PDF FILE OF DURJOY DATTA NOVELS
Durjoy Datta is the author of If It's Not Forever. It's Not Love. ( avg rating, ratings, reviews, published ), Of Course I Love You!. The Boy Who Loved By Durjoy Datta |PDF| • E-BookPool To download latest e- books by Indian author search in the following format “book name”/”author name” . HOLD MY HAND. Durjoy Datta was born in New Delhi, India, and completed a degree in engineering and business man- His successive novels—Now That.
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You Were My Crush! till you said you love me! Durjoy Datta. from: $ · When Only Love Remains. by Durjoy Datta; Format: Paperback; Publisher: Penguin. Download The World's Best Boyfriend by Durjoy Datta. Free Download Till the Last Breath Novel pdf Written by Durjoy Datta and read Book Details: Language: English Published, Format: Kindle EBook, Release.
She knows what shes doing. He drove. Calm down. Jayanti and he had come a long way since theyd signed the contract and the path had been thorny. It had been half an hour since he had battered the man but he was still antsy. At a distance he saw Jayanti step down from her Audi Q5 and hand over the keys to the valet.
Dressed in a shimmery silver dress, she looked resplendent, almost royal. Tall and tight like a whip, she strode towards Olives entrance, her thick thighs straining against her dress. In her hands she carried a little brown bag. The Girl of My Dreams. Author copies. My copies. My book! His name would be on a book for all of eternity. It would be his legacy. And yet happiness eluded him. He stepped down from the car, checked his hair and his smile in the side mirror.
He missed Avni. Things would have been much easier had she been there. She would have calmed him down. Daman sauntered towards the entrance, practising his smiles. Hands went up, wine glasses in the air, and everyone shouted his name in unison as Daman walked in. Jayanti Raghunath stepped ahead, smiled widely, hugged him and thrust a glass of wine in his hands. Damans refusal withered when it met with shouts of Drink! Just one drink, he thought. She introduced him to everyone. Most of their faces were flushed and they were inordinately happy with the book.
They were also a little drunk. Ritwik, a smallish, fat, jovial guy, had designed the cover. Shraboni, a beautiful dusky girl with a strong voice, had worked on the final edits.
Farhad, a tall, fair, handsome man with a little paunch, was the fiction marketing head. There was also a bunch of guys from the production and sales team whose names Daman had forgotten as soon as he heard them.
The waiter refilled his drink. The wine was expensive and delicious, better than anything he had had before. Its my day, he reminded himself. I will call a cab. A little later, a cake was cut and Daman was handed over the first copies of The Girl of My Dreams, a page-long book with a red and black minimalist cover, amidst frenzied claps and long hugs. They left him alone to enjoy the copies. Daman held a copy in his hands, smelt it, flipped through the pages, and ran his hands over the cover.
He wasnt as joyful as he had imagined he would be all those months back when hed signed the contract. Jayanti turned up next to him and put an arm around him.
Her breath smelt of wine. Like it? I told you, didnt I? It will all be okay when the book comes out. You stress about the little things. Little things? Shreyasi was not a little thing. Jayanti scowled. Now dont start that again. Those changes were important. Thats dead and buried. This is your day! Enjoy the moment, Daman. This will be the start of something amazing. Daman skimmed through the book as Jayanti droned on about how excited everyone was. The more he read the more he was filled with revulsion.
Between his words, Jayantis words protruded like ugly, jagged rocks. This book was as much Jayantis as it was his; she hadnt just edited it, she had written large parts herself. He wanted to scream. Instead he drank. Okay, wait. I will dispel your fears, said Jayanti and waved Shraboni down.
Shraboni was already hammered. She stumbled twice before she placed herself in front of Jayanti and Daman. Shes read the book. Twice, said Jayanti. Whos your best character, Shraboni? Daman pulled a face and sulked. Daman said, You need to congratulate Jayanti for that. My Shreyasi was different. Dont say that, interjected Jayanti.
What the fuck am I supposed to say then? The people at the other tables looked at them strangely. Jayanti asked Ritwik to take Shraboni away. She turned to Daman after she left. I told you. Let the book come out. Everyone will love the new Shreyasi. You can mope all you want if she doesnt work. It will be on me. The waiter asked Daman if he needed a refill.
