months?’

  Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I will go anyway. However, it will help if I have a base there and some income to survive.’

  ‘Bihar to New York. Is everything okay? You seemed so passionate about your school.’

  ‘I am. I need to look for someone in New York. That’s all. Of course, an internship would be a great experience.’

  Michael tugged at his lower lip.

  ‘Well, I will put you in touch with people in the US,’ Michael said, ‘and put in a word, too.’

  ‘Thanks, Michael,’ I said and shook his hand.

  ‘No problem. Don’t forget to send me the scanned articles,’ he said.

  ‘The things you make me do,’ Samantha said. She passed me a sheet of paper. It was early in the morning in Lodi Gardens, next to her office. Brisk morning walkers strode past us.

  I looked at the sheet. It was a copy of a US visa.

  ‘She applied, and the consulate granted her a visa on 5 April.’

  ‘Thanks, Samantha.’

  ‘My friend could get into a lot of trouble for this.’

  ‘I owe you,’ I said.

  She looked at me with her deep grey eyes.

  ‘No, you don’t. Hope this is helpful.’

  ‘It tells me my hunch could be right.’

  ‘But it doesn’t say which city in the US. Or if she went at all.’

  ‘New York. She always wanted to go there.’

  ‘Ah, no wonder Michael said you have applied for an internship there.’

  ACT III

  New York

  37

  ‘Name?’ the officer at the immigration counter said.

  ‘Madhav Jha,’ I said, wondering why he didn’t just read it off my passport.

  ‘Mr Jha, what is the purpose of your visit to the United States?’

  He flipped the pages of my passport, blank except for my new US visa.

  To find the love of my life, I wanted to say.

  ‘I’m interning with the Gates Foundation in New York.’

  ‘Documentation, please.’

  I took out a plastic folder from my rucksack. It had my internship offer letter, confirming my stipend of three thousand dollars a month. I also had certification from Michael’s office, the cash advance the foundation had given me and my visa documents.

  The immigration officer examined my file.

  ‘Where will you be staying in New York, sir?’

  ‘With friends. On the Upper East Side, 83rd Street and Third Avenue.’

  The officer fumbled with my passport for a few seconds. He picked up a stamp.

  The ‘bam’ sounded like a gunshot—to indicate that my race to find Riya had begun.

  I took a yellow taxi from JFK airport towards Manhattan, the main island that forms the City of New York. It was my first trip outside India and the first thing I noticed was the colour of the sky. It was a crisp, crystal-clear blue; one never sees such a sky in India. I can understand India is dusty, but why is our sky less blue? Or is it the dust in the air that prevents us from seeing it?

  The second thing that hit me was the silence. The taxi sped on a road filled with traffic. However, nobody honked, not even at signals. The silence almost made my ears hurt.

  Initially, I only saw row houses and brick-coloured warehouses, nothing quite as impressive as I had imagined. However, thirty minutes from the airport, the taxi reached the Brooklyn Bridge, over the Hudson River. One had to cross this bridge to reach Manhattan. The bridge resembled the Howrah Bridge of Kolkata I had seen on TV, only bigger and cleaner. On the other side, a thousand skyscrapers loomed. Literally one tall building after another dotted the entire city. We crossed the bridge and entered Manhattan.

  ‘Welcome to The Big Apple,’ said the taxi driver in an American acce
nt.

  ‘Are you from here?’ I said.

  ‘Now, yes. Originally from Amritsar,’ he said.

  I looked at the taxi driver’s name: Balwinder Singh. Okay, not quite as exotic as I had imagined.

  In Manhattan, I saw people, busy people. Early morning joggers, people going to office in suits, children on their way to school. The city seemed like a maze, with criss-crossing streets and avenues. If one were to get lost here, it would take years to be found again.

  ‘It’s all arranged in one grid,’ the driver said. ‘You going to Upper East, yeah?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ I said and handed him the address.

  ‘Madhav Jha. You made it,’ Shailesh squealed in excitement as he opened the door.

  I struggled to catch my breath. I had climbed three floors with a backpack and a heavy suitcase.

  ‘These are pre-war buildings,’ Shailesh said. He dragged my suitcase into the apartment. ‘From before the Second World War. You get higher ceilings and more character. However, the lift breaks down every week.’

