Page 26 of One Indian Girl
‘People in my class are from top colleges around the world. Harvard, Stanford, you name it.’
‘So what? You answered the question the partner asked you in the presentation, right?’
I looked at Debu. He had listened to me with full attention. His deep black eyes flickered in the candlelight. I leaned back on my seat and crossed my legs. They felt unusually smooth. I remembered why and smiled.
‘Why are you smiling?’ he said.
‘Nothing.’ I shook my head.
‘Listen,’ he said and placed his hand on mine. ‘You have to apply. Too many Indians come to this city and get overwhelmed. Don’t be underconfident. You can do it. You will.’
‘Thanks. And you will win Under Armor,’ I said.
‘Cheers to that,’ he said and we lifted our water glasses. The waiter arrived with our food—chicken noodle soup and vegetable fried rice. The soup seemed a little too bland for my taste. I stuck to the fried rice.
‘You aren’t having the soup. You don’t like chicken?’
‘I eat meat, but I prefer vegetarian,’ I said.
‘I am vegetarian too,’ he said.
‘Really?’
‘I am a Bengali. For us, fish and chicken are vegetables.’
Both of us laughed.
We chatted through dinner. He told me about his parents in Kolkata. His father owned a printing press. It didn’t really make much money now. His mother stayed at home. Debu grew up dreaming about being a painter. He settled for commercial art as the practical choice. His parents had saved enough to send him to do a course in design and arts in the US. He secured his current job through campus placement.
‘Advertising sounds cool,’ I said, ‘that too Madison Avenue. Best place to do it in the world.’
‘It’s not as cool on the inside. There’s constant politics. The money isn’t great. I have been lucky to work on good campaigns. However, juniors don’t usually get much creative work.’
‘I am sure it is not just luck. You must be really good.’
He looked at me and smiled. He ate with chopsticks. I tried but failed. Mini-me told me not to make an ass of myself and use a fork and spoon. I complied.
‘Thanks for the compliment,’ he said. ‘Dessert?’
I saw the menu. It had choices like sweet red bean pudding and tofu ice cream.
‘Red bean pudding?’ I said. ‘What is that?’
‘Rajma,’ Debu said. ‘Rajma kheer of sorts.’
‘Yuck,’ I said.
‘Chinese desserts are not famous. There’s a reason—they suck,’ he said.
‘Bengali desserts are the best,’ I said.
Debu’s chest swelled with pride.
‘Bengali men aren’t too bad either,’ he said.
Did he just flirt with me? Is this flirting? Am I supposed to respond with something clever?
‘As sweet as their desserts?’ I said, one eyebrow up.