He knew he shouldnt drink; blackouts were common with him. But he needed to forget. He nodded. The waiter filled his glass to the brim. There was no point in pursuing the Shreyasi conversation any more. Whats done was done. Jayanti had bulldozed her way into the book and wrecked the Shreyasi Daman had thought of. The Shreyasi in the book was a far cry from the cracked, lunatic, lovely, peculiar girl he had painstakingly created. His pale-faced Shreyasi was a mathematics major, a gold medallist no less, working with a start-up that made algorithms for search engines.
She filled her time reading thick books on organic chemistry and ancient history and dead religions. She liked museums, caffeine, fire, multiple orgasms, Daman the character , occasional BDSM and knock-knock jokes. Coy and polite, she was an English major, an intern at an online news portal. She was all parts boring and bullshit. This is what will work. This is what sells. After numerous delays and skipped deadlines, Daman had given in.
Daman drank through the rest of the evening. Slowly everyone left. Jayanti was the last to leave. She told Daman he could stay if he wanted to. After she left, Daman sunk back into the couch and ordered for numerous refills. Things became muddy thereafter. He started to read the book. The sentences Jayanti had written floated outside the book, coiled around his neck and squeezed it. His chest tightened.
Before long he tossed it away. He ordered another drink. He passed out soon after and dreamt of angry readers burning his books in large piles. He woke up to a waiter staring at his face and asking him to leave. He stumbled out of Olive with an unfinished bottle of champagne and walked to his car.
He put the bottle to his lips. He sat in the car and closed his eyes. He fumbled for his phone to call himself a cab but couldnt find it.
He imagined ripping Jayantis throat out. He passed out. Hi, says the girl. Are you for real? Show me your face, he slurs. He sees the girl smile. I will remember your face, he says. I hope you do, he hears the girl say.
He mumbles a few words, smiles stupidly and drifts off. He wakes up and finds himself in the back seat. Where are we going? Are you Shreyasi? No one answers. His head swims. The world spins violently around him. In the drivers seat he sees the girl again. Dark hair, white skin, deep dark eyes, violently red lips, as if she has stepped out of his book, The Girl of My Dreams.
Shes Shreyasi. Hes sure of it. He smiles in a drunken stupor. No, I am dreaming, Jayanti killed you, he says in disbelief. She destroyed you, he continues. I am dreaming, its the pills and the alcohol, he says to himself. I shouldnt have had the last bottle. Sleep, youre drunk, baby, he hears the girl say.
And like a child, he sleeps again. He wakes up. The car is parked in a deserted area. Theres silence. He tries to help himself up but loses balance. Falling forward he cuts his lower lip and bleeds.
The girl is reading his book, The Girl of My Dreams. She turns towards him. The kindness has drained out of her face. She is glowering. She pulls out a spanner and keeps it on the passenger seat. Then she takes out a lipstick and darkens her lips in the rear-view mirror. Putting the lipstick back in, she raises the spanner as if to smash his face with it. This is not me, he hears the girl say.
The book, the fucking book! He woke up with a jerk. He tried to feel his face; he wasnt hurt but he was bleeding from a small cut on his lip. He was in the drivers seat of his car. It was parked outside his apartment building. He stumbled out of the door on all fours and promptly vomited. He belched and retched and vomited till there was nothing but air inside him.
He slumped against the front tyre. Sitting there he drifted in and out of sleep, sweating under the beating sun. It wasnt until noon that he was wide awake. He found himself inside the car with the air conditioner on full blast.
He turned the AC down.
Sitting inside the car, he cursed himself for having drunk so much and strained to think what happened the night before. The motorcyclist. The party. The book. The waiter. The dream. The girl? Another fucking dream. He rummaged through the glovebox for his phone. There were twenty missed calls from Avni and a few from his parents. He called Avni first. What the hell is happening, Daman?
I have been calling you since forever. I was so scared! I just got drunk last night, he said. I only just got home. I called Olive and you had left when they closed. Where were you? Yes, yes. I drove back home and passed out in the car. I just woke up, he said. He pressed his hand against his head which was bursting with pain.
He needed a Crocin. You drove back home drunk? What is wrong with you, Daman? And what was that text you sent me? What text? I didnt send you anything. Avni read out the text. You dont deserve him. I didnt send that, he said. He added after a pause. I must have been trying to send it to Jayanti. Why her? The book, Avni.
