Good Bahus Don't Smoke Weed: Excerpt From Chetan Bhagat's New Book

Bestselling author Chetan Bhagat, writing for the first time in a female voice, brings to you One Indian Girl, the heart-warming story of a modern Indian girl. You can order your copy on Amazon now.

'Careful,' I said. The Activa wobbled on the bumpy road as we came out of the Marriott driveway.

'I haven't ridden one of these in five years,' Brijesh said. I wondered if I should hold him from behind. I could, considering I would be his wife in three days. However, I didn't want him to think I was too easy either. I kept my hands on his shoulders instead.

We passed through a narrow road between rice fields. He went fast. The breeze made my hair fly all over my face.

'This is fun,' I said.

'Great idea, Radhika,' Brijesh said. 'Dump the relatives. Do our own thing.'

'Where are we going?' I said.

'Anjuna. That's where we hung out when we came on a college trip.'

Thirty minutes later, we reached the rocky Anjuna beach and parked the bike. We walked for five minutes and reached a shack called Curlies. We sat on adjacent easy chairs, both of us facing the Arabian Sea. I removed my sneakers to rest my feet on the sandy floor of Curlies.

'Beer?' Brijesh said.

'Sure,' I said. He asked a waiter to bring us two Kingfishers. Two tables away, I saw another Indian couple. The girl wore red and white bangles on both hands, a wedding chudaa; they had just gotten married. Must be their honeymoon. They held hands, but it seemed a little awkward. Arranged marriage, maybe. I looked at Brijesh. We would be a married couple too by this weekend. Brijesh smiled as he handed me a half-pint Kingfisher bottle.

'What did you tell your folks?' Brijesh said.

'I told Aditi didi that I am going for a walk with you.'

'They don't know you are at Anjuna?'

'No,' I said, 'mom will freak out.'

I sipped my beer.

We watched the sun go down. A young singer at Curlies sang and played the guitar. The Goan sunset became even more poignant with the music. The singer sang Justin Bieber's song, Sorry.

Is it too late now to say sorry?
Yeah, I know that I let you down
Is it too late to say I'm sorry now?

The song made me think of Debu. He had come all the way from New York. Sure, he had been a jerk. But don't people make mistakes? Wouldn't most men react the same way if their girlfriend earned
triple their salary? All he wants now is to marry me. Doesn't he deserve a chance?

'You seem lost,' Brijesh said. 'Am I so boring?'

I shook my head. I scolded myself for letting my mind go back to Debu again and again. And why am I rationalizing his behaviour so much? Is it again my female manufacturing defect, saying things like 'But isn't that what most men would do'?

Focus on the man you are with right now, mini-me screamed at me.

'No, you are not boring. It's a lovely place. Thanks, Brijesh,' I said.

I still didn't like his name. Hated it, in fact. Why did it have to be so unfashionable? 'Meet my husband, Debashish Sen' versus 'Meet my husband, Brijesh Gulati'. Eww.

Girl, stop daydreaming.

'We came to Goa on a mechanical engineering college field trip.'

'Engineering field trip to Goa?' I said.

'Well, we convinced the college authorities there's enough industry in Goa.'

'Like draught-beer-brewing machines?' I said.

He laughed. 'I admit it was a bit of a fraud. But we did visit the Goa Shipyard and Vedanta's iron ore facility.'

'For ten minutes?'

'Fifteen minutes. Rest on the beaches. But hey, we submitted a report and everything.'

I took another sip of beer.

'This is what happens at NIT? Goa trips in the name of industry visits?' I tut-tutted.

'Some of our classmates did go to the Bhilai Steel Plant. They hate us till today.'

We laughed together. Okay, I can do this, I told myself. He may not be the most interesting guy around, but the engineering college stories did make him more human.

'You seem to have had fun in college.'

'I'm not as boring as you think.'

'I didn't say you are.'

'Actually, I am. Particularly when it comes to talking to women. But with the boys, I did have fun.'

'Yeah? You like boys?' I said and winked at him.

'No...no I meant...' he said and blushed.

I laughed. 'I am teasing you.'

'I know. Sorry. You got me.'

'You think women are different?' I said.

He shrugged.

'They are, right? Women are not like men,' he said.

'Well, in some ways not. But in many ways, yes.'

'Of course, we are all people. People are the same,' he said.

I tried not to stare at him too much. I wondered if he ever thought about things like gender equality.

'Brijesh, do you know what is a feminist?'

'Sort of. But what exactly is it?' he said and blinked his eyes. He genuinely didn't seem to know.

'You haven't heard the word "feminist"?'

'Of course I have. I sort of know what it is. Equal rights for women, right? Is that the definition?'

'Feminism is a movement that seeks to define, establish and achieve equal political, economic, cultural, personal and social rights for women. A feminist is someone who believes in this movement.'

'Wow,' he said.

'What wow?'

'The way you said the definition. It's cool.'

'Thanks. But are you one?'

'Never really thought about it. Never faced a situation where I had to be one. But I guess, yes.'

