PDF FILE OF BOOKS OF DURJOY DATTA

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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” . Durjoy Datta was born in New Delhi, India, and completed a degree in a space, with my favourite Roald Dahl book, and stay there till the end of .. Manasi thrusts the screen with the thinner version of herself at Aman's face and Aman says. Durjoy Datta is the author of If It's Not Forever. It's Not Love. ( avg rating Durjoy Datta's Followers (2,) · Vijay R Nakul S.. 2, books | friends.


Pdf File Of Books Of Durjoy Datta

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Durjoy Datta Language : en Publisher by Over 5 million titles available. Find the books you want and start reading now.. And also You can download or read online all eBook PDF files that related with books by durjoy datta free download book.. 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.

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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. Once it was a paintbox, in case Dhruv had artistic pursuits, and the other time it was a mini tool box, if he was into boyish things. He saw Aranya slumped over the laptop, crying. Was it because of him?

Minutes passed and he kept looking at her. He watched them fall to the ground below and shatter. You earn my respect today. I know a guy in customs who can get us that. It even records. As he picked them up, he surprised himself at how clearly he remembered the day they had arrived at his doorstep, wrapped in a red gift paper and an orange ribbon. He had cried himself to sleep that day, imagining his mother with her new daughter, cradling her, loving her, his half-sister who had a full family while he rotted with his alcoholic father.

Fuck you, Mom. The binoculars were beyond repair. While he walked back to his room his phone rang; it was from an unknown number. Your voice sounds strange. Were you sleeping? Should I call later? He walked to his room and found Sanchit slumped outside his door, passed out. He climbed over him and slammed the door. He spent the night talking to Ritika while he clicked through pictures of her in twenty segregated albums on her Facebook account.

Needless to say, Ritika was a run-of-the- mill pretty girl—curly hair with a hint of brown in them, average height, always knew what to wear, fair and decent features, and thin, too. What did you expect out of someone like Dhruv? That vain bastard? Ritika had already found herself a group of girls in the hostel with similar interests. They were nice girls but a little too silly and a little too obsessed with their own faces. It used to be somewhat odd for Aranya to be in conversations where only Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat and Whatsapp were discussed.

Her Facebook picture was a bird. She found herself on the same bench as Ritika whose carefully curated style could be called hastily put together and bohemian. She almost never had any make-up on and relied on the natural blush of her skin and the good fortune of her genes. Ritika was quite the blabbermouth. You have no idea what Dhruv did. Like literally. It was straight out of a movie. You should have seen his eyes. I will not be able to concentrate on my assignment unless you tell me.

Please, I beg of you. You will really make my day. He wants to take it slow. He held my hand though. He kept me from looking anywhere. Sounds an awful lot like Taliban. The girls groaned. Aranya gathered her books, not wanting to get into a conversation about not letting a guy walk all over you but she had to complete the assignment. Who knows? Will Dhruv allow you that in a few days?

Or is it too radical? On and off, she had been unwittingly thinking about Ritika and Dhruv, imagining the details of their date, putting the pieces together. She clearly lied about Dhruv being old school and wanting to take it slow. Of course, they did it. That bitch. It was too hot for that muffler that she wore to hide a possible love bite. Some sparkling examples of the Indian education system ended up copying her name. She was the first one in class that day, fresh and well rested.

Some girls had missed breakfast and were still copying her assignment. She sat on the first bench with her carefully organized registers and books. His knuckles were bandaged. Dhruv stood straight and folded his hands. Give her time. A simple calculation error?

Aranya acted shocked. How did I get this wrong? You knew if you wrote it the class would copy it. Why would I! Dhruv waved a middle finger while leaving the class. Aranya won. Yes, she was keeping score. He would have seen through it, that you had copied. Trust me. You will not get a zero.

He had told her he would handle it. Ritika, Instagram-obsessed and a raging bulimic, had not really struck Dhruv as someone who would care about missed assignments.

For me as well as the girl I am in love with. Dhruv imagined her rolling over her nice and clean bed, maybe in a tiny pair of shorts and stringy spaghetti. He found Sanchit supine on his tattered bean bag. The room reeked of alcohol and weed and unwashed boxers, and there were two women touching each other on his laptop screen. He was watching it with such piercing intensity one would think it was The Shawshank Redemption playing on his laptop. The dirtiness is in their moans, he used to say.