I got the author copies and its. I will talk to you in the evening. I feel like Im dying right now Do you want me to come over? No, I will manage. See you in the evening? I will talk to you in a bit, he said and disconnected the call. He found the text he had sent Avni in the Sent folder. He was glad he didnt end up sending it to Jayanti. But he wondered why he referred to himself in the third person.
I should stop drinking. He looked around for the books in the car. He checked the glove compartment, the boot of the car, even below the seats.
He couldnt find them. He figured he must have left them at the restaurant. Disappointed, he stepped out of the car to call Jayanti and ask for more copies. He had just dialled her number when he noticed what he thought was the burnt jacket of his book a couple of yards away from the car. He disconnected the call. Is it the book? He walked closer to inspect. He bent over the smouldering heap of ashes.
All that was left of the five author copies of The Girl of My Dreams was blackened paper and ash. He picked out one half-burnt jacket which had miraculously escaped the flames. When did I do this? He texted Jayanti asking her to courier him more copies of the books.
Daman trudged back to his apartment thinking of the book. The opening line that described Shreyasi written by Jayanti came rushing to his headBorn in , fair-skinned Shreyasi was every boys dream; nice and soft- spoken, she was a bundle of joy and kindness. Damans stomach churned. Jayantis words ran in Damans head. He grabbed her by the hair and rammed her head repeatedly against the glass walls of her cabin till the cracked glass dribbled with blood and brains.
Her body slumped to the ground, her fingers twitching, her legs trembling. Daman stomped on her smashed skull till she was unrecognizable. A fitting punishment for changing his book to a hunk of shit.
He snapped out of his reverie. He was staring at the cracked glass walls of Jayantis cabin. Jayanti sat smiling in her chair, waiting for Daman to speak. Why does this room smell like shit? Can we come to the point? You answered Jayanti. You said everyone will love this new Shreyasi.
They fucking hate her, grumbled Daman.
You have no idea what youre talking about, Daman. Stop pacing around first and sit down. Youre freaking me out, said Jayanti leaning forward in her chair, hands crossed over the proofs of the book that was due for printing. Three cups of black coffee lay empty on her table.
Hundreds of paperback and hardback books lay stacked in teetering towers around her table. Millions of words by authors known and unknown were scattered all around her. Jayanti looked at Avni. Ask him to calm down a little, will you? Avni tugged at Damans arm. Daman sat down.
He spoke, Are you kidding me, Jayanti? People dont like my book. Go, check the reviews online. They hate the Shreyasi in the book, the Shreyasi you created, the Shreyasi you wrote out.
Shes just someone whom the protagonist loves and fucks. She needed to be more than that. And Im goddam tired of answering the question if the main guy in the book is me. I told you we should have given the guy a different name than mine. We are NOT having this conversation again. Because we used your name, people think its a true story and readers lap up true stories like anything. You should know that, right? Even movies do that all the time. Do you really think those movies are based on true events?
Daman had feebly protested about the edits and rewrites till the day before the book went into print but there was no winning against the cunning of Jayanti who predicted doomsday for the book if they didnt do that. I will just read the reviews out. She read them out. The book is a classic romance. Loved the ending. In love with Shreyasi I cried so much in the book. Heart emoji. Crying emoji. I totally heart emoji heart emoji the story.
What are you talking about? Most of the reviews are good. She turned her MacBook around. Daman rolled his eyes. Avni pulled the laptop close and perused the reviews. They were overwhelmingly positive. But these werent the only reviews online. Especially those where Shreyasi had been called a spineless, stereotypical, weak damsel in distress, and the ones where Daman had been called a failure of a writer, his story old wine in a new well-marketed bottle.
The most scathing reviews were from people who had read Damans short pieces of fiction on Facebook before he had signed the deal and had come to fall in love with the old Shreyasi. They called him a sell-out. He blamed it all on Jayantis overbearing editing.
If only Daman had known that behind that beautifully elongated body, those kind, tired eyes of Jayanti, there was a manipulative, control-freak shrew.
