Page 114 - The World's Best Boyfriend

successful I am, I would never trump her. It’s like comparing a liquor baron with
a painter.’
‘What does it have anything to do with her getting married?’
‘I was getting to that. For all practical reasons, she’s illiterate and I hoped

karma would bite her in the ass, that some day she would have to get married to
a rich, fat businessman with an intelligence of an ape. And that’s when I would

parade us, my future man and me, the power couple, the ones who can talk
business, politics, art, philanthropy with equal panache. I intended to smash her
ego, her pride, her superiority to smithereens. But guess what? Her fiancé has a
blog where he writes about the political scene in the US and its ramifications on

the Indian economy and is a part of an NGO that cares for cancer-stricken
children. Imagine! CANCER CHILDREN! How am I supposed to compete with

a man like that? How am I supposed to win? Why are men blind? How hard
would it have been for God to give her a husband who believed in dowry and
hated children?’

Raghuvir scowled. ‘Is this where I tell you that you should be proud—’
Aranya snapped, ‘I’m a fucking feminist, okay, a struggling one, but I am. I
think men are disasters and we are better than them because, you know, periods

and labour pains and higher emotional intelligence, but what the hell is wrong
with you men? Like what? And it’s not easy to look at yourself in the mirror and
wonder if guys will ever like you! It’s too much pressure. And the worst part is

when you know you shouldn’t think of it and yet you do! AND THAT SUCKS.
Why can’t I be ugly and fat and still be wanted? Why is the girl in biotechnology
more talked about than me? She can’t even tell an array apart from a pointer!’

She felt exhausted and slumped in her chair, her body in severe deficit of
carbohydrates she had ruthlessly cut out of her diet. Whoever said sharing makes
you feel lighter must have written the quote on a shit pot while taking a dump,

because right now all she felt was embarrassment, and the silence in the room
was making it worse.
‘I think you’re pretty.’

‘Stop making fun of me. I’m borderline suicidal.’
‘No, you are. I would pick you over that cousin a zillion times. I have been in
that guy’s shoes more times than you can imagine. Going for a face that is said

to be conventionally beautiful when beauty is all but a construct of the media,
fed through movies and television and music and advertisements. I have been