Sanchit followed closely. And what exactly are we doing? And I will tell you. I think we should be married now. What if? Think about it, Sanchit. It sounds ridiculous if you imagine your father doing the same, but ask yourself, how difficult is it?

Check his browser history. Check his phone. Check what he watches late at night on television.

Is it always news? Because you believe in him. Just like I used to. Yes, you said something about happiness. There was no challenge. An army tank could have rolled past them unnoticed. Talking of which, did you also know that my father works in the Public Works Department and my mother is a housewife? Dhruv threw a murderous look his way. I do know someone who can make a key for you. I have used the guy earlier.

In first year I used to lose my key all the time, but now I have just chained my desktop to the window railing. Third-year bastards still steal my soap though. Dhruv ignored him and revved the bike harder almost knocking Sanchit over who clung to him afterwards. Is he a friend that you call him that? Women slit their wrists if he misses class. Some write him letters in blood. Even your girl, Aranya, is like a deer caught in the headlights with him. I read the assignment on the way. Nice touch to get it wrong on the last step.

I have been told. And no! Have you seen her? She looks like shit. I hated her then and I hate her now. The screws that held the latch came loose and it hung limply from the door frame; the door was now wide open. Dhruv walked in and started to look for the bundle of assignments. What are you trying to do?

Things get lost sometimes. Aranya put the laptop down and looked in their direction. She walked closer to the ledge and squinted her eyes. Dhruv waved the bundle of the assignments in the air. Dhruv kept the stack of assignments on the edge of the roof. Aranya screamed in disbelief. Political references. And what if he did? Dhruv was leaning against the door, yawning for dramatic effect. Despite the heat he wore a leather jacket, a white shirt, a frayed pair of jeans and black loafers.

Careless hair carefully done. Eight years separated Dhruv and Raghuvir but they looked the same age. Dhruv looked the vain, brash movie star, and Raghuvir, the sincere, piercing, intelligent technocrat with a dress sense borrowed from the founder of Facebook.

In a parallel world or in a cheesy novel, they would be brothers who fall in love with the same woman.

She had spent hours, wrong, days Googling about Raghuvir, downloading his images on her laptop, day-dreaming about being intelligent and funny and mysterious in his class and yes, also songs, they had danced on songs together. Fuck you, Aranya. But he is like chocolate. With cream and sprinkles. Stop talking in Internet meme language. I hate you. I am you. The anger is cute. Do I make myself clear?

Raghuvir, pointing his pencil at him. Dhruv walked out without a second look. In a conversation between Tripathi and a wall, the wall would win.

Good work. I will make your life a living hell, so dare you cross me again. I have seen guys like you talk a big game and then crumble to dust. Go to your little, insignificant world of porn, protein supplements and little slutty girls, all of which will slowly disintegrate into a life of slaving for people like me, people with real talent and drive, who reign over minions like you. Go, live your days, slave, for the future will only bring wretchedness to you and it will make whatever happened to you in the past seem like good old times.

Did you like read a book yesterday and mark out lines that you would say to me today? And what about you and Raghuvir? Did he notice your sly smiles and your flushed cheeks and your little nervous knee shakes? Or were you just another of the nondescript girls who fawn over him? And yes, I might be insignificant in the future but who on earth has seen the future! You always were. No matter what you try to do, you are never going to wash off that skin. I Love u Rachu 28 Aranya felt nauseous about how he had used the word dude—wannabe and gender-inappropriate—and how honest Dhruv was in declaring her an ugly toad.

She missed her dinner that night and thought of going for a run but settled for quantum mechanics instead. It was too embarrassing. Instead she would jog on the spot for thirty minutes in front of the mirror and slump on the ground, crying and exhausted and hungry. She could feel a wave of depression washing over her. It happened every few months for a couple of weeks. She had been avoiding Raghuvir too, wondering if he felt the same way about her as Dhruv did—an ugly, loathsome toad. She went on another one of her depressing crash diets that made her weak, irritable and cranky, and crushed her feminist, beauty-is-skin-deep soul.

Her class performance started to dip infinitesimally which no one but Raghuvir noted. Raghuvir led her to a chair and his touch was strangely comforting. People think of me as quite intelligent, you know. She just got married. That seems plausible. What about it? Blue, red, pink, purple are the colours she got streaked in her hair in the past nineteen months, none of which looked ridiculous on her, in fact they looked very pretty.