Avni had borne most of the brunt of Damans anger, being the only one who could keep him from self- destruction. Jayanti continued, Look, Daman I dont know what kind of acceptance youre looking for but selling 15, copies of a debut book in the first three weeks constitutes a resounding success. You need to stop thinking what a few people think about your lead girl character. Look at the bigger picture. The book is a hit! Its even on the Bharatstan Times Bestseller list.
Why dont you tape it to your head and strut around then? I dont know what youre complaining about, Daman. Other debut authors would kill to be in your position right now. She has a point, said Avni.
Daman threw Avni a murderous look. He said, Should I clap for you, Jayanti? He mocked her. People out there are calling me another Karthik Iyer, the lowest fucking denominator. Listen, Daman. You were writing notes on Facebook when I spotted you and gave you this book deal. Dare you make it sound like I wrecked your career!
I gave you a career if you look at it closely. You spotted me, remember? You came to me. You offered me a book deal because you thought the book would work. It wasnt charity. You knew I had an audience online that would buy the book. You knew my book had potential.
Jayanti laughed throatily. Like really?
Our Impossible Love - Durjoy Datta
Followers on Twitter and Facebook dont mean anything, Daman. It doesnt cost money to like or share something. It takes a good relatable book, a marketing plan, a smart editor, a smart publicist to sell a book. People share videos of poor people dying all day with sad smileys and complain about how wretched the world is but wont part with a rupee for them.
How would you have made them spend on you? They already did. Data isnt free, Jayanti. Big joke, Daman. Youre so funny. Why dont you put that in your next book, haan? Avni looked at the two of them volleying verbal insults like a spectator at a tennis match. Avni had been in this cabin once before. It was the day Daman had signed the contract for his book which was supposed to change his life. That day she had noticed the massive cloth board behind Jayanti Raghunaths heavily cushioned chair.
It had been covered with jackets of all the bestsellers Jayanti had edited in her decade-long career. Some thirty-odd books in ten years. The probability of success had made Avni nauseated. What if Damans book doesnt go up there?
But today the board was covered completely with a white chart paper. Im getting something done here, Jayanti had offered as an explanation. It wasnt the only thing that had changed in the cabin. The desk looked new. They had to rush the senior to the hospital. Groggily and with one eye barely open he looked at the timetable on his phone. He was already late for the first class—advanced physics.
It took him another twenty minutes to get out of bed, brush, and find the motivation to reach his first class at DTU, the college he had always thought of as giving him the metaphorical freedom from the house he had grown up in. Still in his shorts and flip-flops, his right palm bandaged, and with a deep gash on his forehead from last night which had needed medical attention, he walked through the corridors looking for his class.
Mr Tripathi, fifty-three, dressed in brown trousers, a faded white shirt and chappals, was teaching the first-year electrical engineering students.
In a desperate bid to leave a good first impression, their eyes were glued to the old man, nodding furiously like bobbleheads, pens whirling on paper, writing every word like it was holy. Dhruv knocked at the door. The class turned to look at him. It was a class full of hopeful and hopeless, virgin young men, and predominantly average-looking women, who would drag themselves unquestioningly through four years of engineering to get one of those million little enviable cubicles where their life energies will be slowly sucked out of them.
Tripathi asked the class. The students shook their heads. So I thought it was better I dressed up for the occasion. I picked these shorts carefully. And hi! The professor started to teach them about fusion. Dhruv sat there, looking at the five girls in the class, calculating the number of beers he would need to find the urge to sleep with them.
The first three were identical. Skinny, dark, spectacled, flat hair tied tightly into a pony, four beer stuff. One of them was fair and being the racist bastard he was, he pegged her at two beers and sufficiently dim lighting. The last one was a little hard to place in the heirarchy. She had her back towards him. She was furiously scribbling notes, unmindful of boys nearby, or him, or even the professor.
From where he was sitting he could see her head strictly followed the chalk like she was controlling it, telekinesis-type strange shit.
If she turned out to be fair he would forgive her plumpness and give her a good beer rating. But then she turned. The girl had patchy skin, white and brown at places, and she immediately reminded him of someone. She had seen him too. For the rest of the period, she kept stealing glances at him, and he played his little game of catching her mid-glance, holding the stare.
And then it struck him. It was her. I Love u Rachu 14 Aranya wrote furiously in her register, the nib of her pen making an angry noise against the paper, to avoid looking at the gorgeous boy. She had noticed his roving, sleepy eyes over the occupants of the first two benches, evaluating them, and then turning towards her.
