Half Girlfriend

by Chetan Bhagat

  I told them everything. I ended my story at 10 in the night.

  Jyoti turned to Shailesh.

  ‘I had no idea Indian men could be so romantic,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Shailesh said, looking wounded.

  ‘You don’t walk me to my office from the subway stop,’ Jyoti said. ‘And here are people coming halfway across the world to find lost love.’

  ‘C’mon Jyoti. Everything is not an excuse to nag,’ Shailesh said and turned to me. ‘But, boss, you are mind-blowing. Still chasing that chick after, what, seven years?’

  ‘That’s so romantic,’ Jyoti said dreamily.

  ‘It’s also stupid,’ Shailesh said.

  ‘Shailesh!’ Jyoti said.

  ‘I’m just being protective of my friend.’

  ‘He’s right,’ I said, interrupting Shailesh. ‘I am being stupid. But I can’t help it. She means everything to me.’

  ‘Everything? You thought she was dead. You survived, right?’ Shailesh said.

  ‘Survived, yes. Lived, no.’

  Jyoti sighed. Shailesh gave up. He got us a bottle of red wine and three glasses. ‘You guys have to wake up early,’ I said as I took a sip. ‘Feel free to go to bed.’

  ‘No worries,’ Shailesh said. ‘What is your plan?’

  ‘I will step out now.’

  ‘Now?’ Jyoti said, gulping down her wine.

  ‘I will start with live music venues on the Upper East Side.’

  ‘This late?’ Jyoti said.

  ‘Nothing starts before ten anyway,’ I said.

  I finished my glass and stood up.

  ‘It’s New York City. Every block has bars with live music,’ Shailesh said.

  ‘I’ll have to visit every block, I guess,’ I said.

  ‘You are mad,’ Shailesh said.

  ‘Depends on how you look at it,’ I said.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘You wake up at 6 and put on a suit. You reach office at 7.30 in the morning and work thirteen hours a day. Some may find that pretty mad.’

  ‘I get rewarded for it, bro. In dollars.’

  ‘Riya is my ultimate reward,’ I said. Shailesh had no answer.

  ‘You need a warmer jacket, wait,’ Jyoti said. She rummaged in a cupboard and came back with a leather jacket with a down filling.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. I walked out of the apartment and shut the door behind me. Inside, I could hear Shailesh say, ‘You think he needs a psychiatrist?’

  Google Maps doesn’t judge lunatic lovers. It simply gave me results when I looked for live music bars near me. The first suggestion was Brandy’s Piano Bar on 84th Street, between Second and Third Avenue, a mere five-minute walk away.

  I reached Brandy’s, a tiny bar one would miss if one wasn’t looking for it. A two-drink minimum policy applied to all customers. I didn’t want to have drinks. I just wanted to meet the management and find out the list of singers.

  ‘Sir, you need to order two drinks,’ the waitress told me, chewing gum. I realized I would need a better way to do this. For now, I found the cheapest drink on the menu.

  ‘Two Budweiser beers, please.’

  A makeshift stage had a piano on it. I had entered during a break. Ten minutes later, a singer called Matt came and took his seat.

  ‘Hi guys, lovely to see you all again, let’s start with Aerosmith,’ Matt said.

  The crowd broke into cheers. I guessed Aerosmith was a popular band. Matt sang in a slow, clear voice. My English practice meant I could catch a few words: ‘I could stay awake just to hear you breathing. Watch you smile while you are sleeping.’

  Customers swung their heads from side to side. Matt sang and played the piano at the same time. ‘Don’t wanna close my eyes, I don’t wanna fall asleep. ’Cause I’d miss you, baby. And I don’t wanna miss a thing.’

  I didn’t want to fall asleep either. I wanted to stay up all night and look for Riya in as many bars as I could. I opened my Google Maps app again. The streets of Manhattan seemed manageable on the phone screen. In reality, this was a megacity of millions.

  She may not even be in New York, a soft voice in my head told me. It was the only sensible voice I had left. As always, I ignored it. I focused on the music. I felt the pain of the singer who couldn’t bear to sleep as it would mean missing moments with his lover.

