You've Got the Wrong Girl

By Sreemoyee Piu Kundu

What if the wrong girl is the one right for you?

On a sultry night, on a deserted lawn overlooking a moonlit Taj Mahal, two strangers make passionate love and promise never to meet again... But promises are meant to be broken, right? This is the story of Dushyant Singh Rathore - the 30-something bestselling author of Kinda Cliched, a blockbuster romance novel based on his one night of bliss with a girl whose name he does not know. Under pressure to produce a money-spinning sequel - from his obsessive fans, his hit-seeking publisher and a sceptical journalist ready to expose the true-story angle as a marketing gimmick - he sets off, three years on, to find the elusive girl whom he had promised never to seek out…
When his quest, many twists and turns later, leads him to the unlikeliest of places, Dushyant discovers there's a little more to this love story than he had anticipated. Will Dushyant get a second chance at love? What if the wrong girl was really always the right one for him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Jul 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9789387471931

Book preview

Acknowledgements

BOOK ONE

Kinda clichéd

‘WHAT’S GOING THROUGH your mind – right now, this very moment? Of course, you’re bloody nervous!

‘There, there, knew it! Shuffling those feet again. You think I can’t see you from here, VS? Hah! I even caught you fiddling with your trousers! Wearing lycra, in this bloody Agra summer! Idiot!

‘I said stop grinning – fake-oo. Stop pretending you’re actually enjoying this tamasha! Do you have any idea how dumb you look, with that silly goatee and all that sticky gel smeared over your hair? Think your bald patch isn’t visible? Hah!

‘Ya ya! I get it, life’s a big fat party, huh? But you know what? You’re going to regret this shit tomorrow – or wait, tonight…this very night – when she discovers your right testicle is smaller than your left! I mean, what do you think she is? In love with you, blinded by it? You’ll know soon enough what it means to be with Anjali Raizada. We go back a helluva long way man…besties, like the ladies like to say. Screw you, VS. I said, screw you! I hate you, you sonof-a-…’

‘Hey, what’s your problem? You, yes, hello, what’s with the abuses? All that shouting and throwing punches? Come here to murder someone?’

I swerved, hearing a loud voice, and confronted a pair of expressive, kohl-rimmed eyes. Restless, the eyeliner slowly slanting outwards, they gazed intently at my face, as if demanding nothing but the truth.

I swallowed hard, studying the silhouette of her perfectly oval face, my heart still beating haphazardly. I wondered how I didn’t hear or see her walk up to me. The moonlight was strong tonight, casting a translucent glow on her face; the rest of her was draped in a shimmering, scented darkness. Like the smudged contours of the Taj Mahal standing a distance away, across from the tiny garden we both stood in. Until now I had had the place entirely to myself, a narrow, rectangular alcove of sorts, nestled strategically at the back of a plush, 5-star hotel, accessible largely for hotel staffers trying to take a quick short cut from the kitchen to the banquet hall.

‘Talking to me?’ I replied in a deliberately loud voice, a tad flustered at the unexpected invasion of my privacy.

She stood unmoving – as if she hadn’t heard. So I repeated myself, this time with the accent intact. It was an old trick, mastered over time, tried and tested on various damsels – in distress and otherwise. It always worked. Well, almost always. When in doubt or testing the field, an impeccable Brit accent was my thing.

She walked up to me with a measured gait, as if trying desperately to balance herself. She wore really tall stilettos, I noticed, her ornate silk pallu slipping off her slender, bony shoulders as she stepped forward hesistantly. A bunch of golden glass bangles matching her blouse created a soft clamour as she cautiously stepped forward, an embroidered, satin clutch nearly falling out of her left palm.

‘Shiiisssh,’ she’d hiss every time she was unsteady, carelessly running her fingers through her unruly tresses, pausing briefly near her right temple, the bangles colliding with one another, momentarily hiding her eager eyes.

‘Tawlking to me?’

‘Who else...in this mosquito-infested, dark, shady shithole?’ She arched her pencil-thin eyebrows as if to prove a point and curled up her plump lips.