She found herself thinking why the face looked so familiar and, more importantly, why did she feel an inherent hatred towards it. She reminded herself of the task at hand —be a pet student of every professor, secure the scholarships, get a project under the famed Dr Raghuvir, get a plush, overpaying job abroad, and have a great fucking life.
Possibly a liposuction as well. Or is it four? She had noticed the mistake right when Mr Tripathi made it. But she waited for a perfectly timed moment to point it out, her voice modulated to make her sound like a curious, dedicated, unsure student. Tripathi noticed the mistake.
At least someone is paying attention. Mutual admiration was the first step towards a healthy and fruitful relationship.
The professor continued to teach nuclear physics to a bored class till the clock struck nine-thirty. Tripathi dictated the names of a few reference books and the serial numbers of the questions they had to finish before the next class. Many hands went up. I will be a good student and will always be by your side. You can trust me. In moments of despair when you feel like your best days as a college professor are over, I will stand up and tell you how you changed my life as a professor.
Aranya could have said this but she gingerly raised her hand and kept her mouth shut. Aranya offered to help the professor carry his books back to the staffroom.
He turned her down nicely. The seniors can be quite a handful. Tripathi left and Aranya revelled in her newfound power over the other students. The students had started filtering out. Awkward first conversations had grown into fulsome banters and groups of students made their way to the canteen, forging new friendships and enmities. Aranya did not move out. Instead, she corrected her notes, underlining important equations, dog-earing pages in her books before she forgot.
The boy was still in the class, picking at the wound in his palm, looking in her direction. Why was he looking?
Was he mocking her? Was he disgusted? By the time she finished colour coding her notes, the class was empty. The boy was still there, feet propped up on the desk, playing on his phone, little beeps filling the space around him, a murderous smirk on his face.
He looked up from his game. He was playing Temple Run with his phone held sideways. You lied to get that position. Or maybe the professor just pitied you for the way you look. I just wanted to point it out. Also, I heard about the little incident you had with the senior last evening. Were you making up for this? His eyes felt like spiders on her skin. Her ears burned. The bastard was smiling. It was tougher than she had imagined it would be and it was making her restless, even angry.
How could she not be better than him? She took little breaks to wipe the sweat off her palms, the tears off her face, and then breathed slowly and calmed herself down, and tried again.
Two more hours passed by. Her fingers had started to hurt by now. For the first time in eight years she missed a class. She took out her timetable. It was organic chemistry by Prof. Mitra, the dean of the college. She put a reminder on her phone to meet him in his staffroom, apologize profusely and tell him how big a fan she was of his work on—whatever the hell he did his PhD in.
She stretched her fingers. Her eyes were burning. Another hour passed by in a flash. She was hungry now. Another half an hour and the battery of her phone died. She left the cubicle and washed her face.
Let it go. I have better things to do. So just leave me alone. Dhruv kept his phone in his pocket, stood up, and stepped closer to her.
Calm down, Aranya. You called me ugly, and questioned my selection as the class representative. Not being good enough for anyone? But I feel I will get to know more of you as we spend more time together. You might remember playing a hand in expelling me from school by lying in front of the committee. Remember me? The boy whose mom left him? The last desk? Lunches shared together?
Your face tells me you do now. I was as shocked as you are. Debating, studies, scholarships, projects? Even TT? But what about your face? What will you do about that?
That will always be the first thing people look at. He had let her be for now but she knew, sooner or later, he would mess with her. Some seniors had tried to induct Dhruv into their groups, most of them rogue seniors who assumed Dhruv would be like them—a weed-smoking, chronic-masturbating, porn-loving, counter-strike champion, but Dhruv was yet to be infected with the responsibilities of keeping a friendship going.
It was too calm. The match in the parking lot of the hostel had ended with collar-grabbing and shouts of madarchod, madarchod. All of a sudden Dhruv heard the door of the roof being banged open and a tall, lanky boy stumbled out of the staircase. From the corner of his eye, Dhruv saw him peeing off the roof, one hand raised over his head waving a peace sign.
The boy started to sing an old Hindi song, grossly out of tune. Dhruv heard the voice coming towards him and he rolled his eyes readying himself for another drawling conversation, another attempt at an induction into a circle of dull men. The boy wobbled and sat next to Dhruv.
