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Durjoy datta worlds best boyfriend pdf

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Read "The World's Best Boyfriend" by Durjoy Datta available from Rakuten Kobo. Sign up today and get RS. off your first purchase. Hate, is a four letter word. Durjoy Datta was born in New Delhi, and completed a degree in engineering When Only Love Remains; World's Best Boyfriend; Our Impossible Love; The Girl . Download easily and start reading it right away. World's Best Boyfriend is the much-awaited novel by the famous Indian novelist, Durjoy Datta.


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In the bedrooms. Beauty is defined by shades on a plastic strip, for both women and men, and by inches on a tape. More Details Raghuvir continued. They would always share their lunches.

The boy teased Aranya a little. He asked Aranya if she wanted him to take his briefs off and before Aranya could type. By this time. Aranya squinted as Sameer proudly took his semi-hard king-prawn-like member in his palm and started flapping it around. It was hilarious. You do. Not that the suspense was killing Aranya really. Sameer kept stroking it till it was hard. Then he took his hands off it. Aranya was disgusted enough to change tabs.

He slipped them off slowly. She watched a compilation of cute puppy videos on YouTube. No one says. And though the moving images of a crooked dick on her laptop made her feel sick and queasy.

At least someone in the world would give her a second look. She signed out. Why does she do this? She closed her laptop and gently tapped her head on it. She then told him that her parents were knocking on the door. And if she had a face worth a second look. Look at me! Aranya stood in front of the mirror. Why do you do this? They are the ones who get stared at. No one can touch you there. Look at the other girls from school. But all that makes me a boy. Shut up. Look at my skin! No one will ever look beyond that.

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. I might. Do you want me to remind you what happened the last time there was someone? He called me the ugliest girl in the world. There will be someone.

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So do you feel better now? 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. She pulled the blanket over herself and lay there staring at the trophies she had won in the past few years. Forget him. Ashamed at her regressive thoughts. He snatched away what little normalcy she. The boy named Dhruv.

It was a desperate attempt of a young ostracized girl at selfpreservation. 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. It was he who had sown the seeds of self-doubt that had torn her apart for years now. The boy she loved. She bore no guilt about what had happened years ago. What could she have done? Dhruv should have got that.

She hated him with all her might. She wished he were dead now. Dhruv had filled his shaker with three scoops of per cent whey protein. He stepped into a dhaba while the mechanic refilled the coolant. Still about fifty kilometres to go. A couple of houseflies started to hover around the dirty bandage on his right hand. He needed a new dressing for that wound. It smelled like shit but it was essential for rapid muscle growth. Karan had admitted to kissing his exgirlfriend and had the gall to say.

What had really cracked Dhruv up was when Karan staggered to his feet and threw a rock at Dhruv who caught it with his right hand. People needed to be punished and left with scars that would remain for a lifetime. Dhruv still thought he let him off easy. Dhruv gargled with the tea instead. A serving boy came with the tea. It was the sweetest fucking thing he had ever tasted and he spat it out. A small round steel plate with the bill reached his table.

Dhruv was gone. Dhruv got up from his chair. He walked to his bike. Everything bathed in oil. She burped. Before long she unpacked. She caught the bus that would take her to DTU. She signed the register.

It would be a new start for her and she would not be ignored and taken lightly there. Unlike school. The bus dropped her off at the gate of her new college. Ten minutes later. She woke up with a start. She was dreaming soon. The girls started to rattle off their names. No one mentioned the story of the naked. Things had changed quite a lot for Aranya since primary school. Her condition was always a looming shadow over her associations with people.

The boy clearly hurt looked left and right. Aranya could almost feel the insults flying at her. My seniors sit around in boxer shorts and harass their juniors. You screwed with the wrong person. AIEEE rank Triple scholar gown holder in school. None of the seniors will ever help you. Why do you think none of your friends here are backing you up? You were saying that none of the seniors would help me?

What makes you think I would need their help? The matter was settled when they roughed up Dhruv. 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. They had to rush the senior to the hospital. The seniors had come knocking at his door and he had asked them to fuck off. Mr Tripathi. Still in his shorts and flip-flops. Dhruv knocked at the door. It was a class full of hopeful and hopeless.