There was something intimidating about her. And yet…

‘Well, I beg your pardon, miss; I guess I wasn’t counting on anyone else being around – here, in this mosquito-infested, dark, shady shithole,’ I smugly countered, taking out the neatly ironed red silk handkerchief from the top pocket of my linen blazer to wipe the sweat steadily dripping off my brow.

‘Here, maybe this’ll help. You look like you’ve just showered,’ she handed me a wispy tissue of some sort. It reeked of lavender, the dampness gradually spreading onto my palm as she pressed it into my hands.

Our wrists touched. Briefly.

‘Thanks, but this is strictly ladies’ stuff. Guess I’ll pass. Was about to leave…’ I said stiffly, inching back a step or two.

‘Whatever! Suit yourself. But in case you’re planning to hold court here any longer, a pack of these is bound to come in handy,’ she claimed in a singsong voice, carefully removing a small plastic box of wipes from her clutch.

‘And just what are you doing here, if I may kindly ask?’ I interrogated, studying the shape of her eyelashes, trying to stop myself from staring longer than required, suppressing a passing promiscuous pleasure.

‘Me? I just came out here for a drag. Looked deserted actually, quite unlike the lawn out front, where they clearly specify No Smoking,’ she replied. Then, almost instantaneously, she added, ‘Actually, I’ll be frank. We had entered the lobby almost at the same time, then I saw you head towards the sign that pointed towards the banquet where the wedding is on. I was headed there too, so I followed you... And then you suddenly disappeared, till I spotted you making a dash for this spot, with a cigarette in your hand. I have been here for a bit actually… I, I needed a light,’ she ended abruptly.

I fumbled inside my linen blazer, suddenly tongue-tied.

How long had she been around?

What else had she heard?

Was she related to the bride or the groom?

‘You should’ve just asked me for a light then, instead of creeping up on me like that,’ I frowned.

She was next to me by then, her forearm grazing against my shirt sleeve, a thick line of dampness running down the side of her arched neck into the inviting recesses of her bosom.

I leaned in, holding the neon haze from my Zippo to the tip of the slim cigarette between her ruby-red lips. A thin gold chain flickered around her curvaceous waist in the slight light, distracting me.

Wordlessly, she removed her heels, kicking them away. Then she squatted on the dewy grass lawn and rolled her head back to look up at me.

‘Smoke?’ she asked, clearing her throat.

I hesitated, unsure of how to respond.

‘Look, I smoke pretty fast. Care for a drag before it’s gone?’ she repeated, poking rudely at my left thigh.

‘All right, much appreciated, miss,’ I courteously responded, taking the cigarette from her, inhaling longer than required, the nicotine wafting into my lungs.

‘Welcome,’ she said with a half smile. ‘And what’s with that weird accent, huh? Have you mistaken Agra for London?’

I coughed uncomfortably.

After an awkward pause, I spoke, running my hands over my mouth, ‘What accent?’

‘The one you just put on. Tawlking. Thanks, much appreciated, miss,’ she imitated, verbatim, sounding every bit like me.

‘Look, I don’t have time for this. It was nice meeting you,’ I cut her short, turning to make my way out of the garden.

‘Wait!’

I stopped.

‘You have to tell me something before you disappear… Just what were you so peeved about earlier? Before I…’ she paused, before continuing teasingly, ‘invaded this mosquito-laden, dark, shady shithole?’

I searched for the right phrase, my throat unusually parched, ‘Nothing – that was just, umm…’

‘You’re really mad at someone, right? Someone at that wedding going on over there, right? That’s where you were headed, before you took a detour and landed up here? I mean, maybe you were just gate-crashing. Or weren’t even invited at all. Maybe, that’s what got you crazy mad…’ she raised her voice dramatically. The tiny petals of her floral nose pin glimmered in the shifting shadows of the trees that surrounded us.

‘It’s nothing…’ I muttered, continuing to move away.