  He took me to the guestroom of his three-bedroom apartment, which looked high-end and was done up in an ethnic Indian style with brass Ganeshas and Madhubani paintings of Krishna. Shailesh had done an MBA from Harvard after Stephen’s. He had joined Goldman Sachs, a top Wall Street investment bank. He shared the apartment with his girlfriend, Jyoti, whom he had met at Harvard. Jyoti worked at Morgan Stanley, another Wall Street investment bank. The size of the apartment told me the banks paid them well. Dark circles under Shailesh’s eyes told me they also made him work hard.

  ‘M&A, that’s mergers and acquisitions,’ Shailesh said, telling me about his work. We sat in his living room. I had reached early, at 6.30 in the morning. Shailesh was ready for work, wearing a grey suit and a dark blue silk tie. He ate breakfast cereal with milk and slipped on his leather loafers.

  ‘Sorry I’m rushing,’ Shailesh said. ‘Jyoti and I catch the 7 a.m. subway to work. Catch up in the evening, okay?’

  ‘No problem,’ I said. ‘I need to rest anyway. I’m so tired.’

  ‘Try not to sleep. It will help you adjust to the jet lag,’ Shailesh said.

  The ten-hour difference in time zones meant my body wanted to sleep while New York City had just woken up.

  ‘Jyoti!’ Shailesh shouted.

  ‘Coming,’ a female voice in a thick American accent came from one of the bedrooms.

  ‘Shailesh, if you can put me in touch with a real-estate broker. . .’ I started to say.

  He interrupted me. ‘Are you crazy? You’re here for a short while. It’s an internship, right?’

  ‘Three months. I can’t stay with you that long.’

  ‘Why not? You relax here. I have to go to London tomorrow but we are definitely catching up tonight.’

  Shailesh finished his breakfast and took the plates to the kitchen sink.

  ‘You’ve changed so much, Shailesh. We sat in shorts doing adda all day in Stephen’s. Now, suits, hi-fi banker life, New York City,’ I said.

  He laughed.

  ‘Times change, lives change. You have to move on, pal.’

  I thought about Shailesh’s statement. I nodded, even though in half-agreement.

  Jyoti, a thin, five-feet-six-inches-tall girl, appeared. She wore a formal black skirt and shirt with a jacket.

  ‘Hi, Madhav. Have heard so much about you,’ Jyoti said and extended her hand. She sounded like Samantha, except she had brown skin and black eyes.

  ‘Me too. Sorry to bother you until I find an apartment.’

  ‘Stay as long as you want. Work keeps us so busy. At least someone can use the place,’ Jyoti said and turned to Shailesh. ‘You ready to go, honey?’

  Shailesh nodded.

  I unpacked my clothes in the guestroom while making plans for the next couple of days; the internship did not start until the day after. I wondered if any live music bars would be open now.

  I lay down for five minutes and woke up five hours later, disoriented. Jet lag had made me lose track of time and space. I needed a local SIM card. I checked the dollars in my wallet, picked up the house keys and left.

  Manhattan has a grid-like structure. Numbered streets run north to south. The wider avenues run from east to west. Shailesh’s home on Third Avenue and 83rd Street was close to Central Park, which had its eastern side on Fifth Avenue.

  The park, a landmark of the city, is three-and-a-half square kilometres in area and runs all the way from 60th Street in the south to 120th Street up north, and Fifth Avenue on the east to Ninth Avenue on the west.

  The park helped me orient myself. Its southern tip had shops where I could buy a SIM card.

  I walked west from Third to Fifth Avenue, and then down south twenty-three blocks from 83rd Street to 60th Street. In twenty minutes, I reached the southeast corner of the park. I found a row of shops, including a store called ‘T-Mobile’.

  The T-Mobile salesperson offered me a SIM card with a 3G data plan.

  ‘If you take a two-year contract, I can also give you a free iPhone.’

  ‘I’m not here that long,’ I said.

  I agreed to rent a touchscreen phone along with a voice and data plan.

  ‘It’ll take twenty minutes to activate,’ the salesperson said. I left the shop and walked back north towards Central Park. I had not eaten anything for hours. I scanned the various cafés and delis, each displaying their lunch specials. Most dishes cost close to ten dollars each. A van parked outside Central Park sold bagels, a doughnut-shaped bread stuffed with cream cheese or other fillings. It cost only three dollars, including a cold drink.

