Durjoy datta pdf books download

Durjoy datta pdf books download

Hold my hand durjoy datta,Details about Of Course I Love You Durjoy Datta pdf download

Below is a list of all-time favourite Durjoy Datta pdf books collected from various for reading online free Search Genres Fiction ( Books) Erotica ( Books) Romance ( Books) Durjoy Datta Novel Pdf Free Download Talk to an Admission Officer The first novel in the bestselling Takshila Series, A durjoy datta books is a story of three young Indian students Of Course I Love You Durjoy Datta pdf file was added to this website on about 8 months ago and this pdf file is about KiloByte (KB) in size. This document roughly have Durjoy Datta Author () If It's Not Forever Durjoy Datta Author () Till the Last Breath Durjoy Datta Author () The World's Best Boyfriend Durjoy Datta Author () You Hold my hand durjoy datta. P. Spaciointerior. Full PDF Package. This Paper. A short summary of this paper. 1 Full PDF related to this paper. Read Paper ... read more

The handlebar of the gate that leads me inside the library has a notific- ation over it: This handle is disinfected six times a day. The library has eight floors that are open to the public. Eight floors, I say to myself. I am Alice, and this is my wonderland! There is pin-drop silence. Little computers, little desks, little wooden chairs, and on them are little kids with headphones bigger than their faces wrapped around their ears; they are cuter than the word cute itself. I feel like a giant intruding their space. There is a playroom with a plastic tree and plastic-treeissuing table and small kids with round faces are jumping around as delighted parents watch.

There are more disinfectant stations; they make me feel dirty. The next floor has the adult lending library, which houses racks upon racks of books about literat- ure, history, sciences, architecture etc. I put my laptop bag on a table, deciding that I would savour the library a floor at a time, one layer at a time. They range from History of the World to History of Hong Kong to sports and politics. There is even an oversized version of The Catcher in the Rye. It reminds me of the first time I read it, it reminds me of home, of Dad, and of Mom. But he whines and I am not whining, for I am imagining myself not mov- ing out of this library for a really long time.

I spend the next six hours at the library. It only takes me seconds to reach the thirty-third floor from the ground-floor lobby. Hotel food can be trusted, I say to myself, more so because the guy at the front desk understood me earlier. The lift lobby has eight elevators and a lot of mirrors. I presume people like to look their best before they board a lift. A lift farthest to my right opens and I run before it snaps close. I press the button to my floor and start counting seconds. Her hair, brown and golden and with big, wavy curls, falling all over face, reaches down to her shoulders. Maybe she went to India for spiritual purposes after having too much of the Black Eyed Peas or something. In her presence, I feel rather inadequate and insufficient. I also feel kind of breathless. The seconds slow down further. The button of my floor is still glowing. She is also going to my floor! Suddenly, I am a mush, a pile of nerves and muscles, and I am sweating.

I get my shit together and concentrate on exiting the lift without tripping over anything and getting my face busted open. The lift doors open and I walk out, forcing myself not to look back. I hear the shuffling of feet be- hind me, all the way to my room, and after a few seconds, I can hear another door unlock and then lock again. Back in the room, I call up Mom again and she asks me if I have eaten anything and makes a major fuss when I tell her the truth. Dad asks me to go down and have something right away. The bluish green eyes! I take a seat close to the window, away from everyone else and watch the cars zip past on the flyover which is only about four arms away from me.

I order a ramen soup, because it has chicken and eggs and noodles in it and I can almost eat the picture printed on the menu. I start reading Maharani by Ruskin Bond, the unchallenged maharaja of short stories; but this is a novella which charts the life of a prodigal yet charming queen, and her rela- tionship with Ruskin Bond. It retains the charm of his magical short stories that I have grown up reading. The bowl of soup and ramen and chicken arrives, with two chop- sticks by its side, and a soup spoon—no forks. After a careful examination of the people sitting around me, I hold the chopsticks and snap them like the claws of a crab as I try to grab hold of a bunch of noodles.

My grip loosens and I drop the chopsticks into the bowl. The second and third attempts yield the same result. A three-year-old sitting at a table to my left is using chopsticks like Samurai swords, very disheartening. I am really hungry now, almost salivating like a rabid dog into the bowl. Finally on my fourth at- tempt I manage to wrap around my chopstick, a never-ending noodle and somehow slurp at it long enough for it to reach inside my mouth. I chomp on a piece of chicken, and momentarily, I am in heaven. I hear someone giggling. Damn it. So much for being invisible. My eyes dart from left to right, scanning the place like an MI6 agent, looking for the one who giggled, so that I could eventually, well, do nothing with that information. And then I see her sitting with earphones dug deep into her ears, three tables away from me, look- ing straight ahead and not at me, but still giggling. She has a coffee cup in front of her, which she takes sips from once in a while, without looking at it.

I get back to my reading and finish the last few pages of the book. I am getting better at using chopsticks, snapping them like a blindfolded ninja catching pieces of chicken mid-air. After I am done, the waiter gets me the bill and I sign it. The girl is still sitting there bobbing her head to the mu- sic, occasionally sipping her coffee, looking in no specific direction. I ask for the bill again, sign it and run towards the lobby. People are looking. I al- ways think people are looking, even when I know they are not. I find her standing in the lift lobby.