  I went up to the cashier and asked for the manager. When he arrived, I posed my standard list of questions.

  ‘I’ve come from India looking for a lost friend. All I know is she is probably a singer at a bar in New York. Can you tell me who your singers are?’

  ‘Too many, my friend. The schedule is on the noticeboard. You know her name?’ the manager said.

  ‘Her real name is Riya.’

  ‘No such name, I’m pretty sure.’

  ‘She may have changed it for the stage,’ I said.

  ‘That’s a tough search then, my friend.’

  ‘She’s tall, slim and pretty. Long hair, well, at least when I saw her last.’

  ‘This is a city of tall, slim and pretty people.’

  ‘Indian. She’s an Indian singer in a New York bar.’

  ‘She sings Bollywood? I would check the Indian restaurants.’

  ‘Unlikely. She liked Western music. Do you remember seeing any Indian singer at your bar?’

  The manager thought for a few seconds. He shook his head.

  ‘Sorry, mate. The schedule is there. See if something rings a bell.’

  I walked to the noticeboard. I saw the timetable for various gigs all month. The singers’ descriptions did not suggest anyone like Riya.

  The waitress gave me the bill for two beers. She added a 20 per cent tip to it.

  ‘20 per cent?’

  ‘It’s New York,’ she said, glaring. I later learnt that tipping wasn’t optional in New York.

  I left Brandy’s and visited a couple of other bars in the neighbourhood. There was Marty O’Brien’s on 87th street in Second Avenue. It had more rock bands than singers. Uptown Restaurant and Lounge on 88th Street had its schedule placed outside. I could only find two female singers. Both were American, the doorman told me. The posh Carlyle Hotel, all the way down on 76th Street, had a bar called Bemelman’s. Drinks cost fifteen dollars each, excluding the tip. I sat on a small couch in the corner of the bar and stayed away from the waiter to avoid placing an order.

  The singer, a beautiful, six-foot-tall blonde American woman, sang a love song: ‘I have loved you for a thousand years, I will love you for a thousand more.’

  A waiter came up to me to take my order. I told him I had to leave for some urgent work. I stood up.

  ‘By the way, do you have other female singers here?’ I said.

  ‘A couple of them. They alternate.’

  ‘Anybody who looks Indian?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell, sir,’ the waiter said. Americans don’t like to take a shot at answering questions they don’t know—unlike Indians, who pretty much know everything about everything.

  ‘Tall, really pretty girl who looks Indian?’

  ‘No, sir. Only two black singers, and two Caucasian ones.’

  Even at midnight, on a weekday, the place was packed. Everyone around me seemed incredibly happy. They clinked glasses and laughed at jokes. They probably didn’t know of Bihar’s existence. Neither would they know how it felt to love someone for a thousand years, as the singer crooned.

  I did.

  39

  The Gates Foundation’s head office in the United States is in Seattle. It is where Microsoft is based and where Bill Gates lives. Apart from that, they have an East Coast office in Washington. In New York, they often work with their partners on various projects. Since I had insisted on New York, Michael had given me a place on a Foundation project with the United Nations. The UN world headquarters is located in mid-town New York. On my first day to work, I walked to the 86th Street station on Lexington Avenue. I took train number four and got down at Grand Central Station on 42nd S
treet, walking half a mile to the massive United Nations Plaza complex. After a three-layered security process, I reached the office of the UNFPA, or the United Nations Population Fund.

  ‘Mr Jha, welcome. Come in.’ A forty-year-old black man twice my width met me in the reception area.

  I entered an office filled with books and reports.

  ‘Olara Lokeris from Uganda. Worked with the Population Fund for ten years. I will be your mentor.’

  The Gates Foundation had granted 57 million US dollars to the UNFPA to educate youth on preventing HIV/AIDS in African countries. I had to make a report on the project’s progress. Of course, I had no experience either in Africa, or in making a report.

  ‘I run a school in Bihar, India. I’m sorry, but this Africa and HIV research is all new to me.’

  Olara smiled. His white teeth glistened in his large face.

