Page 129 of One Indian Girl
I ended the call. I saw the Facebook page in front of me. Avinash was still Debu’s friend. I could ask him. I called Avinash in New York.
‘Hey, Radhika. Been ages,’ he said.
‘Yeah. What’s up?’ I said.
‘Just woke up. Sunday morning here. How’s Hong Kong? Work?’
‘It’s good. Busy. Hey, Avinash, can I ask you for a quick favour?’
‘Sure.’
‘Promise you won’t judge me, or tell anyone.’
‘Sure.’
‘I want you to check Debu’s profile on Facebook.’
‘Really?’
‘See. You are judging me, right? This idiotic girl who moved continents but can’t move on.’
‘No, no. Wait. I am not judging. What do you want me to do?’
‘I will FaceTime you. You point your phone camera to your computer screen. Load Debu’s profile on your computer.’
He laughed. ‘That’s innovative.’
‘It is also desperate.’
‘Hey, that’s fine. FaceTime me.’
I gave him a video call.
‘Here we go. Debashish Sen,’ Avinash said. I could see his computer screen on my phone. He zoomed in closer to Debu’s profile picture. He stood there, grinning, in Central Park with a red-haired white girl three inches taller than him. My heart sank. He had switched at least two women after me. I, meanwhile, had run into the wife and kids of the boss I had slept with.
‘His last post was at a colleague’s birthday party. Do you want me to enlarge the picture?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ I said.
Debu sat at a restaurant table, holding up a bottle of Corona beer. He still had his beard and curly hair. The tall white girl sat next to him, a glass of wine in her hand. He looked happy. She looked happy. The wine looked happy. Who did not look happy? Me.
‘You want to see more?’ Avinash said.
‘Thanks, Avinash. That’s enough,’ I said, my voice flat.
‘We miss you. Don’t you miss New York?’
‘Yeah, I do. Miss you guys,’ I said.
I finished the call and sat in my bed. I saw the time; it was midnight. I changed into my nightclothes. As I put my white Zara dress into the laundry bag, I noticed a tiny red pasta sauce stain on the sleeve. I don’t know why but I felt horrible. I felt lonely. I imagined Neel at home, kids in his lap while he told them bedtime stories. I imagined Kusum wearing designer sleepwear and cuddling Neel. Why was I imagining all this? How did it matter to me? I knew he had a family all along, right?
My phone buzzed. WhatsApp message from Neel.
‘Hope you recovered from bumping into me today. Sorry about that.’
Okay, so he wasn’t spooning in bed with his wife in pretty sleepwear. He was typing a message to me.
‘Not your fault,’ I messaged back.
