‘You’ve Got the Wrong Girl’ is Romance From a Man’s Point of View
Move over ‘chick lit’. ‘Lad lit’, the story from a man’s point of view, is the theme of Sreemoyee Piu Kundu’s novel.
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You’ve Got the Wrong Girl is the latest novel by Sreemoyee Piu Kundu, the author of the feminist erotic novel Sita’s Curse. Delightful, unconventional, heart-warming, it is about one man’s journey to discover his heart and the supremely unpredictable nature of love.
Here is the book trailer:
And here is an intriguing extract from the first chapter ‘Kinda Cliched’:
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, 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, at first, 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.
(The writer is an ex lifestyle editor and PR vice president, and now a full-time novelist and columnist on sexuality and gender, based in Delhi. She is the author of ‘Faraway Music’ and ‘Sita’s Curse’. Her third book ‘You’ve Got The Wrong Girl’ is out next.)
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