‘Anyway, look, listen. In case, just in case you happen to make it into the banquet and happen to get insanely bored, or dead pissed at someone again, and choose to head back out, will you get two drinks for me, please? Rum, dark, on the rocks, with a slice of lime. There’s a smaller open-air bar...see, there, just outside the main hall. Makes sense to stock some extra before that gets overcrowded too. And… umm…some of those stuffed karelas – I remember having them at another wedding here. At the same hotel, I mean. Besides, they’d probably go well with the rum.’ She wiped her lips with the edge of her pallu, adding sheepishly, ‘I know the combination sounds weird. But sometimes when you mix two things that everyone else thinks may result in a bloody disaster, you kind of cook up a storm… Hey you…you’re coming back here? Right?’

The rest of her words melted into the darkness as I hastily strode off.

It had been half an hour since I’d got back, with two rums for her and a whisky for me. Just like she’d said.

‘How the hell did you know I was coming back?’ I asked.

She was already on her second rum. My whisky was almost over. The stuffed karelas I’d brought back on napkins had been devoured in silent urgency. We were sprawled on our backs on the grass. She had clamped her eyes shut. Hers were the longest lashes I had ever seen.

‘They’re fake!’ she mumbled, running her hands carelessly over her breasts.

‘Huh?’ Caught off-guard, I was suddenly conscious of myself.

‘You’re staring at my eyelashes again…’ she murmured, turning sideways towards me, opening her eyes.

‘Umm, not exactly, I mean…’ I fumbled for words, inhaling her rum-tinged breath, conscious of the rustle of her pleats.

‘Exactly!’ she exclaimed, breaking into impromptu laughter.

I joined in.

‘About time you lightened up,’ she grinned, punching me on my arm as she rolled onto her stomach.

‘You didn’t answer my question though,’ I said, impulsively reaching out and grabbing her hand.

‘Which one?’

‘Me coming back here, to this mosquito-infested… C’mon, you know the rest…’ I winked, taking a large sip of my single malt.

‘Ha! As if you answered mine,’ she retorted, wrenching her wrist out of my grip, using a little more force than I’d anticipated.

I must have been unconsciously searching my pockets for cigarettes, because she said in a sharp voice, ‘Pass me one too.’

‘Tough luck. Just one left. Besides, I noticed before that you smoke fast, but don’t exactly inhale – so why waste something as precious as a fag? What if this is the end of the world or something?’ I threw my hands in the air, drawing out my last India Kings.

‘Share?’

‘That would make this all too clichéd – two strangers, a wedding party in progress, a mellow moon-soaked night, hushed conversations, the magnificent Taj Mahal somewhere in the backdrop, one last, solitary cigarette,’ I feigned a sigh, flicking open the lighter.

‘Do you always calculate everything this way?’ she asked, her chin resting precariously on her elbow, her ankles crossed, her delicate silver anklets riding up.

I took a long drag. Then, following the movement of her anklet, I replied languidly, ‘C’mon, you gotta be fair, okay? As if the thought didn’t cross your mind. Just look at us – the setting is so typical – so freaking clichéd!’

‘Everything’s clichéd in life – what’s the big deal?’ she pouted, lying back on the grass as before, her eyes searching the breadth of the night sky.

‘What’s everything?’ I interrupted, handing over the half-finished cigarette.

She took a deep drag. ‘This – all this,’ she raised her chin upwards slightly, before pointing at the tiny fairy lights on the tall, ochre branches at a distance. ‘The Vikram Saxena, ace Wharton graduate, scion of India’s biggest hotelier dynasty meeting the Anjali Raizada, only daughter of steel magnate Ratan Raizada in an elevator at the World Trade Centre exactly a year before it was bombed. It’s love at first sight. Then they bump into each other again at a fancy London fair when she drops a dollop of delightful blueberry ice cream on his immaculate, pinstriped Ralph Lauren shirt. They exchange numbers – but naturally – only to misplace them. Afterwards, finding each other again in India, exactly two years later, this time on the banks of the holy River Ganga, somewhere in Rishikesh, on the sacred eve of Diwali. And tonight they profess their undying commitment to one another before the loftiest emblem of human love, the Taj Mahal! Divine communion – or was it celestial union on the wedding invite?’ She paused as a sudden flurry of fireworks illuminated the encompassing darkness. We both gazed upwards.

‘Wow! Some serious fireworks,’ I smirked.

‘Maybe the gods decided to join the celebrations as well,’ she said sardonically.

I let out a wry laugh.