He started to talk, his voice a low slur. A dying art I must say. Where did you learn it? Gossip Girl? Pretty little liars? You look the type. Dhruv looked away. Very 80s but still very cool. Now fuck off. Your parents should have smacked you with a dictionary. And if you had the boobies, I would totally go for you. I love a girl with muscles. I can loan you some FBB porn.
You must try it. Do you not like the female form? Or do you feel emasculated in front of a beautiful, muscular woman who has bigger traps than yours?
The real question is, do you want to pee on the world? The juniors come together and prepare horribly synchronized dance routines, someone sings woefully out of tune, an unfunny fat person mimics professors, a boy in a gunjee does a solo dance performance ripped off from a Step Up movie without the dexterity or the awesomeness, etc.
She had cruised her way into the cultural fest organizing team, the IEEE, the debating team, and had turned out to be a professional ass-licker. Aranya was running the machinery with military-like discipline. Things were clearly tense. The group has only five girls now. This is our heritage. Who likes perfect people? This is not IIT. We are the fucking upholders of average! I thought you hated that girl. Grow some balls and help me screw this up!
So what do I do about it? As if that incident which scarred him for life had no bearing on hers. Dhruv had every reason to see her crumble to ash.
They were now sitting at the windowsill, looking inside. They have hired a choreographer this time. Just imagine everyone in sync. The choreographer, along with his girl partner, pirouetted effortlessly on the dance floor and expected the students to follow suit.
No one was spared from her caustic tongue. Move those feet! Do it like he does! Are you pregnant? Then why are you so scared in the lift? The boy will not drop you and kill your unborn child! Are you trying to get pregnant? Be sensuous, not vulgar.
Dhruv laughed at this and the voice carried to the inside of the dance room and everyone looked in his direction. But wait! I remember you being thrown out of the school because of it. And before you go into reminding me about that childish story of when we were eight. Can we do it again from the top, please? Sometimes he would understand. But usually he would say never and ask the counsellor to piss off.
But the girl he had refused to move on from had moved on. Dhruv walked around in circles, looking for something. He found the perfect rock, picked it up and aimed it at the glass window. The bitch deserved it. He swung his arm and aimed, but Sanchit stopped him midway.
I should do it. Let me have. Sanchit threw the rock and it went over, missing the target by a mile. The dance practice went on as planned. The professors were nodding appreciatively at the fine balance of fun and sensibility, the precision of the start and end times of the events, and the smell of the fresh bouquets in their hands.
The dance routine was in two parts, the first part was on the stage, pretty average mundane stuff, perfectly timed to bore people into a lull before the second group sprang up from the audience, a bit like a flash mob, and danced like their life depended on it. Mitra, the dean, who told her that he was proud of her. Mitra shrugged as if not wanting to answer. He was like the yeti or the Loch Ness monster—a legend.
Before she had joined DTU, she had thought he would be all over the place—lecturing, researching ground-breaking ideas, patenting stuff, being handsome—but he was turning out to be quite a recluse. Truth be told, ever since Aranya cleared the entrance, she had been waiting to meet Prof.
She even had cutouts of him in a physics book back in her hostel. She was a fan of his long flowing hair, the roundish spectacles he sported in all those newspaper clippings and his strikingly boyish looks. She had hired three professional bouncers to tackle anyone who misbehaved but she waved them down when they asked her if she wanted them to remove Sanchit. After the events were over, it was time to choose the Mister and Miss Fresher of the day.
The forms had been pored over by Prof. Mitra, a couple of unimportant professors and one fourthyear student. Aranya had initially wanted Prof. Raghuvir to be on the panel but he was unavailable. Ten girls and ten boys were asked to step up on the stage and answer questions before they could show off any particular talent.
Dhruv was the seventh. One slip and he would break her. She had maintained the facade of being unaffected around him. She had to maintain that. He had destroyed her life once. Mitra, mentally patting himself for his insightful questions. She felt her breath get stuck in her throat. I Love u Rachu 19 Dhruv took a few seconds to collect his thoughts.
Then he held the microphone close to his mouth and started to speak. Objectification of both men and women is rampant, be it in television, movies or books. Beauty is defined by shades on a plastic strip, for both women and men, and by inches on a tape. Is that what we have become?