  ‘Don’t worry. Making reports is much easier than running an actual school,’ he said.

  Olara spent the rest of the afternoon explaining the various databases maintained in the project to me.

  ‘Ghana, Uganda, Tanzania and Botswana are the four main countries of focus,’ he said.

  He briefed me on other logistical and administrative issues related to my internship. He also told me that work hours would be from 9 to 5, with a lunch break in between.

  ‘First time in New York?’ Olara said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good, I will take you out for a drink after work.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  ‘Any preferences?’

  ‘Any place with live music,’ I said.

  One month later

  ‘Dude, no. Please. I can’t take this,’ Shailesh said. He pushed the envelope back towards me.

  I had placed a thousand dollars inside.

  ‘It’s been a month, Shailesh. I feel obligated,’ I said.

  ‘Would I pay you rent if I came to Dumraon?’ he said.

  ‘No, but you are paying rent here. So let me contribute.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. You are hardly here. You come home at 3 every night. You leave at 8. We barely feel your presence.’

  Shailesh was right. We had not met the entire week, even though we lived in the same house.

  ‘How’s work?’ he said. ‘What exactly is your project?’

  ‘Tracking the progress of AIDS awareness initiatives in Botswana.’

  ‘Sounds noble.’

  ‘I don’t know about noble. All I know is I only have two months left and there’s still no sign of Riya.’

  Shailesh tilted his box of cereal. The box label said ‘Cinnamon Toast Crunch’. Little sugar-coated squares fell into his milk.

  ‘You are chasing an illusion,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘How many bars have you visited in the last month?’

  I flipped through my notebook where I kept track of all my visits.

  ‘Hundred-plus. Close to two hundred,’ I said.

  Apart from actual visits, I had also called up five hundred other music venues. Nobody had heard of a singer called Riya.

  Shailesh gasped. He covered his mouth with his hand to prevent food from spilling out. He waited a few seconds to chew the contents in his mouth before he spoke again.

  ‘Madhav, I love you as a friend so I am saying it. You have to stop this. She is gone. Wish her happiness. Move on.’

  ‘I will. But only after I feel that I’ve tried my best. Two more months.’

  ‘I would say end it now. And why go back in two months? Is there a chance of a full-time assignment with the UN?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never really showed an interest.’

  ‘Stop living in the past. Make a new life. Look for work here and meet other people.’

  I smiled and nodded. He made sense. I was not interested in sense. He finished his breakfast. Slipping on his shoes, he said, ‘Come out with us sometime. Jyoti has many lovely single friends.’

  ‘Sure. Let me know if you’re going to a live music venue.’

  Shailesh looked at me and laughed. ‘Mad you are,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I better leave or I’ll miss my train.’

  I had a one-hour lunch break at the UN. Most days I ate a sandwich from the Subway or Starbucks outside. Since Shailesh had refused to take rent, I had enough money to even have a cappuccino later. I had found a fixed corner seat at Starbucks from which to make my calls.

  ‘Hi, is this the West Village Talenthouse?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ an older lady with a heavy American accent said.

  ‘Can I speak to the manager?’

  ‘May I ask what this is about?’

  ‘I’m looking for a singer.’

  ‘We have lots of them. Did you check our website?’

  ‘Yes, I did. However, I am looking for someone specific not listed there.’

  ‘Didn’t get you, honey.’

  ‘Well, it’s a girl. Indian-origin. She is in her early twenties. Her real name is Riya. I don’t think she uses that on stage.’

  ‘I can’t help you with such limited information. Did you see her perform somewhere?’

  ‘Well, no. Actually, she is an old friend. I am trying to locate her.’

  ‘Sorry, getting another call, bye.’

  She hung up. I had another sip from my Venti-sized cup, which held over half-a-litre of coffee. Americans are into size, whether it is their cars, bodies or food. I had ten minutes of lunch break left. I called a few more bars and one more talent agency. Finally, I made a route plan to visit six bars in the evening around the Tribeca area.

  40

  ‘No Indian singer here. I’m sorry,’ she said.