‘And I thought I was angry!’ I quipped.

‘So whose side are you on?’ she resumed after a while, handing back the near-finished India Kings.

‘You mean we have to take sides? Just when I was beginning to enjoy this…’ I clicked my tongue, studying her from the corner of my eye.

‘Might as well – since this is kinda clichéd, anyway,’ she said.

A short silence later I asked, nudging her elbow, ‘Umm, so what makes you absolutely certain he’s making a gigantic mistake? That Vikram Saxena is going to regret this all his life?’

‘Well, going by your deranged outburst earlier and the law of averages about marriages that are held with famous monuments as their backdrop...’ She bit her lower lip, pulling herself up, wrapping her pallu protectively around her shoulders.

‘Need my blazer?’

‘No,’ she slanted her head sideways.

‘Do you know that one out of every ten couples worldwide gets hitched in front of famous monuments; and one in every five couples who do actually end up in a messy divorce? In fact, a Guatemalan woman who said I do in front of the Taj Mahal actually claimed the monument as part of her divorce settlement, insisting that her soon-to-be ex-husband had promised her the Taj as a wedding gift. In a TV interview she even claimed she had letters to prove it! He, on the other hand, insisted he’d delivered on his promise – he’d bought her a marble Taj keepsake that was five feet tall with actual shrubs surrounding it, and he’d even christened his dog Taj.’

‘No! Are you serious? They have statistics to prove this kind of bullshit these days?’ I asked. ‘Which TV show was this? I can bet my life it’s some Oprah rerun.’

She rose suddenly to her feet, startling me, and pointed at the two empty glasses lying beside her. ‘Another drink before the really deep questions, then?’ she winked at me.

‘Refill? No way. You’re guzzling those down!’ I said.

‘Shut up!’ she snapped, turning around and stepping unsteadily into her stilletos, gathering her clutch and pallu. The fading light cast patterns on her bare back. Her brocade blouse was completely backless, her olive skin shone in the haze of the faraway lights.

I rubbed my eyes. How drunk was I?

The shehnai strains had suddenly become louder.

Before I could say anything more she was gone.

‘You’re truly devastated Vikram Saxena didn’t invite you for his wedding, isn’t it?’ she questioned once she’d settled back down on the grass and handed me another drink. Her voice was tender.

I took my time to reply. ‘At first, maybe…you know, VS was my best mate, all through St. Martin’s; we studied in the same college too – Stephen’s, Delhi. Deliberately choosing the same subject. We were brothers, VS and I. We lived in each other’s homes, ate from the same plate, swapped our clothes, sat on the same bench in class, exchanged notes, shared our pocket money generously, shared our darkest secrets, our dreams, with each other. Our whole damn lives were meant to be lived for our friendship…’

‘What’s all this nostalgia worth? Ever thought about it? Isn’t nostalgia utterly overrated? I mean look at you…’ She let out a slight laugh, poking my chest.

‘I admit I felt that way when they didn’t even have my name on the guest list here at the reception. Some security fellow rudely asked me to show them the wedding card. Nostalgia, my ass… I mean VS and I shared every little thing, for crying out loud! We were inseparable. Our undies, our pocket money. Our…our…’ I struggled to get the words out.

She leaned back, staring deep into my eyes, and asked, her speech slightly slurred, ‘And…girlfriends?’ Then, before I could respond, she laughed sharply. ‘Relax! Remember this was kinda clichéd to start with, so I was just taking a wild guess about your love life too. You don’t have to answer this one.’

I looked away, staring for a while at the blurred silhouette of the banquet hall, the guests slipping in in droves, only the tops of their heads visible from this distance.

‘So these clichés are true then?’ I took a deep breath and remarked.

‘Not all,’ she replied.

‘Maybe, some. Maybe, the ones that otherwise could be too hard for us to suffer. Perhaps being clichéd makes the pain easier to endure. It’s almost like watching a sad film, knowing how it’ll end and yet somehow not succumbing to the pain. Like Romeo and Juliet. Shakespeare – considered the pioneer of tragedy – himself knew, right at the outset, that he’d have to kill the star-crossed lovers. The end had to be a cliché, right? I mean the great bard adapted an already existing play, and while dying was very much a part of the original work, the way he improvised on it made it a masterpiece. Maybe that’s what made it one of the greatest love stories as well; it’s the very cliché that actually made us fall for the plot. Even Shakespeare cashed in on a cliché.’

