Half Girlfriend Read online

  ‘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 On 14 April, Riya had withdrawn the entire balance of three-and-a-half lakhs.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 She has withdrawn the funds in another currency.’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