Books By Durjoy Datta. Most Popular Books. of course i Similar Authors To Durjoy Datta. Nicholas Sparks · E.L. List View | Grid View. Books by Durjoy Datta. DOWNLOAD PDF - MB. Share Embed DURJOY DATTA WO R LD ' S BES T BO Y F R I EN D PENGUIN BOOKS Contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 7. 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.

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Free Download Till the Last Breath Novel pdf Written by Durjoy Datta and read Like a Love Song Nikita Singh, Song Reviews, Book Lists, Reading Lists. Durjoy Datta was born in New Delhi, India, and completed a degree in Anyway, I made a list of things I thought worked for me in those books and what didnt. You can download this e-book by visit the link below. The Boy Who Loved By Durjoy Datta |PDF| • E-BookPool To download latest e-books by Indian author.

Durjoy Datta was born in New Delhi, India, and completed a degree in engineering and business management before embarking on a writing career. His successive novels Now That Youre Rich! Durjoy also has to his credit nine television shows and has written over a thousand episodes for television. Durjoy lives in Mumbai, loves dogs and is an active CrossFitter. For more updates, you can follow him on Facebook www. It happens in an instant and yet everything seems to stretch out interminably. One moment Im gazing at her, that pale white face half covered with hair as black as night itself is smiling at me, and the next Im urging her to look at the road. The smiles on our faces die out. Its too late. A taxi is rushing towards us, driving on the wrong side. She swerves the car to the right to avoid collision and heads towards the divider railing. The taxi too swerves to its right. She corrects course, but its too late. She slams on the brakes and the car makes a dying screech. Something breaks.

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.

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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. 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. 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.

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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. 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.

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. 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 download the book. You knew my book had potential. Jayanti laughed throatily. Like really? 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. Even the printer and the laptop and carpet looked largely unused.

The glass wall was cracked and splintered. And the room smelt strange. Like it was heavily perfumed to cover up a rotting corpse.


Avni stole glances at her watch as they continued to argue. Her meeting at Avalon Consulting would start in another half an hour. If she were to get stuck in traffic there was no way she would make it on time. I want to stay but I have to get to work. She wanted to say, For your and for my sake. Look around you, Daman. So many authors. And only a few names have made it to that board of hers.

The money from your advance is already running out. If only you hadnt bought the car. I have to work so you can write. Jayanti and Daman both looked at her. She pointed at her watch. Daman nodded knowingly. Avni got up and hugged him. She whispered in his ear, Stay calm, and took his leave. Jayanti said after Avni left, You are good writer, no doubt about it, but you still have a lot to learn. Do you know why you finally agreed to all my changes, Daman?

It was because you were scared. You were scared the book wouldnt work. Thats why you fought with me, but didnt fight enough, thats why you dissented, but not enough. Because in those moments of doubt you trusted your editor who has been in this industry for far longer than you have.

Yes, it was wrong to trust you. You fleeced me. I left my job and moved out of my parents house because of your deal. And what did you offer me? A shitty royalty percentage and an editor like you? No one forced you to sign the deal. You could have fought harder for Shreyasi. But you didnt. And you got enough money and a bestselling book if I may add. Maybe you wouldnt be so angry if you hadnt spent all the money downloading that car of yours.

Oh, so now youre my financial advisor? What next? You will dictate what I should eat? Enough, Daman. I dont take nonsense from my authors, especially first-time authors, and you would be off my roster if you werent talented Daman ignored her aggressive tone and interrupted her.

Whatever, Jayanti. The fact of the matter is that there will be a book with my name on it with a character thats as shitty as Shreyasi. Nothing you say will ever change that. Jayanti shrugged. You know what wont change?

That you can be a writer. That you can sell books for a long time if you let me tweak a few things. You wont have to go back to your engineering job any more. And that would mean a lot to a whole lot of people, said Jayanti.

You know how many authors in India can claim to earn a living out of just writing? A handful! If you cant be grateful I think youre being short-sighted. Listen I have been doing this a long time. Fixing books, thats what I do and I do it well. Just then, the door was knocked on by the office boy and Jayanti was summoned for a meeting.

She looked at Daman and spoke, I need to go now. When you go back home, think about what this book can do for you. Also when you realize I am talking for your own good, start writing your second book and we can proceed with signing the deal for it. Daman scoffed. No way. We all need to earn, Daman. I know you have burnt through the advance money from the first book. You did this to me Let me finish. Youre refusing to do any book launches for The Girl of My Dreams. How long do you think the book can sustain without any publicity?

So think rationally and stop acting like a brat. Do a couple of book launches for this book and then start work on the next one. We make a great team, Daman. Never forget that.

We are all working for you. You stand to gain the most out of it. I like you, Daman. You have passion and I like that but you need to take things easy.

I got to go now, she said and got up. I will wait for your decision. She stretched out her hand to shake his. Without another word Daman strode out of the room, leaving Jayantis hand hanging mid-air. Jayanti watched him go. The reason why she liked Daman was also the one why she hated him.

He was passionate, almost a little mad, teetering on the edge of insanity, and she could see that in his neurotic and chaotic writing. Of course, it was her responsibility to tone down the madness of his book. She was terrified for a second; it felt like he would smash the wine bottle against her face. Thankfully he hadnt and the evening had run smoothly. It was only that coy little girlfriend of his who could keep him grounded.