She poses with books and coffee mugs. The only consolation is the grammatical mistakes in those comments. He drives a loan-free Audi. While she blossomed like those women in fairness ads, I bloated and battled with my disease, my weight problem and my facial hair.

While she wore little black dresses to family functions, I wore sweaters and jeans and thanked God for not giving me polio instead. I was either invisible or someone to maintain one-arm distance from to my extended family and she was talked about in verses.

I waited for my time to come—the tenth standard board exams. Something that separates the winners from the losers, and I knew it was my time to shine. I scored a She was the success story, the brave one who battled a life-threatening disease, not I, who would have preferred getting jaundice for a lifetime over what I have. Later she took humanities, because she claimed to be artistic.

How would I ever outshine her? I knew that no matter how successful I am, I would never trump her. I intended to smash her ego, her pride, her superiority to smithereens.

But guess what? 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? 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? Why is the girl in biotechnology more talked about than me? 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 would pick you over that cousin a zillion times. 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 down that road and it blows. I have had my heart broken a million times—not by the women I chose to date but the mistake I did by choosing them. And that guy is making a mistake too and he will know that soon. Though I do agree with you that men are flawed and unfair. Law of averages. Screw it, he already knew everything. We were in the same school and he has followed me here. He called me an ugly, loathsome toad. Which is sort of correct because my own parents and relatives think of me as a disaster.

Aranya thanked him and left the room. She desperately wanted some cake. And a little revenge. Twenty-nine years of lugging it around had worn Raghuvir down. He had stopped treating it as anything other than a curse. It was fun in the beginning, he had to admit. The effortless exam scores, the feeling of superiority, the unabashed admiration, it was all quite heady to be honest. But slowly, the pressures that came with all this started to mount.

He was put into groups with other boys and girls with similar or greater intelligence, sent to competitions where he was reduced to a really slow computer. And slowly, the headstart of having a greater IQ faded. Numbers stopped to matter and hours spent teaching himself courses way ahead of his time went up. The competition between geniuses is fierce and it stripped Raghuvir of everything else in life.

He was the only twelve-year-old who refused to go on family vacations, or watch cartoons, make friends or even go outside and play. Instead, he would stay locked up in his room and attempt questions of advanced calculus. He had practically brought himself up. His parents, concerned at first, had resigned to their kid being abnormally precocious. The only relationships he had had were with his teachers and professors. These were little sacrifices though. He had got used to the attention, the promise of a legacy he would leave behind.

He spent a good eight years of his adolescent life locked up in labs, or in his room poring over books, research papers, publishing his own reports, criticizing the reports of others.

The scientific community is a hostile, unforgiving place. New discoveries, inventions, technologies are frowned upon at first, looked at with suspicion and envy; most scientists are driven by the fear of being left behind.

But just like in every book, every movie, every play, he fell in love and everything changed. The girl was a young and beautiful understudy, and Raghuvir was a young, good-looking professor. Their conversation started at the laboratory, and soon they were talking about their dreams and aspirations, things they loved, cuisines they liked and movies they hated.

He had finally found love outside his research and his quest to leave a mark on the scientific community and the world. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever experienced in his life, something science or logic could never explain. They were the best six months of his life. He got quite obsessive with the idea of love and how powerful it was. She went to Germany on a research scholarship.

Raghuvir was ready to go along but the girl insisted she would go on her own. Having just found the joy of having someone to love and be loved by, Raghuvir was miserable and lonely without her.

For the next few years, he was quite lost, but more than that he was just lonely. Love is quite an addiction. It trumps research, glory and all that bullshit by a mile.

He tried to write a book and failed. What followed were whirlwind relationships with a bevy of beautiful women, none of which lasted. They were all faces he could fall in love with but never be in love with for a really long time. He would never admit it but for the most part he would be with them for the sex and think that the love would come soon.

How hard could it be to find love again? Especially when the women were beautiful and willing? Quite hard, he had come to realize. In fact he got lonelier than ever. Increasingly, he believed that love was good, but only as a concept. Only relationships existed and only those relationships endured where people were willing enough to compromise on love, careers and sexual freedom.