The class turned to look at him. Tripathi asked the class. The students shook their heads. So I thought it was better I dressed up for the occasion. I was hoping the first class would be a sort of informal introductory session where we would get to know each other better. And hi! The first three were identical. Dhruv sat there. The professor started to teach them about fusion. But then she turned.

If she turned out to be fair he would forgive her plumpness and give her a good beer rating. The last one was a little hard to place in the heirarchy.

One of them was fair and being the racist bastard he was. From where he was sitting he could see her head strictly followed the chalk like she was controlling it. She was furiously scribbling notes. She had her back towards him. It was her. She had seen him too. The girl had patchy skin. For the rest of the period. And then it struck him.

She reminded herself of the task at hand —be a pet student of every professor. She had noticed his roving. She found herself thinking why the face looked so familiar and. At least. But she waited for a perfectly timed moment to point it out. It should be three neutrons. Possibly a liposuction as well. Tripathi noticed the mistake. She had noticed the mistake right when Mr Tripathi made it. Or is it four? The professor continued to teach nuclear physics to a bored class till the clock struck nine-thirty.

Mutual admiration was the first step towards a healthy and fruitful relationship. Tripathi dictated the names of a few reference books and the serial numbers of the questions they had to finish before the next class. I will be a good. Many hands went up. I will stand up and tell you how you changed my life as a professor. Aranya could have said this but she gingerly raised her hand and kept her mouth shut. Aranya offered to help the professor carry his books back to the staffroom.

You can trust me. All of you will report to her from now on. He turned her. In moments of despair when you feel like your best days as a college professor are over. Tripathi left and Aranya revelled in her newfound power over the other students. The seniors can be quite a handful. The students had started filtering out. The boy was still in the class. Awkward first conversations had grown into fulsome banters and groups of students made their way to the canteen.

The boy. Aranya did not move out. Why was he looking? Was he mocking her? Was he disgusted? By the time she finished colour coding her notes. You were sure about the. He looked up from his game. Just as she passed him.

He was playing Temple Run with his phone held sideways. Hurled quite a few insults. Were you making up for this? I heard about the little incident you had with the senior last evening.

You lied to get that position. Or maybe the professor just pitied you for the way you look. I just wanted to point it out. His eyes felt like spiders on her skin. Her ears burned. But you already saw that. The bastard was smiling. I need to go. Her fingers had started to hurt by now. How could she not be better than him?

She took little breaks to wipe the sweat off her palms. Two more hours passed by. It was tougher than she had imagined it would be and it was making her restless.

Another hour passed by in a flash. Her eyes were burning. She put a reminder on her phone to meet him in his staffroom. It was organic chemistry by Prof. She took out her timetable. She was hungry now. She stretched her fingers.

Another half an hour and the battery of her phone died. Let it go. She whispered to herself. She left the cubicle and washed her face. I wonder how. I have better things to do. So just leave me alone. Dhruv kept his phone in his pocket.

But I feel I will get to know more of you as we spend more time together. Not being good enough for anyone? You called me ugly. Remember me? The boy whose mom left him? The last desk? Lunches shared together? Your face tells me you do now. Even TT? But what about your face? What will you do about that? That will always be the first.

You might remember playing a hand in expelling me from school by lying in front of the committee. I was as shocked as you are. But now that you are here too. He had let her be for now but she knew. Some seniors had tried to induct Dhruv into their groups. All of a sudden Dhruv heard the door of the roof being banged open and a tall.

Dhruv saw him peeing off the roof. The match in the parking lot of the hostel had ended with collar-grabbing and shouts of madarchod. Dhruv heard. The boy started to sing an old Hindi song. From the corner of his eye.

It was too calm. He started to talk. The boy wobbled and sat next to Dhruv. Imagine the beautiful Himalayas. By the way. I use my left hand. Now fuck off. Your parents should have smacked you with a dictionary. A dying art I must say. Very 80s but still very cool. Where did you learn it? Gossip Girl? Pretty little liars? You look the type. Dhruv looked away. I love a girl with muscles. You must try it. And if you had the boobies. I can loan you some FBB porn. I would totally go for you. Do you not like the female form?

