Indian techie turned author Chetan Bhagat on male bikini waxing in One Indian Girl
NewDelhi,Oct1:Bestselling author Chetan Bhagat, writing for the first time in a female voice, brings to youOne Indian Girl, the heart-warming story of a modern Indian girl. Here are excerpts fron the book about male bikini waxing session
‘Ohohoh… Slower, that hurts,’ I said to the waxing lady.
‘You haven’t done this before?’ said my fifty-year-old waxing lady Catherine politely, while ripping the waxing strips off me most brutally.
I was lying down in my underwear. I had come to Completely Bare, a funky ‘high-tech meets comfy chic’ waxing studio on 68th Street and Madison.
‘I have. Twice in my life. In India. Years ago,’ I said.
‘Really? Did it hurt then?’
Hell yeah, it did. Aditi didi had made me do it for a wedding in the family. I almost broke family ties with her after that. If only Debu knew what I was going through to have a plate of noodles with him. Catherine dipped a spatula in a bowl of molten wax.
‘Cold wax hurts more, but the results last longer,’ she said. She applied the wax on my upper thigh, then put a white strip of cloth, six inches long and two inches wide, on that. Hair clung to it. I felt the Armageddon coming.
‘Can’t you give local anesthesia or…oww…oww…oww…’
‘Relax, honey,’ Catherine said.
I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes. I imagined myself in the Middle East. They punish women with lashes if they do something awful like driving a car, offering men their opinions or something totally immoral like exposing their elbows in public.
‘Fifty lashes for Radhika.’ I imagined a fatwa on me as Catherine went to work. She finished my legs from the front and flipped me around. I felt like a fish being scaled before dinner.
‘You don’t want a Brazilian?’ Catherine asked me. ‘It is only fifteen dollars more.’
‘What’s that?’ I said. Catherine rolled her eyes.
‘It’s everything gone, honey. Down there too.’
It took me a second to figure out what she meant. Then I realized the embarrassment and pain involved.
‘Do girls do it?’ I said.
‘Everyone, honey. The boys don’t like them bushes anymore.’
Okay, I thought. It’s only fifteen dollars more. I am Indian after all, and Indians like bargains, even if they involve pain.
‘You want it?’ Catherine said.
Maybe I can do this. This is not for Debu or tonight. This is for me. Enough of being a frumpy nerd, Radhika. Do it.
‘Sure, I’ll take the Brazilian,’ I said.
I don’t want to go into the details of what happened next. It started with Catherine examining bits of me nobody else ever had, while she shook her head in disapproval. After that she applied molten wax on body parts that were clearly never meant to ever come in contact with molten wax. Why do we women put ourselves through this? Why can’t boys… oww…oww…oww.
I think I would prefer the lashes in Saudi Arabia.
‘There we go,’ Catherine said after her ten-minute sadism experiment ended.
‘I might faint,’ I said.
‘You will get used to it,’ Catherine said. ‘Trust me, he will love it.’
There is no he, I wanted to tell her. I am only going to have wonton soup with him. Not wanton sex.
Catherine came back with a strip of crystal dots.
‘And as a special promotion, we are giving all customers who got a Brazilian a free Swarovski service. Allow me. This won’t hurt at all.’
I couldn’t believe what happened next. Catherine made a pattern with thirty crystals down there.
Once done, she told me to stand up and look into the mirror.
‘I look like a stripper,’ I said.
‘You look sexy.’
‘I can’t walk out with crystals on my…you know.’ ‘Don’t worry. They wash off in a couple of days. Faster if you rub with soap.’
‘Hey, done with training? You will be on time, right? Or should we make it 8.30?’ Debu said.
‘I am done. Was just taking care of some…internal issues. See you soon,’ I said.
‘You look,’ he paused, ‘wonderful.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘Your dress is lovely too.’
‘Look, no tag today,’ I said and turned around. Both of us laughed. I was wearing a military green lace dress I had picked up from Gap. It ended well above the knees, exposing enough leg. However, I still don’t think Debu noticed the hundred dollars I spent fixing my limbs. The dim lighting and the restaurant table covering my legs did no justice to the hour I had spent in the torture chamber.
Debu ordered a set dinner for us.
We sat down in the upper level of Tao, a large-sized restaurant by New York standards. Downstairs, we could see a giant Buddha and the Zen koi pond.
‘Nice place,’ I said.
‘Did you know they shot the Sex and the City movie here?’ Debu said.
I didn’t. ‘So how was your day?’
‘Good. We are pitching for this new sportswear brand called Under Armor. If we get the campaign it will be awesome. How’s Goldman?’
‘Still in training. Busy. It will get even more hectic after work begins.’
I told him about Neel’s distressed debt presentation. I recounted how I was questioned in front of the entire class.
‘So I am thinking, I won’t apply to distressed debt. It’s quite difficult to get anyway. Plus, the job seems too difficult,’ I said.
‘How can you not apply?’ Debu said. ‘You are from IIMA. You will crack it.’
‘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 the 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 to not 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.
See, I can flirt back. Nerds can flirt.
He never expected a comeback. He took a second to take in my response.
‘Why don’t you try and find out?’ he said.
That’s enough, Radhika, this is going into dangerous territory, I told myself. Deflect, change the topic, fast. You don’t want to be judged as a slut on the first date. See, this is what I do. When I am with a man, I behave like I am sitting for a test. Answer the question properly. Act naïve as if I don’t understand his double meaning. Don’t just be. Perform.
‘Don’t know about the men. I’d love to have a rasgulla though,’ I said, my voice as innocent and dumb as possible. ‘Alas, this is Manhattan.’
‘Fear not. We Bengalis have left imprints everywhere. Would you like to go to a rasgulla place?’
‘Here? Now? In Manhattan?’
He nodded and smiled. The bill arrived.
‘Should we split?’ I said and took out two twenty-dollar bills.
He thought about it for a second.
‘Actually, no. Can I treat you this time?’ he said.
Isn’t that what dates are? I said to myself. But then, what about gender equality?
‘Why?’ I said. ‘We can split.’
‘No,’ he said as he took the money out of his wallet. ‘It’s not that much. You can buy the rasgullas.’