A year back, he got an offer from a leading engineering college in India. But one meeting with the dean, Prof. They should talk about something else. He would protect her from the world. They would always share their lunches. He had vowed he would never let her shirt stain with ink spots. And the day he grows up to be a senior, he would hunt every last student in the school who had hurt Aranya and punch them in the nose. To twelve-year-old Dhruv, she was the most beautiful girl in the whole wide world and he would love her fiercely till the end of time.

By now Dhruv had learned to make his lunch—four slices of bread generously spread with pineapple jam. They would sit on the last bench the entire day and write little messages for each other on the desk. The class called them the weird couple. They ignored them. Dhruv would draw her with big hands and big eyes, and she would draw him with big ears.

Together, they would draw little hearts at the edges. They would also draw a little house they would live in when they grew up. It would have a lot of big windows and two computers.

It smelled really bad so I mopped it up. Aranya and Dhruv read it together. When people download a new flat and they have to break a wall or two, redo the plumbing and the wiring, they call my father. He lost the thumb of his left hand. She shook her head. It picks its victim at random. Quite unfair too if you ask me. In our little house. Their hands sweated, but neither of them wanted to let go. From then on, he would hold her hand whenever he got the chance to. It was them against the world, they had decided, forever and for always.

Not because he was a boy and she loved him but because he was the first one who chose to love her. Usually people would go to great lengths to avoid her touch. Dhruv, too, had been scared but he knew what the word non-contagious meant. However, as it turned out, he was soon to use it against her. The girl he had fallen in love with, the girl who loved him back, the girl who had promised him a forever, the girl who was supposed to make everything alright simply because she was happy being with him.

I Love u Rachu 7 There was pin-drop silence in the room. On one side of the shiny mahogany table sat the school committee and the teacher who had caught the two of them in the storeroom, and on the other side sat Dhruv and Aranya with their parents. Dhruv stared at his Converse shoes, their laces frayed, the little aluminium rings that had held them ripped away from their place.

He pressed his toes down, hoping to crack the earth and descend into Middle Earth, maybe. Outside the room he could hear people talk about the alleged kiss between Dhruv and Aranya.

Her mother was crying and begging in front of the principal, blaming Dhruv. Dhruv trained his eyes on Aranya who had started to cry. The head of the committee spoke. We will have to expel both the kids from our school. We have a zero-tolerance policy. I hope you understand. Her father who had been grumbling in silence got up, grabbed Aranya by her hair and shook her violently. If you expel her, none of the other schools will take her. Please understand.

My hands are tied. What you did? Her ruffled hair stuck to her wet face. Dhruv gripped the paperweight tighter. Aranya wiped the tears off her face, looked straight at the head and spoke fluently, her voice strong, her story precise and straight. He had promised to help me with the course material. I had been struggling since I missed the earlier classes. But once there, he asked me to kiss him. I refused. They lie. He wanted to say that she was lying but words escaped him.

He blacked out for a few seconds, his hand unclenched and the paperweight rolled out of his hands. Your school is vile! The teachers, the principal, everyone! I will sue the entire school! Her face looked like she had been slapped. Aranya nodded. Dhruv looked at Aranya but Aranya was staring at the wall ahead of her.

He repeated. His mother tried holding the other but he broke free. Outside, more students had gathered having listened to the commotion inside. Dhruv got up from his seat and walked towards the door. He started to count until ten in his head. If she looked at him, he would forgive her, or otherwise he would take her down with him. Not because I wanted to kiss her but because I had a bet with all these students standing here. Heaven forbid anyone has to see what I saw today!

She belongs to a zoo, not here! Aranya looked on; Dhruv could see the life drain out of her eyes. And no one believed me. So I decided I would show them by kissing her and remaining the way I am—normal. All of you are the same, ugly or beautiful. All of you lie. Dad was right.

Dhruv walked past everyone. He found the paperweight rolling about, picked it up, and walked out of the school, crying. Dhruv was expelled immediately. He and his father shifted to a cheaper apartment on the outskirts of the city, and Aranya spent the remainder of her school life at the fringes, being known as the ugliest girl ever! I Love u Rachu 9 Six years later. He could barely suppress the chuckle that threatened to escape any moment. No words had been exchanged for the last twenty minutes.