The lift reaches the ground floor and I am still running to get there. Just before the golden gates close, I slip my hand in and the doors retract. I look at her in the reflection again. I am staring at her on the polished doors of the elevator. But I am a Bengali. How do you know? I walk ahead of her as she bides her time. Not looking back, I walk to my room, wait for the door of her room to be unlocked and locked again, and only then do I enter the room, fall flat on the bed and think about her wavy hair, her whisky voice and the accent, slightly Indian, slightly alien.

I doze off on the bed too large for me thinking about her. I smell old. when I wake up. I am hungry again, I guess because I have nothing else to do. Gath- ering up the shreds of courage and self-respect that I am left with, I fire up my laptop and close my eyes and wait for the words to come to me. There are only three things that come to my mind. I am already contradicting the points I am sure about and 4. I am never going to write the book and 5. I said I had only three things in my mind. Three hours of staring at a blank screen yields one paragraph, no more, no less, about a hundred words. They were on the elevator to the top of the hotel, and he could see them, the girl and him, riding together into the sun, like the elevator of the chocolate factory that broke right through the building and floated into the yellowness, the yellowness of the sun, the yellowness of Hong Kong. Hong Kong. I read and re-read my sentences, and then I sleep like a child.

Am I cool or what! But you need to go to the office once. Ritik, my colleague, will see you there. He will tell you what sort of work we do at ATS, Hong Kong. The thought of using public transport petrifies me. So alone. After confirming the address at the front desk, I leave the hotel, where every employee smiles at me, their eyes disappearing in happiness and crinkles of their skin. The subway station is a ten-minute walk. The roads are still crowded with people, dressed far better than I am. As I get into the subway, I notice that the entire population is on touch devices, tabs and iPhones and iPods, and when I say entire, I mean the word literally. A series of long, winding escalators take me down to the Customer Service window where I buy an all-day pass for tourists, just in case I feel brave enough to act like one.

The ATS office is on the thirty-fourth, thirty-fifth and thirty-sixth floors of the building, and I set a new record. Ritik is waiting for me near the reception. For years I have been looking for a repartee to when people call me tall but I have not come up with one yet. So for now, I just keep staring at the top of his head listlessly. Have you been to our office in Bangalore? He shows me around the three floors of the office, walking swiftly between cubicles, waving to people who are peering into fancy computers with two screens. And contrary to what I had expected, the Indian representation here is pretty low. I heard you have a mail with instructions to go by? Attached to it are sparkly Skull Candy headphones. I hand over the printout to him, he reads it, looks at me and starts to laugh. Let me tell you something.

I will find you a computer and send you a demo of the cataloguing software we have developed here. You can test it out. Tell me if you can find ways to improve it. I already have a report on the software. I will mail it to you and you can make some changes and submit it. No biggie. To let you in on a secret, the software is fucked up right now. The HR department wants to catch talent young. So just relax and enjoy your holiday. I will get my wife along. Sounds like a plan? Just ask anyone. They will tell you where it is. Sharp at nine. He finds me a laptop and then leaves. I test out the cataloguing software demo. I make a list of my observations and mail it to Ritik who asks me to slow- down-in-life-man-and-playsome-Counter-Strike. Instead, I download the document with the first paragraph I have ever written.

I brace myself for a few hours of excruciating depression as I start typing again. I have managed another paragraph and with this I have the license to read my words in print. I spend the entire time on my way back, from the subway to my hotel, reading the words on the pa- per. Soon they lose meaning and disinterest me, and I think of twenty different things I can add to the text, and it all seems wrong, but they are still my words, my key to immortality. Tired, he went to his room and slept, memories from earlier that day clouding his mind. My bed seems extremely inviting as I struggle to open my eyes. I notice a tiny red light flashing on the landline.

THERE IS AN OUTLET THAT SELLS WRAPS AND STUFF. NINE, NINE OKAY! The phone starts to ring just then. Where have you been? I called you in the morning, shona, and no one picked up. Your fath- er and I have been worried sick. Are you okay? I went to the office. I might go out tonight with colleagues. But it must be after six there! My curfew in New Delhi is 6 p. I tell her about the allowance I had learned about earlier and ask her if she needs anything from Hong Kong. It seems like ages since I have been home; I have even started missing helping out in the kitchen. I disconnect the call. The shirt issue strikes me again! I used my best shirt this morning, so I pick the second best hoping Ritik and his wife would be too drunk to notice the shirt. Or me. I need to buy a shirt soon—I make a mental note.

The sky is cloaked with buildings and sign- boards, and they are awash with lights. The sun never sets here. The subway is as crowded as it was in the morning, and if it is possible, the people are even better dressed than in the morning. I take a taxi and look out of the window to see men and women, dressed in suits and Little Black Dresses which I think are Too Little , disappearing into clubs. I am positive I would be mistaken for a cleaner and handed a mop. Back to my senses, I start looking for Ritik again; unknown people with drinks in their hands raise their glasses and wish me the best night ahead as I pass them. The streets are my kryptonite: bars with women, lots of women! You made it! What up? A delightfully short woman waves at me. Look how cute she is! We shake hands. Then she turns away from me and joins her group of women.