Or do you feel emasculated in front of a beautiful. The real question is. The juniors come. A few girls would vomit all over themselves. Things were clearly tense. She had cruised her way into the cultural fest organizing team. Aranya was running the machinery with military-like discipline. This is our heritage. The group has only five girls now. Last year there were fifteen. Grow some balls and help me screw this up! I thought you hated that girl. We are the fucking upholders of average!

This is not IIT. Who likes perfect people? I have no reason to. You man-love me. So what do I do about it? As if. Dhruv saw Aranya with her little black transponder hanging from her back pocket. Dhruv had every reason to see her crumble to ash. The choreographer.

They were now sitting at the windowsill. They have hired a choreographer this time. Move those feet! Do it. No one was spared from her caustic tongue.

Just imagine everyone in sync. Dhruv laughed at this and the voice carried to the inside of the dance room and everyone looked in his direction. Are you pregnant? Then why are you so scared in the lift? The boy will not drop you and kill your unborn child!

Are you trying to get pregnant? Be sensuous. But wait! Oh yes. I remember you being thrown out of the school because of it. And before you go into reminding me about that childish story of when we were eight. She turned towards her troupe who looked confused. Can we do it again from the top. He imagined throwing it. Dhruv walked around in circles.

Sometimes he would understand. But the girl he had refused to move on from had moved on. He found the perfect rock. But usually he would say never and ask the counsellor to piss off. I deserve this. Sanchit threw the rock and it went over. The bitch deserved it. Let me have. I should do it. He swung his arm and aimed. The dance routine was in two parts.

The professors were nodding appreciatively at the fine balance of fun and sensibility. Check the staffroom. Mitra shrugged as if not wanting to answer. He was like the yeti or the Loch Ness monster—a legend. She was a fan of his long flowing hair. She even had cutouts of him in a physics book back in her hostel.

Truth be told. She had hired three professional bouncers to tackle anyone who misbehaved but she waved them down when they asked her if she wanted them to remove Sanchit. Aranya had initially wanted.

After the events were over. The forms had been pored over by Prof. Dhruv was the seventh.

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One slip and he would break her. She had maintained the facade of being unaffected around him. Ten girls and ten boys were asked to step up on the stage and answer questions before they could show off any particular talent. Her palms grew sweaty and she had half a mind to ask the bouncers to get him off the stage immediately.

Raghuvir to be on the panel but he was unavailable. She had to. She felt her breath get stuck in her throat. He had destroyed her life once. Objectification of both men and women is rampant. Then he held the microphone close to his mouth and started to speak. Is that what we. Beauty is defined by shades on a plastic strip. She had been looking at the projector lights.

Are we not the most conscious beings in the universe? Then why. I ask you. The girls I see in the crowd. If we were blind. I would fall in love with every one of them. So are you. Miss Aranya! And with one last gesture of holding his arms wide open.

Suddenly he was Oprah. And so are you. Aranya and made a mental note to overdose on sleeping pills and die for doing so. The crowd exploded in applause and Aranya swore she saw a couple of girls cry and mutter. Mitra to the panel. Aranya stood there. Quite some time passed before the crowd settled down again.

Mitra clapped followed by the rest of the bench. Dhruv was still smiling at the crowd. Thank you. We slaved for hours together to perfect my routine. Can we have a huge round of applause for her? She has worked really hard for it. The auditorium erupted. But before I do that.

He threw the microphone on the side. A spotlight shone on Dhruv. That fucking smile. But Aranya knew that smile. Dhruv took a deep breath and started to sway his hips to the music. An orchestra with violins and pianos and cellos and saxophones started to blare out of the speakers. A few boys in the crowd whistled. He motioned for the music to start. The lights went out. Dhruv jumped into the crowd. No doubt about it now.