  I had come to Tribeca Nation, a small bar with thirty seats and a tiny stage for solo vocalists. The singer had just finished her performance.

  I had gone up to her and told her I loved her voice. I asked her if she would have a few minutes to sit with me. She looked at me suspiciously.

  ‘I just have some questions. Nothing else,’ I had told her.

  She ordered a Jack Daniel’s whisky and Diet Coke, and urged me to try the same.

  Erica was twenty-two years old. She was from Rhode Island, a state north of New York. She wanted to act in a Broadway play, and tried her luck at auditions during the day. At night, she earned a living through singing gigs.

  ‘I finished high school and came here.’

  I looked at her.

  ‘No college, sorry.’ She grinned. Over the past few weeks, I had learnt a thing or two about Americans. If they wanted something, they went for it. They didn’t think about the risks so much. Which Indian parent would allow a girl to sing in bars at night after class XII, I wondered?

  ‘I really need to find this girl,’ I said, now two whiskies down and more talkative.

  ‘Love. Makes us do crazy things,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I am going a little crazy.’

  ‘Love.’ She laughed. ‘At least it keeps us singers in business.’

  I gave her Riya’s description.

  ‘You spoke to agents?’

  ‘As many as I could. No luck yet.’

  ‘If she has a stage name, it can get quite difficult.’

  ‘Well, she is Indian. I am hoping someone will remember her. I have two months left.’

  ‘I’ll let you know in case I spot someone.’

  ‘That would be helpful.’

  ‘I don’t have your number.’

  We shared contacts. She recommended other bars.

  ‘Here,’ she passed me a tissue she had scribbled names on. ‘These are places that give new singers a chance.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  ‘She’s a lucky girl,’ Erica said.

  ‘It’s me who needs some luck now,’ I said.

  One and a half months later

  ‘See you at Pylos then. At 7th Street and First Avenue. Eight o’clock.’ Shailesh ended the call.

  Pylos is a high-end Greek restaurant located in the East Village. E
arthen terracotta pots with spotlights dangled from the ceiling. In Bihar, nobody would think that the humble matki could play chandelier.

  Shailesh and Jyoti had invited me out to dinner. Jyoti had brought her friend Priya along, without warning me.

  ‘Priya is a journalist with Al Jazeera in New York. We went to high school together,’ Jyoti said. Priya looked like she was in her early twenties. Fashionable glasses, slim figure, attractive. She wore a navy-blue top with a white pencil skirt and a long silver chain that dangled down till her navel, which was visible when she stretched.

  ‘This is Madhav. He’s here on a United Nations project,’ Shailesh said. Cue for Priya and me to shake hands and smile.

  I told her about my internship and what I did back home in India.

  ‘You run a rural Indian school? That is so cool,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  We ordered a bottle of Greek wine. We also asked for moussaka, which is sautéed eggplant and tomato layered with caramelized onions, herbs and a cheese sauce. A mountain-shaped dish, piled with vegetables, arrived on our table.

  I ate a spoonful.

  ‘This is like chokha,’ I said.

  ‘Chokha?’ Priya said.

  ‘It’s a popular dish in Bihar. Which part of India are you from?’

  ‘I’m from Minnesota,’ she said. I realized that NRIs born in the US did not like being referred to as Indians.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Anyway. This is similar to a local dish we have.’

  ‘My parents are from Andhra Pradesh,’ she said.

  Shailesh refilled my glass of wine.

  Jyoti ordered more food. We had a trio of Greek dips, consisting of tzatziki, a thick yogurt dip; taramosalata, a dip made of fish eggs; and melitzanosalata, made with char-grilled eggplants and extra-virgin Greek olive oil. It came with pita bread.

  ‘I’m sorry, but this bread is also like our chapati,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, indeed. These are all flatbreads. From Greece and Turkey to the Middle East and all the way down to South Asia, flatbreads are popular,’ Priya said.

  ‘Is she Wikipedia?’ Shailesh asked Jyoti and we all laughed.

  ‘She is. Just be happy she’s not discussing the Greek economic crisis because you came to a Greek place,’ Jyoti said.