They all start talking loudly in what could be Korean, Chinese, or Vietnamese. He laughs. So I took classes and now I know exactly what her relatives say about me and let me tell you, they love me like crazy! Let me show Deep around. You like it? We walk gingerly through the streets, which are now teeming with even more people, all of them about my age but infinitely better-looking, many of them screaming and dancing like the world is ending in a couple of hours. Crowds have spilled over from the clubs and bars onto the streets. It looks like I have stepped onto the sets of a Step Up sequel. I think he has just burned one of my eye- brows.

The group of girls with Connie, his Chinese wife, are wreaking havoc on the dance floor. And then Connie walks towards us with her legion of genetically engineered dancer friends. Come drink! Half an hour later, I am pretty bent, like, really bent. I remember myself—flailing legs trying to kill someone, and Connie laughing and telling me that I dance like a fish out of water, that I flap my limbs like a headless chicken. I re- member Ritik helping me up on a bar stool after my dance moves were deemed a threat to public safety in general. The bartender is serving drinks at a frantic pace; there is literally no place to stand. Connie, her friends and Ritik are still dancing. Ritik is as bad a dancer as I am. She is definitely the girl from the lift, the girl from the first two paragraphs from my book, the pocket-sized hippy. She is sitting on the bar stool next to me, legs swinging, smiling to herself.

My throat closed up. Our legs are touching under the bar table and I am frightfully aware of it. Between me and my speech hangs her beautiful face like a cloak, blocking my words. She sips her coffee. She smells like hotel room shampoo and strawberries and fresh lilies like she does. Coffee is better. Although my dad differs. I have heard we have a huge bar at our house in India. She licks her lips. I feel so good about myself whenever I can pronounce it correctly. It sort of sucks. Now, I have my dad and a stick. I miss my dog though. He always smelled so terrible. Like you have developed a supernose? I must be the worst blind person ever. Her blind eyes are angry. He feels they will make me feel bad about myself. It was so interesting! Anyone would guess that her eyes—an extension of her face, beauti- ful and expressive—still work. The book is so much better! I look around.

It takes me two degree scans to spot the only mid-forties guy around. His arms are bulging out of his T-shirt, the nerves of his biceps are visible under his skin. I think your dad is looking at me. He forced me to come to this club. Is he smiling? She takes out a ten-dollar bill from her pocket but the bartender refuses it. For the beau- tiful birthday girl! But thank you. I will go on my own then. On my eighteenth birthday I emptied bottles of Chivas Regal like it was water and danced till it was noon of the next day. Deep says your muscularity makes him nervous. I hate his perfectness. I will go hide myself some place. Her dad reaches for her hand and kisses it. We are sitting on the pavement. The dancing, the music, the drunken theatrics, the excessive hugging is on like it just started; the party also looks like it has just started. There appears to be a carnival on the streets.

Do you see him? maybe dance? Excuse me! We are bang in the middle of a scene from Grease. And just like that, my hands are on her waist. And just then the clock strikes twelve. Is the word gender-spe- cific? He thanks me, and whisks her away. I catch a cab and go back to my hotel, ride the lift alone and go to bed. I ask him if I have to come to office again, and he says no one cares, and then laughs and disconnects the call. I have just one shirt left. I tell myself. She just knows I smell old, so I shower like a POW coming back home after a decade.

But people do smell. I empty another bottle of bathing gel. Then I find out that the breakfast is complimentary. The smell is raw and fresh, yet the open flames are blazing. I fill up a bowl with shrimps, ramen and chicken, and it smells delicious. You smell of seafood today! A piece of chicken slips from the chopsticks and falls into the bowl, and splatters. Today Dad insisted we eat here. He must have known that you eat here. But I think he likes you. So blind-person-insensitive. I drop my chopsticks too and use the fork instead. I see her Dad sitting a few tables away, talking animatedly to two men—all of them are dressed in dark suits and shiny shoes.

Looks like a Secret Service meeting to me. And I told you he likes you. Its been years since I have had the imponderable joy of seeing a man die. Are you sure you will be okay? Deep, do you have somewhere to be today? Stop it! I will be fine. I was just saying that you need to treat him on your birthday. If you have anything else to do, you can. She can celebrate her birthday on her own. He leaves with his friends from the Secret Service and I breathe easy. She knocks over a bottle of Ta- basco sauce. We ride the elevator together. She unlocks her room and I let her hand go and stand at the entrance. She enters. You do have a superhuman imagination. I asked him. There are no spare parts to replace me in my family. Vases lie broken on the floor, there are pillows torn open, and lamps lie upturned on the floor. Her room is huge. She refuses but I insist and walk her to the piano. She asks me to sit next to her on the piano stool and I do so.

I can feel her close to me and I find it difficult to breathe. Okay, what can I play for you? She plays a medley of old Hindi songs, and I recognize the tunes from the tapes of my dad, who is a great fan of old Hindi instrumentals. She gets up, our bodies no longer touching, and I breathe easy. It was concert-level great. We are like little circus puppies. The littlest thing we do people go like, hey, did you look at that, it can stand and sit. We are silent. She keeps thinking of something and smiles, throwing her hair back, which is about six million shades of brown right now. Neither did I know I would be picking out clothes for her.