‘VS actually dug Shakespeare – we both did. In fact, when we were teenagers he wanted to major in literature, become an English master at our alma mater, St. Martin’s. He’d told me this when we came back for Mr Jefferson’s funeral…in, in…’ I stopped and took a large sip of my single malt, clasping my forehead. My heart felt heavy, soaked with a gnawing sadness.

‘So that was the last time you and Vikram Saxena met. Mr Jefferson, I presume, was your teacher, umm, your favourite English teacher…’ she paused, reaching over for my glass, having finished off hers.

‘It’s… Never mind, guess we’re both drinking too fast,’ I cut her short, trying to change the topic.

‘Finish what you were saying,’ she reprimanded.

‘Anjali was my childhood sweetheart. Vicky, VS– that’s what I used to call Vikram – knew this all along. She used to study in our sister school, St. Teresa. Everyone knew Anjali was my girl. She was teased about it constantly, by Vicky too. We all hung out together during our school years. Then Anjali moved to the US to study ballet. She always moved like a dove – so damn delicate…the soles of her feet…’ I paused to wipe my face.

‘I wanted to follow her there. But my results were just about average. I made it to Stephen’s English Honours only because Dad knew the Dean. They were classmates in St. Martin’s. He’d put in a word. Must have begged, considering my academic track record. Anjali knew all this. But her father was a real big shot. He ordered me to stay away from his only child. I’ll call your dad if you don’t stop ringing on this number. I’ll break your bones, you understand? Anjali has a very bright future… he threatened me. After that, Anjali stopped answering my calls. There were no cell phones back then,’ I sighed.

‘Go on…’

‘I poured my heart out to Vicky at Mr. Jefferson’s funeral. Told him I’d do anything to get Anjali back. That she was the one. He listened patiently and then offered to act as an intermediary between us – Vicky was headed to the US shortly to study business management at Wharton. Rathore, the truth is, I want to teach like our ol’ man here, but my father’s forcing me to get a business degree, says it’s my destiny to lead the family empire, he confessed as we parted ways. I hugged him tight. Someday, VS, all our dreams will come true, even the craziest ones… I was supremely confident about our friendship. I owe you my life, mate, I almost broke down.’

‘Knew it! The World Trade Centre bit sounded too filmi to be true anyway. This celestial union bit, that’s all bull, too, right?’

‘Guess you could say that. The truth is Vicky used to ferry my letters to Anju. He said it was safer, knowing how strict her father was, and just how poorly he thought of me. I believed everything VS told me. That’s how they started getting intimate initially. Meeting more often, keeping in touch more regularly. It was for me. It seemed like the perfect pretext, I suppose. The London fair bit is probably true though. Anju told me that was when they had sex. It was a quickie, she’d insisted at the time, didn’t mean anything. It was over before we started. We were plain lonely. Shit happens, jaanu, were her exact words.’ I shuddered, closing my eyes, trying to block out the memory of our last night together, when I had discovered Vicky’s socks (with his initials stitched on them, as always) in her hand luggage.

‘So they’d travelled to India together? Oh God, wait a minute, this is the Diwali part, we’re on Rishikesh now?’ she was trying to piece it all together, narrowing her eyes.

I nodded.

‘I had no freaking clue Vicky was in India. He’d stopped writing to me when we were in our third year. I assumed the lack of correspondence was due to his new academic calendar – Vicky had always been diligent. That and the distance, of course, I assured myself every time I had a nagging doubt. The truth was that Anju was already engaged to him by then. Breaking the news to me was just a mere formality on her part. She insisted we were too different – our backgrounds, our careers, our goals, what we wanted from life. VS, on the other hand, Anju maintained, was just like her. We’re identical, was what she told me.’

For a while, we both drank in silence.

‘Are you still upset about this betrayal? Like, mind-fucked? Did you come all the way to Agra to actually break up their wedding? Is that why you’re really here tonight?’ she asked, cautiously.