Jayanti hoped she would knock some sense into him. She looked around and sighed. Someone had broken into her cabin a week ago. Her desk, her laptop, the printer were amongst the many things the intruder had vandalized and spray-painted on. The intruder had even tried to throw her chair through the glass wall.

She had to get it changed. But the most disgusting thing had been the smell. The floor was smeared with human faeces and water from the sprinklers. They had to shut the entire office down for two days because of the debilitating stench. Despite the perfume, Jayanti could still feel the ungodly smell lurking. Whoever had broken in hadnt even spared the books. Luckily, the water sprinklers had taken care of the fire before it could spread.

The CCTV cameras at the Bookhound office had long been defunct so they didnt record who did it or how it happened. A couple of years back, a crazed fan had broken in and stolen a few advance copies of Karthik Iyers book.

Screwball fans had always been a part of this industry, but even Jayanti admitted that this was the farthest anyone had gone. She picked up her laptop and closed the pages with the reviews. As she turned to leave, her eyes fell on the bare white chart paper she had covered the cloth board with.

Behind the chart paper was the most telling review of Damans book, spray-painted in bold red letters over the jackets of the bestselling books Jayanti had edited over the years. A tall glass of cold coffee sweated on his table, untouched. He had successfully resisted the temptation to order a beer.

It wouldnt be the first time if he were to have one drink too many and run amok at this pub. He smiled thinking of the time he had sneaked behind the bartender, filched a new bottle of Jack Daniels, and replaced it with his urine-filled beer bottle. This had taken place only three years ago but now it seemed like another lifetime. Oh, the celebrity is already here! Screw you, Bhaiya, said Daman stepping down from his high stool.

He gave Sumit a one- handed hug. You seem to be in a foul mood, said Sumit and ordered two beers. He noticed the glass of cold coffee and cancelled Damans. Wise choice, he said. Remind me to go easy as well. I have a date later tonight. Tinder date. I got a match as I climbed up the damn stairs, said Sumit. Sumit always complained about the stairs of Summerhouse Caf. They were tall and misshapen and a horror to climb down when drunk.

Shes coming here. I told her I would be at Summerhouse and she told me its exactly where she and her friends are hanging out tonight. This has to be my quickest conversion from a conversation to a date. I think my game is getting better. Show me her picture, asked Daman, still incredulous. Sumit fished out his phone and showed him the photograph.

Daman smirked. Thats just a pair of lips. The sexiest lips in the universe you mean. Just look at them, said Sumit, turning the close-up picture of the girls blood-red lips towards him again.

Best of luck, said Daman. I hope shes a not a guy. Or a serial killer. We should meet more often. You might be my lucky charm, said Sumit poking Damans shoulder. Daman sniggered. Although Sumit was Damans senior in college, Sumit and he had struck up an unlikely friendship which had strengthened over the last six years.

Unlike Daman, Sumit hadnt dreamt up a fantasy for a career and put his fate in the hands of a wench like Jayanti. He had been biding his time at Alstom Engineering. Sooner or later he would immigrate to the Middle East, get a resident visa, download a Japanese-made SUV and never look back. Sumit awkwardly climbed up on the high stool. Did you read it? What did you think? Sumit took a long, big gulp of his beer.

I am with Jayanti Raghunath on this. I never thought I would like anything you wrote. She did a good job of making the book readable. You cant be serious. Did you really like the Shreyasi she wrote? I did. She was way better than the strange Shreyasi you wrote about in those Facebook posts. She wasnt strange, protested Daman. No, she wasnt strange. Strange doesnt even cut it. In one of your stories on Facebook, she burns the guys phone just to prove a point.

In another, she shears off her hair in protest against the guys behaviour. Who the fuck does that? Thats not strange, thats complete madness! Thats love. Well, not the usual garden-variety love, but still.

Moreover, she had reasons to do those things in the incidents preceding her actions. She was doing everything to protect her relationship. I would have done the same thing, he argued.

Youre twisted, Daman. Sumit laughed. Then he continued, irritably, Whatever, man. The new Shreyasis believable and shes nice. Jayanti knows what shes doing. But I wish shed made you change the name as well.

You Were My Crush

Shreyasi isnt even a nice name. Bhaiya, youre still stuck there? Yeah, right! Youre the one who never tires of writing posts using her name and now you have written a book using that name and its me whos stuck there. Just fucking brilliant, snapped Sumit.

Its just a name I use. You know that. Are you still getting those nightmares? Does she still die in those nightmares? More or less. Sometimes she doesnt. Do you remember anything else? No, nothing. Its just those few seconds before the drive, different versions of the same dream, said Daman.

Youre taking the pills? Sumit sighed and said, The next time you think of her name, just remember the girl who holds that name nearly drove you to your death. Youre never going to forget that, are you? Of course I am never going to forget that. It was us who suffered for six months in that hospital. The book was commissioned by Hong Kong Tourism Board. When Only Love Remains is another love story from Durjoy Datta, this one set in the troubled world of an aspiring young singer Devvrat and revolving around a young woman Avanti who has been obsessed with him for a long time.

The answer is just as difficult each time This is not it. He is one among the best selling writers in contemporary India. He is a regular at TEDx talks [24] and conferences in colleges pan-India and often invited as a guest speaker across the country.

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