Half Girlfriend Read online

  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