‘Another cliché?’ I smiled feebly.

‘Perhaps,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders, as if she, too, were at a loss for words.

‘I came here to warn VS… I had bummed an invite from a common Martin’s friend who couldn’t come tonight. I had no clue about the tight security though. Identity proof and what-not. My name, naturally, wasn’t on the confirmed guestlist. I was about to head back when I chanced upon this back route, while following a waiter who was headed here, balancing a tray of kebabs or something. Guess very few people know about this connecting pathway…’ I closed my eyes and paused before resuming, ‘Look, Anju doesn’t really love VS – she never has, she never will. Actually, she doesn’t know anything about love. She, she’s just this super-spoilt, super-rich brat who’s always done what daddy wants. I bet she just believes she’s going for the complete package – a bigger brand name, the Vikram Saxena. I can guarantee she will grow out of it in a matter of months. But VS… I hate the bugger, but he was my best mate, man. I can’t stand and watch him make a complete ass of himself, buying into someone else’s version of what their life should be. He’s not this tuxedo clad, gelled hair, hotelier honcho posing for the paparazzi, as I am certain he’s doing even as we speak. He is just a quiet, shy guy who loves reading Shakespeare and playing soccer – even when it rained and the lawns were flooded, VS never stopped trying, ever…’ I felt breathless.

‘Maybe your Anju knows exactly what she wants now – a superrich husband, a high-flying luxurious life, all the consummate comforts only money can buy. What’s so wrong about that? And maybe Vicky, Vikram Saxena, well, maybe he’s changed too. People change, dreams alter. What we want out of life is never static. After all, you guys aren’t shorts-clad teenagers on the soccer field any more. You’re both grown men. So, maybe this new Vikram Saxena really loves this new Anjali Raizada and maybe she loves him back. Perhaps, they’re not really all that different in all the ways you just mentioned. For all you know, this could jolly well be the marriage that actually works – the exception to the rule. The counter-cliché – two people who’re just the same, identical in every way, happy together,’ she rationalized.

‘Bullfuckingshit!’ I snapped, adding, ‘Same never works – same equals boring, same means monotonous, stale. Same stinks. Same doesn’t help sustain a marriage over time. And, for the record, there is nothing such as a counter-cliché.’

‘If you insist…’

She lapped up the last drop of my whisky.

‘The bar’s closed for a bit. The jaimala is going to begin any time now, I believe. The CM is here too, along with some important dignitaries. They don’t want any drunken revelry in front of the netas, so sadly, no more alcohol. The waiters mentioned that there was some music recital too that just got over. How come we didn’t hear a thing other than the blessed shehnai?’ I said, placing two chilled glasses of apple juice down on the grass.

‘What recital?’ she looked up in my direction, wiping the moisture off her glass.

‘Some sarod thingy. Ismillah and Irshad, some twins or something,’ I reported indifferently.

‘Crap! Was dying to hear them. They’re just back from Edinburgh,’ she said, looking almost bereaved.

‘Too bad, think they just left. Want me to check if their car is still at the gates? Maybe you can run after them for an autograph?’ I smiled.

‘Hey! Just because some rich chick gave you the boot and decided to get laid by your best friend, it doesn’t give you the right to be mean to me, okay? There are people who happen to enjoy Indian classical music very much,’ she replied, her eyes ablaze.

‘Sorry,’ I softened my stance.

She stumbled to her feet, picked up her heels with her right hand and balanced her clutch in her left. ‘I’m hungry. Better go get myself some real food before that runs out too. I’m sure I can sneak in without any trouble – the security fellows must be busy guarding the big wigs by now,’ she muttered into the stillness.

I stood too and gently touched the nape of her neck.

‘Walk you down?’ My mouth was close to hers as she turned to look at me and I suddenly felt a surge of longing.

‘I don’t think you should be so hard on them,’ she said suddenly, her hunger evidently forgotten. Before I could respond, she continued, ‘It’s not easy, you know. Knowing what’s right for you – who’s right for you. We all have our own share of mistakes. Our personal quota of shit before we actually figure out what works and what’s better kept away.’

‘So, what brings you here tonight? Don’t tell me