'You are?' I said.

'I think all human beings should have equal rights. It's not men versus women, it's human versus human. Feminist is a wrong term. It should be humanist. The right question is "Are you a humanist?" Well, everyone should be,' he said.

'True,' I said.

'Are you a feminist, Radhika?'

'What do you mean? I am a woman.'

'Not all women are feminists.'

'Really?'

'Mothers who treat sons better than daughters. Are they feminists?'

'No,' I said.

'Women who judge other working women as not being good enough mothers. Are they feminists?'

'No. I see your point. Yes, I consider myself a feminist,' I said.

'Can I say something?'

'Sure.'

'I don't think anyone has to specifically call himself or herself a feminist. If you are a fair person and want equal opportunities for all, that's a start.'

I looked at him and smiled.

The waiter brought us another round of beer. The sun had vanished, leaving behind a dark grey sky. We watched the waves splash on the beachfront.

'What else did you do in Goa on your field trip?' I said.

'Stuff. Stuff you don't want to know.'

I got interested. 'Oh, really. Like what?'

'Nothing.'

'Try me.'

'Okay, checking out all the firang women on all the beaches.'

'You mean leching at them?'

'Of course not. I would call it more a studied observation,' he said.

I laughed.

'Engineers are sick,' I said.

'They are. Deprivation does that to us.'

'What else?'

'We smoked up.'

'What? Weed?'

He nodded.

'You had weed in Goa?' I said.

'Yeah. You can get it at Anjuna. There are some shops behind the shack. I don't know if they still operate. But we scored from there.'

'Mr Brijesh Gulati, you do have a past.'

He laughed. 'Most of it is around studying to top the class and get a scholarship to the USA. But yes, we did some fun stuff.'

'Should we try some?'

'You want to smoke weed? Now?' he said, startled.

'Yeah. Or is it too much for a good Indian bride to smoke a joint a couple of days before the wedding?'

'No, no, nothing like that.'

'Too feminist?'

'No, Radhika. Nothing like that. How can we smoke up? We have all our relatives here.'

'Not at Anjuna. See if you can get some.'

He looked at me. I gave him a wicked grin. He stood up.

'Give me fifteen minutes,' he said.

'Come behind the rocks. Nobody will see us,' Brijesh said as I took a drag.

We had left Curlies and come up to a remote corner on Anjuna beach. Brijesh rolled three joints. We started with our first one.

'You have done this before?' he said.

'No, but I always wanted to try,' I said.

'Go slow,' he said.

With each drag my mind became more calm, my senses more numb. The stress of Debu hovering around the Marriott went up in smoke. Brijesh also didn't feel as unfamiliar.

'Wow, this reminds me of my college days,' he said.

'Bet your parents never thought this is the kind of bahu they are getting,' I said.

He shrugged.

'What kind of bahu?'

'This kind. Smoking up on the beach before her wedding. It's not what good Indian bahus do.'

'If their son can do this, why can't the bahu?' he said.

'Now that is feminism,' I said and high-fived him.

'Everything doesn't need hi-fi labels like feminism. Just logic. If I can do it, you can do it.'

'You are sweet.'

'Isn't sweet the word women use when they aren't attracted to a guy but don't want to hurt him either?'

'Smart you are, Mr Facebook. Not too duh about girls.'

'Well, in this aspect I am good. Been Mr Sweet all my life.'

'Sweet is good,' I said and took the last puff of the joint.

He smiled.

'Shall we head back? It will get late,' he said.

'Yeah. Save those two joints for the Marriott. We will need them.'

We rode back on the Activa. This time I held him around the waist. Maybe it was the beer and the joint, but it didn't feel odd. We passed through the same rice fields, now invisible in the darkness. The headlight of the Activa showed us the road. We stopped at a crossroads to confirm the way.

'We take a right from here, yes?' I said, placing my chin on his shoulder.

'Yeah,' he said.

As we turned, we passed two cops at a checkpoint. They stopped us.

'Licence,' one of the cops said.

Brijesh stood up from the Activa and sifted through his pockets. He took out his wallet and checked inside. He couldn't find it.

'Oh, I think I kept it in the hotel safe,' he said.

'What?' the cop said.

'I have a California licence. From the USA. I left it at the hotel, sorry.'

The cops looked at each other.

'We have to fine you,' one cop said. He took out a challan booklet.

The other cop turned to me.

'Madam, this is not right. You should not drive without a licence.'

'We are tourists. Sorry.'

We had to pay a fine of 400 rupees. Brijesh took out a 1,000-rupee note from his wallet. The cops gave him the change. As Brijesh put the wallet back in his pocket, a small paper bundle fell out.

'You dropped something,' the cop said and picked it up. He held it in his hand and brought it closer to his face. He sniffed at it once, and gave it to his colleague.

Damn.

'Can both of you step aside, please? Give us the Activa keys.'

'What's the matter?' I said.

He lifted up the paper packet.

'This is marijuana. It is illegal. We need to take you to the police station.'

Excerpted with the permission of Rupa Publications India.