We did it here. In the bedrooms. On the balcony. I never intended to. But I hope you understand what position I am in. What could be worse for an Indian mother than knowing that her eighteen-year-old daughter had had premartial sex on the kitchen slab and enjoyed it? Dhruv chose his words carefully to make himself the victim. I really loved Satvika, Sir.

If I had thought she would leave me I would have never done it. Nor in the bedrooms. Nor on the balcony, or on the kitchen slab. I really thought she was serious about me. God knows I was. He should try theatre sometime. Dhruv had narrated the length of his rather sexual relationship with Satvika in as much detail as her parents could digest, without them wanting to set Satvika, and then themselves, on fire.

He told her parents they had been dating for the past two months, right from the time Satvika had taken admission at a local institute to prepare for the engineering entrance examinations. They say, the day you fall in love changes your life, but they are wrong. Dhruv sounded genuine in his shame.

Tears flowed out abundantly and ceaselessly from his sorry eyes, erasing any doubt, firmly planting the belief that their daughter was some kind of depraved girl, a pervert who used their bedroom and their kitchen for her misdemeanours. Okay, that might be an exaggeration, but not by much.

Satvika was called to the drawing room. She stood by the side of her mother, teary-eyed, her hair a mess, and her skin pale like a corpse. Dhruv smiled, seeing her pained and defeated, staring at a shackled life. You deserve it, bitch! You should have thought about this before you let Karan take my place.

Satvika had no answer to give them because nothing of what Dhruv had said was untrue. But slowly and predictably, distance had crept in and Dhruv, in anger, had told her to fuck off from his life.

She did, quite literally, and decided to go out for a harmless movie date with a below-average boy, Karan. Dhruv would have probably forgiven her for this slight had she not lied about it. She had lied and for that she needed to be punished, abandoned and tortured for life.

Dhruv was asked to leave. You said you loved me! I loved you and you fucking lied to me. And we had broken up, Dhruv! Her eyes still searched for an answer, and Dhruv being the gentleman he was, responded by waving his middle finger, and drove away. I Love u Rachu 10 No matter how strong she was, how many books on feminism she had read, she still felt the need to be desired, missed, loved, talked, objectified, fantasized about and masturbated to, and she hated herself for it.

Not that anyone would want to see her body. Saying she was fat was an understatement. She weighed 73kg and was barely 5'3" and it constantly weighed on her head. For years she had been battling with her issues with weight. Sameer, the boy on the other side of the video call, had first met her in an interschool debating competition about five years back.

Switch on the lights.

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My parents are outside. Make do with this. A kiss! The night just got very interesting! I think I just got turned on. The boy teased Aranya a little, gyrating and thrusting his pelvis into the camera like an octogenarian on his first yoga class. Slowly, the guy took off his shirt, and then slipped out of his trackpants. His torso was sufficiently ripped and shaved but his legs were siteian-level hairy.

He asked Aranya if she wanted him to take his briefs off and before Aranya could type, he started. He slipped them off slowly. Not that the suspense was killing Aranya really.

Aranya squinted as Sameer proudly took his semi-hard king-prawn-like member in his palm and started flapping it around, stroking it, pointing it towards the web camera.

It was hilarious. Sameer kept stroking it till it was hard. Then he took his hands off it, placed them behind his head, and moved his penis back and forth like it was a party trick. By this time, Aranya was disgusted enough to change tabs.

She watched a compilation of cute puppy videos on YouTube, and realized how easy life is for little puppies. And though the moving images of a crooked dick on her laptop made her feel sick and queasy, she felt desirable for a change.

At least someone in the world would give her a second look, want her, in whichever way it might be. She then told him that her parents were knocking on the door.

She signed out. She closed her laptop and gently tapped her head on it, cursing herself, almost in tears. Why does she do this? And if she had a face worth a second look, probably twenty likes on a selfie would have sufficed her need for acceptance as well. Aranya stood in front of the mirror, turned her head from side to side, inspected herself, found herself crying and with the same schizophrenic, selfpitying argument running in her head again.

Why do you do this? Look at me! Look at the other girls from school, their thin, shapely legs, and their perfect complexions. They are the ones who get stared at, not me, no matter what I do. Look at my skin! No one will ever look beyond that. Shut up. No one can touch you there. Why do you think I was leading that guy on to strip? Wanting to know if I can turn him on?