He shuffles through fashion magazines and tells me the colour. If I sell it off I will have enough to put in a bank in Switzerland. I think I found a T-shirt! I can smell it. No offence. She takes a shower and changes. You need to give me a treat! She takes her cane out and starts tapping it in front of her. She holds me with her other hand. People part in front of us, staying clear of her cane—they all look. They are all looking. People are looking at her, and me, their face contorting in pity, or maybe in relief that they are not like her. And that she is my favourite person in the world! I calm down when I see people helping us out, and smiling, and giving us the right of way in lifts and escalators and pathways. We find ourselves a seat on the Metro and she folds her cane and keeps it in her handbag. And to figure out where we are going. Man Mo temple. Why a temple? The names of streets are straight out of a Hollywood movie, sprinkled with liberal dosages of age-old oriental kung-fu.

No wonder you would find an Indonesi- an and a French restaurant jostling for space between an authentic Chinese medicinal tea outlet and a street food stall selling the famed Hong Kong waffle and lobster balls and preserved eggs. Soon we are down and on the street. Our task—to visit a two-hundred—year-old temple hidden in the recesses of the all-pervasive high-rises. She tells the driver to take us to the Man Mo temple. I can get used to this. You read so many of them, so I thought you would want, some time in life, to write one yourself.

The little red and golden temple with sloping green roofs on which small dragons are perched or hanging precariously, is nestled on a street surrounded by much newer buildings. Both your gods are here. She follows close behind, holding my hand, yet gauging the steps. It smells paradisiacal. There are giant incense coils that are hanging from the ceiling, burning away slowly. So many! They are hanging everywhere! There are also golden urns in which incense sticks are stuck, some as thick as my arm. Do you want to light some? We buy a few incense sticks, the ones as thick as my arm, and light them in an open fire. A woman tells her that every stick has to be lighted before it can be offered to the gods. They kind of look angry. Periodically, they throw two semi-circular wooden pieces in front of them. I tell Ahana what they are doing and Ahana asks one of the women. The wooden pieces are dice and they tell you if your wish would come true or not.

I hand her back the pieces. I try it too and it turns out to be a no; I stop trying. She looks in my direction with her saddened eyes. You ask for something, the pieces say no, you buy more incense sticks and beg him to turn it into a yes, and the cycle goes on. I have held hands with a girl before, but it feels different. I really like explaining things to her. It feels like the only thing I have ever done that matters. We idle along the Hollywood Road and I describe to her the buildings whose grandiose designs are interestingly colonial, one of which—as I later learn is the old Hong Kong police headquarters—is marked as a heritage site on my map.

Later, we walk to a restaurant that serves Korean food, and she tells me she loves Korean food and how it smells. I read out from the menu and she orders for both of us. The food arrives and I have to give it to her that it tastes pretty good. We walk out of the restaurant and I thank her for paying and she tries to slap me but misses. She nods, and when I ask if we are going back to the hotel, she shakes her head and tells me that she needs me to do something for her. The word need never felt so powerful before. And not girl funny. Of Course I Love You Durjoy Datta Author The Girl of My Dreams, Part 13 The Girl of My Dreams Series Durjoy Datta Author Wish I Could Tell You Durjoy Datta Author When I Am with You Durjoy Datta Author The Girl of My Dreams, Part 1 The Girl of My Dreams Series Durjoy Datta Author Our Impossible Love, Part 6 Our Impossible Love Series Durjoy Datta Author The Girl of My Dreams, Part 17 The Girl of My Dreams Series Durjoy Datta Author She Broke Up, I Didn't Durjoy Datta Author The Girl of My Dreams, Part 9 The Girl of My Dreams Series Durjoy Datta Author Till the Last Breath.

Part 1 Durjoy Datta Author Part 3 Durjoy Datta Author The Girl of My Dreams, Part 12 The Girl of My Dreams Series Durjoy Datta Author Our Impossible Love, Part 10 Our Impossible Love Series Durjoy Datta Author Ohh Yes, I'm Single Durjoy Datta Author Part 8 Durjoy Datta Author Our Impossible Love, Part 15 Our Impossible Love Series Durjoy Datta Author They are still alive? She knew he was yet to make any sense of it. But he had a hunch about what Pihu had. Nothing major. Pihu smiled back at him. Does he know? Why is he smiling? She is a medical student, you know. Lots of pressure, big books, late nights, you know?

She is a brilliant student, topped the region in her board examinations. She wants to be a surgeon. The doctor nodded approvingly. I am dying. It took the doctor three hours, a battery of tests and consultations with other doctors to come to the conclusion Pihu had reached days before. She had noticed the expressions of shock on their faces while her doctor discussed the case with other doctors in her presence. Some of them even called their counterparts in other hospitals for a second opinion. She felt sorry for the doctor, too. Why should he be a part of the gloom that was about to engulf her family? First year, Maulana Azad. I did the tests myself.