Are we not the most conscious beings in the universe? Then why, I ask you, the boys and girls in the audience, then why, why would we always turn our heads when a gorgeous boy or a girl walks by, and not when a studious, ambitious, maybe averagelooking girl does? She had been looking at the projector lights, wishing them to crash on his head, but now she was listening to him.
If we were blind, we would have been better off for we could have seen things more clearly, for what they are. So are you. Suddenly he was Oprah.
Mitra clapped followed by the rest of the bench. Dhruv was still smiling at the crowd, and at the girls. Aranya stood there, confused, almost a little angry. Mitra to the panel, but the professors shook their heads.
She has worked really hard for it. Can we have a huge round of applause for her? The auditorium erupted. Aranya looked on, confused. We slaved for hours together to perfect my routine. Thank you, Aranya. A few boys in the crowd whistled, the professors nodded approvingly.
But Aranya knew that smile. That fucking smile. He motioned for the music to start. An orchestra with violins and pianos and cellos and saxophones started to blare out of the speakers. He threw the microphone on the side. Dhruv took a deep breath and started to sway his hips to the music. The lights went out. A spotlight shone on Dhruv, it split into two, red and green and revolved around him, as Dhruv gyrated.
Dhruv swayed his hips faster, his hands on his chest, slowly and seductively slipping down, and he tugged at his shirt and pulled it out. He came to the edge of the stage and winked at the crowd and slowly started to unbutton his shirt. Now, he was looking at Aranya who stood frozen. Three more buttons were unbuttoned and he ripped his shirt off.
The music reached a crescendo. He was stripping. No doubt about it now. It was a goddamn striptease. People gasped. The professors were too stunned to react. Dhruv jumped into the crowd, shirtless, and started twerking and grinding like Beyonce on steroids. He grabbed his crotch and thrust his pelvis rhythmically towards the crowd. Well, at least partly. Aranya felt bolted to the floor. Mitra, the laughing guys, the gasping girls, were one homogeneous mix in her ears, and while she was falling to the ground she saw him shirtless and laughing in his red printed boxers, the three bouncers tackling him and punching him in his face.
Her eyes shut, thinking of his murderous smile, his bare torso and Prof. Sanchit had offered him a metaphorical blowjob whenever he was in need of one and a spare Tshirt.
Dhruv inspected the bruises on his stomach. Any other day he would have taken them, but they came from behind, and he was distracted by the white-faced Aranya. I think I heard women come in the crowd. Oh her! The thumps of bass from the speakers started to filter through to the washroom. They left the washroom and walked towards the amphitheatre where the DJ was playing pirated CDs of bygone hits. Most of the students were sitting on the topmost stairs of the amphitheatre.
As Dhruv trained his eyes he saw a handful of students dancing out of tune. Sanchit was a masterful bartender but a lousy drunk. They walked back, their feet unsteady, Sanchit struggling to light his cigarette, the lights of the auditorium piercing their pupils. I need to sit. I need to walk. Hold my hand. It will be like Sylvester Stallone and Arnold after a long drunk night.
Dhruv walked towards the crowd, leaving behind Sanchit, who walked unsteadily, still trying to light his cigarette. The girls, a few of them drunk, were dancing without caution now, their facial hair and unchecked sideburns glistening with sweat.
The boys looked around themselves to copy steps from each other, big, wet patches on their shirt underarms making them extremely desirable. Dhruv closed his eyes, forced himself to think that the music played by DJ Raju —a twenty-year-old boy with brown streaked hair and betel stains on his teeth —was still relevant and there was no harm in dancing to Katie Perry.
He started to dance alone with his eyes closed and his arms in the air; he was never a good dancer but who gave a damn. The man sat next to her. What he carried in his right hand was a curiously shaped bottle, Vodka she guessed, and two plastic glasses and orange juice in a tetrapack in the left.
He looked straight ahead at the students dancing, the strobe lights, the eager young men and the shy young women, the madness. He poured what looked like a lot of vodka in one and kept it aside. He filled the next with orange juice and offered it to Aranya who readily accepted it. Having now recognized the man, she was finding it tough to not fling herself in his direction. Aranya hyperventilated. She smiled like a silly schoolgirl.