People gasped. The music reached a crescendo. The professors were too stunned to react. Dhruv swayed his hips faster. He came to the edge of the stage and winked at the crowd and slowly started to unbutton his shirt.

It was a goddamn striptease. He was stripping. Three more buttons were unbuttoned and he ripped his shirt off. Beyonce on steroids. He grabbed his crotch and thrust his pelvis rhythmically towards the crowd.

Aranya felt bolted to the floor. Her eyes shut. Sanchit had offered him a metaphorical blowjob whenever he was in need of one and a spare Tshirt. Dhruv inspected the bruises on his stomach. Any other day he would have taken them. The thumps of bass from the speakers started to filter through to the washroom.

I think I heard women come in the crowd. Oh her! I think she passed out or something. And to celebrate it. 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. Get drunk today because tomorrow Mitra is going to screw your happiness. They left the washroom and walked towards the amphitheatre where the DJ was playing pirated CDs of bygone hits.

Sanchit struggling to light his cigarette. Royal Stag and Old Monk. They walked back. They got drunk on a mix of Romanov. Sanchit was a masterful bartender but a lousy drunk. I need to sit. Hold my hand. Dhruv walked towards the crowd. It will be like Sylvester Stallone and Arnold after a long drunk night. I need to walk. The girls. The boys looked around themselves to copy steps from each other.

Dhruv closed his eyes. He started to dance alone with his eyes closed and his arms in the air. Aranya sat there. The man sat next to her. Vodka she guessed. What he carried in his right hand was a curiously shaped bottle.

He looked straight ahead at the students dancing. He filled the next with orange juice and offered it. He poured what looked like a lot of vodka in one and kept it aside. At once she was jealous of all the female reporters who got him to pose.

Professor Raghuvir. Aranya hyperventilated. Having now recognized the man. He was handsomer than the pictures in the newspapers. She smiled like a silly schoolgirl. Christian Grey. Like a young. Not like a boy. He could kill a puppy right now and still look gorgeous. Raghuvir asked and whipped out a cigarette. There was something very Christian Grey about him. Forget about it. He was an asshole. Filed thirtythree patents.

Snippets of information about Dr Raghuvir bounced about in her frenzied brain. Filed eighteen patents. All named after him.

And it had been nine years since then. If he thought he was right about something. He was a temperamental. His reputation in the scientific community had been of a self-aware prick. He knew he would change the world.

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.

A less talented man would have made a fool of himself but not Raghuvir. When these relationships ended Raghuvir was often found blaming a lack of common ground for the failure. He was a little celebrity in his time. Shall we go? I thought. My room is on the first floor and you can come over.

He still looked like a. That day. They both continued sitting there. 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. PhD student who lives in the next building. From where she sat she saw his face bobbing. He picked up the bottle of vodka from the floor.

Aranya frowned. Hope you had a good night. The students had made the most of the time left—some danced. As per directions from the dean. Everyone swore and threw empty plastic cups at him. He found Sanchit bent over a hedge at a distance. The music stopped. Facebook posts went up. Dhruv walked around. The roads of the college were deserted. The students were in their beds. He had just turned a corner when he heard someone vomiting behind a parked. I need to throw up a little.

On the other side of an old Honda City he saw a girl. Quite classy. She was barely 5'4" but she had a flat stomach and very taut quads. Dhruv did as asked and held her hair in a bunch while the girl grunted like a hyena while she tried to vomit. She sanitized her hand. The girl fetched a little sealed bottle of water from her pretty-looking handbag and rinsed her mouth.

At one point Dhruv saw her thrusting a finger inside her food pipe and try again. But thank you and see you around. I just had a little too much to eat tonight. Dhruv turned. Dhruv bowed and turned away from her.

You know what I mean. Had to flush that out of the system. He ran and got a pair of binoculars from his room. At a distance. It was one of the many gifts his mother had sent him over the last eight years. Every time he closed his eyes.

So she sent him a different gift every year. Was it because of him? Once it was a paintbox. How would she know what he wants?