I know there is no genetic history. I know there is no cure. I know that I am slowly dying. I could be gone this year or the next. But I will die eventually. I have read all there is to read about the disease. I will not be able to eat on my own, go to the bathroom or even breathe. It looked like it could never happen to her. As she finally described her own death to the doctor, she came to terms with it. The news finally sank in. In that moment, all her dreams, her aspirations, her visions of herself as a doctor melted away and the morose faces of her parents stared back at her. Her eyes glazed over and she resolved to not weep. There is some mistake! I have done nothing to deserve this. I am perfectly healthy! Her heart cried out loud. They will give me a few months more. A few days more of breathing on my own. I have read all about it. She had to be ready for what was coming next. ALS is a cruel disease. It starts with the patient becoming clumsy. You drop things, get tired easily, and the sensations in your limbs keep getting dimmer till paralysis sets in.

You will be on crutches … before the wheelchair comes in. You will be paralysed and bedridden. There will be tubes running in and out of your body to help you eat, breathe and defecate. Machines will keep you alive. I can give you some books you can read about people who have fought the disease. She tried to stifle her sobs the best she could. Never had she thought her parents would outlive her. What greater misfortune can there be for a parent? She is seven. Pihu wondered if he was praying for them to be wrong. She wondered how many death sentences the forty-year-old man had given before hers. The watery eyes of the doctor told her that he was still not used to it. Pihu took one too.

The wails of her mother and silent groans of her father already resonated in her head and she felt dizzy. Their faces fell as if they knew what the middle-aged doctor was about to tell them. She went and sat next to her mom and held her hand. The doctor started to explain. The world blocked out. Her mind was blank. The denial of her parents, their shouts, their screams, their accusations against the incompetent doctor and the irresponsible hospital, their claims of their daughter being perfectly healthy —nothing registered in her brain.

She had just one image seared on her retina. She was going to die, motionless on a hospital bed with a tube cut into her throat. The news of Dushyant lying unconscious for three days had just reached her. When they were dating, she was used to going to the hospital, picking him up and cleaning up his shit. But the last such call was two years back. Today, she had suppressed the impulse to drop everything and visit him. Do I want to see him? Two years had passed since the last time they had talked. Kajal dialled the number. Can I talk to the doctor of a patient admitted there? The name is Dushyant Roy. The waiting sound piped up.

This is Zarah Mirza. It was none other than the swearing, belligerent, infamous, drunkard of a senior with a penchant for getting into trouble—Dushyant Roy. Forever began on the day Kajal was sitting idly in the library, looking blankly outside the window … Kajal looked at the open grounds of Delhi Technological University and felt disconnected. Two years had passed since she had started studying electronics engineering and felt more disillusioned with every day that passed. While many had resigned themselves to their fate as engineers for life, Kajal still believed she would be something more. At least she hoped. People with money can always do that— hope, change careers, do crazy expensive things, and call themselves travellers after buying travel packages to posh European countries and staying in beautiful resorts. Though Kajal had never been that type; she was just directionless. Her latest direction was to turn to writing. She had always been a voracious reader.

Naipaul, she had read it all. She picked out a corner in the library and started to read from the page she had folded the day before. It was the latest book by Nicholas Sparks. She turned around to see the guy who had been following her around college for the last few days, standing just over her shoulder. Her first feeling was of revulsion. She imagined an Indian Vin Diesel. Not her type; she liked leaner men. Like Edward Norton. Like Imran Khan. Maybe a little darker. Kajal hesitated and he took the seat before she could respond to the question. Rude, she thought. She liked that. The girl dies and everyone cries. All his books are the same book. She started reading, mindlessly. She forgot which paragraph she was on.

That is why I read all of them. Well, initially I just read one because I saw you reading it and thought we would have something to talk about. He nodded approvingly. Dushyant had always been more interested in books that took him beyond the realm of the obvious. A memoir of a serial killer. An out-of-print trilogy about a deranged doctor. And more. Her eyes roved around nervously as an uneasy silence hung between them. He looked sturdy, the veins in his forearms were consistently thick and they disappeared inside his Tshirt, which fit him snuggly. He was undeniably muscular. He could have shaved, at least! He retracted it, blushing. She could tell he was nervous. His legs shook. Kajal started reading again. The same paragraph, over and over. Dushyant sat there looking at her, and at his palms, rubbing them together, looking here and there, shifting his feet and fidgeting with his phone. Or … really sweet?

Dushyant had turned beetroot red. Instead, he gazed at his own weathered palms. He looked vulnerable, embarrassed and needy. Maybe even a little high. Kajal let a little smile slip. Dushyant caught that and blushed a little more. Two years? Dushyant smiled, and his eyes lit up like the fourth of July. Quite frankly, his choice in books scared her. They dated for eight months. They had come a long way from the time they had first met in the library and had talked about books, his waning obsession with weight training, her growing dissatisfaction with her career choice, his problems with his parents, her loving sisters, and last but not the least, his enduring fixation with her. Dushyant was never the perfect boyfriend. Her friends hated him with all their heart, but not as much as her sisters. One could imagine a news presenter for an idea of what she looked like.