He was handsomer than the pictures in the newspapers. At once she was jealous of all the female reporters who got him to pose. There was something very Christian Grey about him. Like a young, toned-down, sane, cute, not a psychopath, Christian Grey. Raghuvir asked and whipped out a cigarette.
Not like a boy, but a man, experience and habit reflecting in his jagged, swift moves. He could kill a puppy right now and still look gorgeous. Accidents happen. He was an asshole. Forget about it. Snippets of information about Dr Raghuvir bounced about in her frenzied brain.
All named after him. Filed eighteen patents. Filed thirtythree patents. And it had been nine years since then. His reputation in the scientific community had been of a self-aware prick. He knew he would change the world. If he thought he was right about something, he would obsessively bulldoze others with his theories, deride them, question them and make them believe in him. He was a temperamental, obsessive, control freak, manic genius— like all geniuses should be, the stuff legends are made of.
During the latter days of his illustrious career as a young path-breaking researcher it was speculated that he became a bit of a philanderer, stumbling from one relationship to another, ending up an emotional wreck.
When these relationships ended Raghuvir was often found blaming a lack of common ground for the failure. A less talented man would have made a fool of himself but not Raghuvir; he had the choicest quips for anyone who still doubted his abilities.
Slowly, he had snuck out of limelight. My room is on the first floor and you can come over. Shall we go? He still looked like a PhD student who lives in the next building, a bit nerdy yet unobtrusively good-looking. His slightly longish hair flopped around his head and he sported a three-day-old stubble.
He had these big black pools for eyes which no contact lenses could dull. To Aranya they were huge, like portals to another world of love, puppies and rainbows and supercomputers. Aranya frowned. He picked up the bottle of vodka from the floor. Hope you had a good night. As per directions from the dean, girls are supposed to go back to their hostels and sign the register!
Everyone swore and threw empty plastic cups at him. He found Sanchit bent over a hedge at a distance, throwing up his intestines, rubbing his mouth clean and repeating. The music stopped, the lights went out, the party dispersed and students walked back to their hostels, their shirts and dresses drenched in sweat, smelling like horse pee.
Facebook posts went up immediately, grammatically incorrect sentences suffixed with emoticons were tweeted, pictures were Instagrammed with sepia tones and hashtags: The roads of the college were deserted. The students were in their beds, sweating under creaky fans, checking the likes and hearts on their photos.
Dhruv walked around, his hands deep in his pockets, kicking an empty Budweiser bottle. He had just turned a corner when he heard someone vomiting behind a parked car. On the other side of an old Honda City he saw a girl, dressed in a little yellow floral dress held in place by thin straps, her knees scraped and muddy, her hair in tangles and her make-up all smudged. Dhruv did as asked and held her hair in a bunch while the girl grunted like a hyena while she tried to vomit.
At one point Dhruv saw her thrusting a finger inside her food pipe and try again. Quite classy. She was barely 5'4" but she had a flat stomach and very taut quads. The girl fetched a little sealed bottle of water from her pretty-looking handbag and rinsed her mouth.
She sanitized her hand. I just had a little too much to eat tonight. Had to flush that out of the system. You know what I mean, right? But thank you and see you around. Dhruv bowed and turned away from her. Dhruv turned. Every time he closed his eyes, his world started to spin and it felt like he was falling.
He ran and got a pair of binoculars from his room. It was one of the many gifts his mother had sent him over the last eight years, one he had kept but never used. How would she know what he wants? So she sent him a different gift every year. Our team will inform you by email when Download-free-The-Boy..
Download Durjoy Datta Books Pdf Free Summary Of : download durjoy datta books pdf free bookchums is indias largest collection of ebooks book reviews free ebooks and.. Find and save ideas about Durjoy datta on Pinterest.
Where can i download all Durjoy Datta books in pdf for free? To find more books about durjoy datta pdf download,.. Click link bellow and free register to download. Please click button to get durjoy datta novel pdf download book now.Loved the ending. She already worries about me a lot. Loser boy, beautiful, cheesy girl, they fall in love, a couple of funny scenes, a few intimate conversations, a tragedy and all is well that ends well.
I have been calling you since forever. Dhruv ignored him and revved the bike harder almost knocking Sanchit over who clung to him afterwards.
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