  I got a bagel with cream cheese, tomatoes and onions. A giant-sized Coke came along with it.

  I sat on an empty bench outside Central Park and watched tourists walk past. New York City looked beautiful and clean. The first day you spend out of India in a developed country takes a while to sink in. The swanky buildings, the smooth roads, the gleaming shops and the lack of noise (nobody blares horns for some reason) make you feel like you have entered a fairy tale where nothing can ever go wrong. I ate my lunch on the park bench.

  A 3G sign on the corner of my phone screen indicated I had network. I typed in my first Google search: ‘Live music venues in New York City’.

  The Internet worked fine. The search results weren’t fine. Literally thousands of places popped up. The first link directed me to the website of Time Out magazine. That site itself had a top-100 list of the best live music venues in the city. In Patna, you would be lucky to find one place that played live music. In Dumraon, the only way you could hear live music at a bar is if you yourself sang. In New York City, however, there is an endless number of places. I sat on the Central Park bench and examined the tall buildings around me. I felt small and insignificant.

  It’s a live music venue in one city, how difficult can it be? is what I had told myself before coming here. Now it didn’t seem easy at all.

  I went to Google Maps. It showed my current location as 59th Street and Sixth Avenue. It also showed me to be a three-kilometre walk away from Shailesh’s house. A cold breeze penetrated my Bihar-strength sweater. I crossed my arms and held them close to my chest.

  You are so stupid, Madhav, I said to myself as I walked north on Fifth Avenue, along the edge of the park. On a whim, I had packed my bags and come to this cold city. A gust of wind left my face numb.

  ‘I can’t do this,’ I said.

  I took deep breaths. I reminded myself of old basketball matches, which I had won with sheer willpower.

  One street, one avenue, one bar at a time, Madhav.

  38

  ‘You bagged a Gates Foundation grant. Incredible,’ Jyoti said. We ate chapatis and chana masala for dinner at Shailesh’s house on my first night in New York.

  ‘My school did. They liked the good work the team had done,’ I said.

  ‘It’s him,’ Shailesh said. ‘He cracked it. Bill Gates himself saw the school and proposed the grant.’


  Jyoti said, ‘Can this internship lead to a full-time job in New York?’

  ‘I don’t want a job,’ I said.

  ‘You’re doing it for the experience?’ Shailesh said.

  ‘It’s for. . . Well, there is another reason,’ I said and turned silent. I looked at Jyoti.

  Shailesh understood my hesitation.

  ‘You want to tell me later?’ he said.

  ‘Buddy secrets, is it?’ Jyoti smiled. I smiled back. Jyoti stood up to go to the kitchen.

  ‘Whatever you tell me, I will end up telling her,’ Shailesh said and looked at her. She blew him a kiss.

  ‘All right then. Sit, Jyoti,’ I said.

  Jyoti sat down again, very attentive.

  ‘I am here to look for someone,’ I said.

  ‘Look for?’ Jyoti said. ‘You don’t have his contact?’

  ‘Her. No, I don’t. I’m not even sure she’s here.’

  ‘Ah, her. It’s about a girl. Isn’t it always?’ Jyoti said.

  ‘Who?’ Shailesh said.

  ‘Riya,’ I said.

  ‘Riya? Who? Riya Somani?’ Shailesh said.

  ‘Well, yes,’ I said.

  Shailesh let out a whistle.

  ‘What the fuck,’ Shailesh said. ‘Really? You’re in New York looking for Riya Somani?’

  He started to laugh.

  ‘Who is Riya Somani? Clearly she has created some excitement here,’ Jyoti said.

  ‘His. . .well, how do I say it? Well, kind of your ex-girlfriend, right?’

  ‘Half-girlfriend. Ex-half-girlfriend,’ I said.

  ‘That was ages ago,’ Shailesh said, sounding confused. ‘Didn’t she get married to her cousin in London or something? She dropped out, right?’

  ‘It wasn’t her cousin. It was Rohan, a family friend and rakhi brother. Not a cousin.’

  I hate it when college rumours get blown out of proportion.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t remember the details. She messed with you, man, and flew away to London with her husband,’ Shailesh said.

  I smiled.

  ‘There’s more to that story. A lot more. Want to hear it?’ I said.

  Jyoti and Shailesh nodded. They listened with rapt attention.