Her clothes, understated, were always perfectly matched. She aimed to soothe. Her fair skin, the defined nose and the confident walk meant business. Dushyant was abrasive. He was quarrelsome. He was possessive. It took Kajal one month to realize that Dushyant was beyond obsessive, almost to the point of being schizophrenic. He drank too much, he smoked too much, and he loved her too much. He had waited two years to tell her he loved her. He swore he would spend a lifetime doing it. Sometimes, it was sweet. It looked to her like he cared; on other occasions, she was scared. Not scared that they would break up and never see each other again, but scared of what he would do to her. At first, Kajal used to like the little tabs Dushyant kept on her. He used to get jealous at the mention of her ex-boyfriends, fume at her for spending more time with her friends, chide her for staying out till late, and ask her to not to drink in his absence. Kajal found it thoughtful. Dushyant made her feel wanted.

He never let go of her hand, hugged her whenever she needed it, and made love to her like no one else had. Kajal felt like she was enveloped in a protective bubble wrap, something that would absorb anything with the potential to harm her. But soon, the bubble wrap would become suffocating. Kajal loved Dushyant with whatever she had. When they lay on the open grounds of their college late in the evening, his rough, gym-scarred fingers wrapped around hers, she felt complete. As evenings turned into nights, nights into days, and days back into evenings, their love for each other grew. Dushyant always said Kajal had none. Kajal always smiled, even when she felt pushed to the edge by her control-freak boyfriend. He had done that many times since the first occasion, but Kajal still felt the chills run down her spine like the first time. But he was the one she would remember forever; she was sure of that. His touch, the things he said in her ear whenever they were in the back alley of the dark library, the lingering feeling of his hands on her bare stomach, his loving fingers on her creamy inner thighs, the wet, gentle touch of his tongue on her ears … she would never get over them.

The conviction in his voice was very unsettling; it often made her wonder what would happen if, God forbid, they ever broke up. It will take time. Kajal never liked to talk about his drinking problem. She loved him, so she had to. But she had had enough. The steroids he took as bodybuilding supplements, the marijuana, the never-ending cigarettes … his addictions kept piling up. I hope you understand that. I have nothing to gain out of restricting you from your addictions. I will stop smoking. I am addicted to my cigarettes. It sounds fair to me. I have never pointed my finger at that. I never call her anyway. But you do call Varun. There are times you put my call on hold to pick up his. Sometimes you talk till the dead of night or early morning. What do I make of all this? If you need more friends, why not someone else?

Why do you have to be friends with your ex-boyfriend, of all people? I have told you a million times that there is nothing between us. She thought about all the times Dushyant had got drunk and harped on about how he hated Varun with every cell in his body. Kajal knew he did. He is a friend. How can I just stop talking to him? He dumped you. He was dating someone else while he was still dating you. How could he do that to you? The movie ended and they exited the movie hall. You spent days crying for him. I felt alone and lonely. Not because I missed him as a boyfriend but because I missed him as a friend.

I had no one to go to. How does that work? You have a boyfriend. The waiter promptly rushed towards them and Dushyant swatted him away rudely. The shocked waiter lingered on. Believe me. He is just a friend. I love you and nothing changes that. I am fine. You talk to him, you sleep with him. The rest of the evening, he was rude to her. Dushyant was rough with her that night. There were no intermittent, passionate love-yous exchanged during the course. There were just grunts and groans. It was almost like he wanted to hurt her physically. Kajal hoped he would be okay the next day, but it only became worse. The next evening, Dushyant was drunk out of his wits again. Old Monk. Chivas Regal. Nail-polish remover. I will never quit drinking or smoking! He had passed out and was frothing at the mouth. Kajal filled out the paperwork in the hospital the next day and got him back to the hostel.

Within that month, it happened thrice. Each subsequent time, it was worse. By now, Kajal was used to his druken tantrums. The abuses, the name-calling, the threats—she had become used to everything. It was the price for true love, she told herself. She vowed she would never go back to him. Kajal lay with her head on the pillow, her thoughts going back to every time Dushyant had said they would last and that he would never hurt her. She believed in him. It was all lies. The memories of the day they had broken up were imprinted on her brain, and she knew she would never forget what had happened.

He had not reacted at first. But as the night progressed, he started to get drunk. And angry. Shot after shot was downed. His eyes were bloodshot. Later that night, after an argument, he had struck Kajal on her face while he cried and howled like an animal. Everyone, friends of both Dushyant and Kajal, had watched helplessly as she fell and hit the chair, reeling from the impact of his heavy hand on her face. He had locked himself in a room. All his friends had banged on the door relentlessly, scared that he might overdose inside. Kajal had pleaded with him to open the door. He had let her inside. There were no words exchanged. For the first time, Dushyant had forced himself on her. He had treated her worse than a whore and violated her repeatedly. Once done, he had rolled over, drunk from the bottle of vodka, and passed out.

A crying Kajal had left the flat and gone back home. She had texted Dushyant telling him they were over and he was dead to her. For the next six days, he had kept calling her. Her decision to stay away from him had strengthened. Tired and angry, she had told him that she had never loved him and that she was thinking of getting back with Varun. The calls had stopped immediately. Again, she had no one to talk to. Long time. Where have you been? I dropped you about a million texts. I never liked him either. That narrowminded bastard. No boyfriend likes the exboyfriends of their girls. He is immature and hot-tempered. Kajal choked on her words. That bastard! How could he? What else did he do? He texted her to ask whether she was at her college hostel or home.