Wanting to know if I can turn anyone on? Because it makes me feel good, it makes me feel wanted. So do you feel better now? I might. There will be someone. Do you want me to remind you what happened the last time there was someone? He called me the ugliest girl in the world. Forget him. Feels like yesterday.

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She deleted Sameer from her Skype list and texted him that her parents got to know about their little escapade and they would get him jailed if he ever tried to contact her again. The boy she loved. The boy named Dhruv.

She bore no guilt about what had happened years ago, about the lie she said to save herself from her parents and a life full of misery. It was a desperate attempt of a young ostracized girl at selfpreservation. What could she have done? Dhruv should have got that. Instead he hit back like a coward and single-handedly wrecked her life.

He was the first one to tell the world she was ugly, unwanted, repulsive. It was he who had sown the seeds of self-doubt that had torn her apart for years now.

He snatched away what little normalcy she had hoped for from life. She wished he were dead now, or at least as unhappy as she was with her life. She hated him with all her might. Still about fifty kilometres to go, the rotting piece of shit had broken down twice. He stepped into a dhaba while the mechanic refilled the coolant. Earlier, Dhruv had filled his shaker with three scoops of per cent whey protein, two scoops of glutamine, three scoops Amino and two scoops of BCAAs, topped it with water and shook it till a little bit of the froth had dribbled out.

It smelled like shit but it was essential for rapid muscle growth, and to help him break out of the plateau he had hit with the overhead and the bench press. A couple of houseflies started to hover around the dirty bandage on his right hand.

He needed a new dressing for that wound. People needed to be punished and left with scars that would remain for a lifetime. Dhruv still thought he let him off easy. A serving boy came with the tea. It was the sweetest fucking thing he had ever tasted and he spat it out.

Dhruv gargled with the tea instead, not wanting any extra calories in his bloodstream, and spat it out, making sure the cashier noticed it.

A small round steel plate with the bill reached his table. Dhruv got up from his chair, picked his tattered backpack and slung it over his shoulder. He walked to his bike, paid the mechanic, and kick-started it to life. Dhruv was gone. She burped. Everything bathed in oil, sprinkled with cheese, dipped in sugar syrup tasted good to her. She caught the bus that would take her to DTU, her home for the next four years away from her tyrannical parents. It would be a new start for her and she would not be ignored and taken lightly there, she had decided.

Unlike school, she would rule the college with an iron fist. The bus dropped her off at the gate of her new college, from where she walked to her hostel, her home for the next four years.

She signed the register, submitted photocopies of her existence and shifted into her barren, prison-like room. Before long she unpacked, changed, threw her clothes inside the cupboard, arranged her books, put bedspreads, and flopped on the bed, thinking about her first day in engineering college—where she would be the cause of disappointment to a lot of expectant guys.

She was dreaming soon. She woke up with a start. Ten minutes later, she was standing with fellow students from the first year in front of a motley group of seniors, boys, uncles pretending to be boys, and a smattering of girls.

The World's Best Boyfriend by Durjoy Datta

Things had changed quite a lot for Aranya since primary school. No one mentioned the story of the naked, diseased girl any more but the repulsion towards her disease remained. Her condition was always a looming shadow over her associations with people. The girls started to rattle off their names, the name of the schools they were from, and some went as far as to tell them their hobbies which were as boring as their faces.

Aranya could almost feel the insults flying at her. Obviously, she would be picked out and ridiculed and shamed for her weight and how she looked, but she was ready for it. My seniors sit around in boxer shorts and harass their juniors, shame them for their body and their face. None of the seniors will ever help you. You screwed with the wrong person. Why do you think none of your friends here are backing you up?

Triple scholar gown holder in school. AIEEE rank 13, with the highest in mathematics and physics. You were saying that none of the seniors would help me? What makes you think I would need their help? Victorious, she walked away. I Love u Rachu 13 Dhruv had been in a little fight last night.

The seniors had come knocking at his door and he had asked them to fuck off. 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.Sometimes Dhruv and his father would break those toys together. Sometimes Dhruv and his father would break those toys together. His torso was sufficiently ripped and shaved but his legs were siteian-level hairy.

He weaved away from Daman, accelerated and whipped into more traffic. The grumbling voices of Daman and Avni didnt reach their ears while they waited for their takeaway cappuccino and latte.