A little voice inside her wanted to ask Varun to stay away, but it was silenced by the tears that trickled down her face. Kajal needed her best friend. Her pale-white skin still bore the marks of his rough hand. She saw Varun park his car in the parking lot of the Defence Colony market. Varun belonged to a family with means. His father owned one of the biggest printing presses in Delhi. Varun had transformed a lala-type family business into a seething, angry corporate giant. He was ambitious and cut-throat. He worked eighteen hours a day, travelled extensively for business and took his work very seriously. Kajal liked that in him, but it was also the root of discord between them.

The meetings, the late-night flights, the investor presentations, the bank-loan agreements— between all this, he never had time for Kajal. For the major part of their relationship, Kajal was too awestruck to notice his absolute lack of commitment to the relationship. Kajal had always wondered what he saw in her. They broke up when he slept with someone on a business tour to Shillong. They had drifted apart long before that. What surprised her was her indifference to his betrayal. Without waking anyone, Kajal sneaked out of her place. He looked as if he had aged ten years in one. Long hours in the office, she guessed. He had even lost some hair.

He has asked me to start exercising too, but who has the time? You look like you have a couple of kids already. Kajal narrated her side of the story. She broke down a couple of times and realized that everyone had turned towards them. He listened patiently, ignoring all the uninvited looks from the nearby tables. Varun finished the salad and they walked towards his car. A girl like her, pretty and docile, why did she have to cry at all? And wept. Before this, he used to shout at you and threaten you. Now he has hit you. If you let him get away with this, he will keep doing it. First to you, then to the others he dates after you. You have to realize that he is mentally unfit to be in a relationship. He has no sense of boundaries. The sooner you do, the better it will be for you.

Varun hugged her, and told her that everything would be all right. She wanted to believe him like she had believed him earlier, like she had believed Dushyant. For the next few days, Varun often dropped in after college timings to check in on Kajal. She was doing better, but she still missed Dushyant. She felt bad for herself that she did. Dushyant, on the other hand, tried his best to apologize and make things better. He called her that night, abused her and called her a slut. He told her that she must have cheated on him, that she was sleeping with Varun all this time. Kajal spent the next day crying. Varun was there to hold her hand. And to kiss her. She kissed Varun back. She was no longer in a restrictive, abusive relationship with a guy with an appalling lack of respect for her.

She had broken free and walked right back into her past. Broken arms, sprained ankles, torn ligaments, et cetera. Usually interns worked in pairs, but Arman was never a big fan of rules. No one knew what he enjoyed more, flouting them or challenging the hospital authorities afterwards. Zarah had not been able to forget those words. She used to check every medicine thrice, sometimes even more, before administering it to any patient. Even if it was just cough syrup. Though Zarah usually worked in the opulent office of her boss, his overbearing presence used to made her jittery. The presence of any man made her feel jittery. She clearly remembered her first day in the hospital, with men crawling everywhere. Ward boys. Their eyes like slithering snakes on her body—undressing her, violating her and rubbing their naked, sweaty, hairy bodies against her in their heads. In those moments, all her latent hatred for men bubbled over and she had a severe mental breakdown. Zarah had never been in a co-ed school or college and it was on her insistence.

Staying away from men was the only way she could banish the horrors of her past. Ever since she had started her internship, an alarming number of interns, resident doctors and senior doctors had showered her with attention. It fuelled her need for sleeping pills and antidepressants. His searching eyes made her feel uncomfortable, like she had been doused with a bucket full of rotting maggots. Or was it lust? Maybe he was trying the primal, old-fashioned way to get her into bed. Zarah wanted to run away. Like every rape victim, Zarah, too, had read all the books, documents, reports and guides that helped victims move on with their lives. He wraps up the most number of cases. If other doctors are men, he is God. Plus, he now has me for filing his reports.

edu no longer supports Internet Explorer. To browse Academia. edu and the wider internet faster and more securely, please take a few seconds to upgrade your browser. Log in with Facebook Log in with Google. Remember me on this computer. Enter the email address you signed up with and we'll email you a reset link. Need an account? Click here to sign up. Download Free PDF. Hold my hand durjoy datta. Download Download PDF Full PDF Package Download Full PDF Package This Paper. A short summary of this paper. Download Download PDF. Download Full PDF Package. Translate PDF. His first book Of Course I Love You! was published when he was twenty-one years old and was an instant bestseller. Durjoy lives in New Delhi, loves dogs and is an active Crossfitter.

For more updates, you can fol- low him on Facebook www. In the last decade, I have gained inordinate height, though my weight has remained constant, making me resemble a praying mantis—tall, gangly, awkward and strange with spectacled eyes. Mom thinks I am beautiful. Today, I sit in the corner, almost embarrassed, my extraordinarily long legs folded awkwardly under the chair as I read my favourite Henner Jog book for the thirteenth time this year. The table I sit on is engraved with the names of my favourite authors and poets and lines from books I have read. When younger, I would scratch out the name of every book I would read with a compass. Indraprastha Book Library was set up in ; its best days behind it, now its patrons are mostly old people who still look for books that are long forgotten and out of print.

In all probability, one can find the book here, given they have the requisite patience to find it amongst the ,, books and journals and magazines stacked and piled and racked in the six hundred shelves spread over four floors. The library still uses an archaic cataloguing software that hardly works. Dad is still at his desk, and I figure I have four more hours to finish the book I know I will finish it in two. I need food! We leave the floor and walk to the elevator—the kind that looks like a wrought-iron cage, the kind of elevator people get stuck in and die—and exit the building. I wave to an autorickshaw, Dad haggles and the auto driver curses the fuel prices. Is she still angry with you? She told me she has made aaloo poshto and doi maachh.

My mouth waters with anticipation. Mom is at one side of the bed, hardly eating. He will go there for a few days and come back. They are asking him to code a software for cataloguing for libraries. Plus, he is all grown up. I am an only child, pro- tected and loved beyond what is healthy for any kid to be, because parents die and then one has to go on road trips—just like it happened in the book I read this morning. Why do you have to go? What will I do without you? And what if something happens to you? We will always be in touch over the phone! Remember technology? She cries some more at this, the serial ends, and we eat; Mom keeps blinking away her tears, and I daydream about cataloguing algorithms for libraries that would allow the books I like to be easily discovered, allowing me to slip in my own recommendations, quite like the desk in the library with book names engraved on it, only in binary and inside the computer.

But I hope not to destroy. All the people in my sketches look nearly alike. They all have crooked noses and slender bodies, the buildings always lean to the right, the birds and the bees are always dots and scratches, and yet I sketch, when I am extraordinarily bored. She is texting furiously on her iPhone. And your sketching is really bad, like really bad! He must be with his bimbo girlfriend, who cares? Yes- terday I saw this really cute boy running on the adjacent treadmill and he kept looking at me, and then I kept looking at him, and then he ran faster and faster and looked at me and I wondered whether he was trying to run away from me!

How does it feel to have, like, no flesh? The class ends and disperses, and no one takes note of us sitting at the last bench, one sketch- ing, and the other texting a nameless friend who I am jealous of, since Manasi is my only friend, apart from Aman, whose whereabouts are presently unknown. New Delhi Technological Institute or NDTI, is not the most brilliant or unique or reputed engineer- ing college in and around New Delhi, but it is certainly the most conveniently located. If a capital city can be assumed to be the centre of a country, then NDTI was also literally at the centre of India, and we were at the centre of the country, sketching and texting. The institute has four tall, red buildings, and although they are connected with passageways, they bear no resemblance to one another in terms of architecture, much like the students in the college who are like islands—disconnected, distinct and unconcerned about each other.

That my college mates are islands, or a cluster of islands, becomes clearer in the canteen, which is one of the older parts of the college, because education or not, food is food. The cool students are in the corner sharing pictures, making plans; the studious ones are sharing notes; the buff students are discussing gym routines, and there are no passageways that connect these islands of people to one an- other. You should get a new phone too. And my phone is fine. I can call and I can text. I use an old Nokia, the one which was secretly made out of toughened titanium or something, built to withstand holocausts and wars. It has Snakes on it, which is my favourite game, so I am happy with my phone.

Manasi weighs ninety-three kilograms. She just eats a lot, eats everything and eats all the time. Aman is too cool for his own good; he has no business hanging around with us, the real-life representation of Laurel and Hardy, except in this case, Hardy is a nineteen-year-old girl. Which reminds me that I had gifted a copy of A Fine Mess, a pictorial book on the lives of Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy, to Manasi on her birthday. Oliver Hardy was a hundred pounds heavier, though he lost one hundred and fifty pounds before his death which made him lighter than Manasi in the end. Show him! He was now racing a Peugeot down the streets of downtown Manhattan on Need for Speed NFS —only for Apple iOS—and I can so ima- gine him do it in real life.

Our college team sucks and I am a part of the suckery. I have seen you play! Blood splashes on the screen and the phone asks if he wants to continue. Aman hands it back to her. You will always be the undefeated champion of the great game of Snakes. Manasi can take a tip or two from him, especially since she spends so much time staring at him. Are you still going to Hong Kong? Did your mother give you permission yet? Your mom will be so happy to get you one! He often addresses me as champ, champion, genius, THE man, super-dude, and I quite like it. Aman is looking away from us. A few girls from the other section pass us by and wave at him. He waves back at them and they blush and giggle. Manasi frowns. You have to have a crush on him in order to move on. Aman leaves for his tennis practice and Manasi starts tapping on the phone again.

She is playing NFS now. I still believe clouds are made of fluffy, soft cotton and not vapour. I would soon get to the bottom of this. The woman from ATS had scanned my résumé and the ridiculous list of books I have listed as my favourites, and she asked me if I would like work in the development of a cataloguing software that ATS was developing, taking the Hong Kong Central Library as a test case. I remember the churning in my stomach, the dizziness, the happiness that coursed through every inch of me, and I had smiled and nodded my head like a baby seal, happy and grinning from ear to ear. If all libraries combined to make a country, we would be the first family of that country.

And I was going to add another feather in its cap. Anything to hold her nineteen-year- old son back. She was mistaken. I love new books, course books or not, and I enjoy underlining the living hell out of course books and making little notes in my flowery handwriting on the margins. When do you leave? Aman would make a great hero in a Young Adult book: courteous, handsome and sensitive—a curious mix of Edward Cullen and Augustus Waters, without the canines or the cancer.

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