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He saw Aranya slumped over the laptop. You earn my respect today. It even records. He watched them fall to the ground below and shatter. Minutes passed and he kept looking at her. I know a guy in customs who can get us that. The binoculars were beyond repair. While he walked back to his room his. He had cried himself to sleep that day. As he picked them up. Fuck you. Were you sleeping? Should I call later? Your voice sounds strange. He spent the night talking to Ritika while he clicked through pictures of her in twenty segregated albums on her Facebook account.

I owe it to you. He climbed over him and slammed the door. He walked to his room and found Sanchit slumped outside his door. Ritika was a run-of-the-. Needless to say. They were nice girls but a little too silly and a little too obsessed with their own faces. Her Facebook picture was a bird. 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. It used to be somewhat odd for Aranya to be in conversations where only Facebook.

Snapchat and Whatsapp were discussed. It was straight out of a movie. 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. Aranya offered to help the professor carry his books back to the staffroom.

He turned her down nicely. The seniors can be quite a handful. Tripathi left and Aranya revelled in her newfound power over the other students. The students had started filtering out. Awkward first conversations had grown into fulsome banters and groups of students made their way to the canteen, forging new friendships and enmities.

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Aranya did not move out. Instead, she corrected her notes, underlining important equations, dog-earing pages in her books before she forgot. The boy was still in the class, picking at the wound in his palm, looking in her direction.

Why was he looking? Was he mocking her? Was he disgusted? By the time she finished colour coding her notes, the class was empty. The boy was still there, feet propped up on the desk, playing on his phone, little beeps filling the space around him, a murderous smirk on his face.

He looked up from his game. He was playing Temple Run with his phone held sideways. You lied to get that position. Or maybe the professor just pitied you for the way you look. I just wanted to point it out.

Also, I heard about the little incident you had with the senior last evening. Were you making up for this? His eyes felt like spiders on her skin. Her ears burned. The bastard was smiling. It was tougher than she had imagined it would be and it was making her restless, even angry. How could she not be better than him? She took little breaks to wipe the sweat off her palms, the tears off her face, and then breathed slowly and calmed herself down, and tried again.

Two more hours passed by. Her fingers had started to hurt by now. For the first time in eight years she missed a class. She took out her timetable. It was organic chemistry by Prof.

Mitra, the dean of the college. She put a reminder on her phone to meet him in his staffroom, apologize profusely and tell him how big a fan she was of his work on—whatever the hell he did his PhD in. She stretched her fingers. Her eyes were burning. Another hour passed by in a flash. She was hungry now. Another half an hour and the battery of her phone died. She left the cubicle and washed her face.

Let it go. I have better things to do. So just leave me alone. Dhruv kept his phone in his pocket, stood up, and stepped closer to her. Calm down, Aranya. You called me ugly, and questioned my selection as the class representative. Not being good enough for anyone? But I feel I will get to know more of you as we spend more time together. You might remember playing a hand in expelling me from school by lying in front of the committee.

Remember me? The boy whose mom left him? The last desk? Lunches shared together? Your face tells me you do now. I was as shocked as you are.

Debating, studies, scholarships, projects? Even TT? But what about your face? What will you do about that? That will always be the first thing people look at.

He had let her be for now but she knew, sooner or later, he would mess with her. Some seniors had tried to induct Dhruv into their groups, most of them rogue seniors who assumed Dhruv would be like them—a weed-smoking, chronic-masturbating, porn-loving, counter-strike champion, but Dhruv was yet to be infected with the responsibilities of keeping a friendship going.

It was too calm. The match in the parking lot of the hostel had ended with collar-grabbing and shouts of madarchod, madarchod. All of a sudden Dhruv heard the door of the roof being banged open and a tall, lanky boy stumbled out of the staircase. From the corner of his eye, Dhruv saw him peeing off the roof, one hand raised over his head waving a peace sign.

The boy started to sing an old Hindi song, grossly out of tune. Dhruv heard the voice coming towards him and he rolled his eyes readying himself for another drawling conversation, another attempt at an induction into a circle of dull men.

The boy wobbled and sat next to Dhruv. He started to talk, his voice a low slur. A dying art I must say. Where did you learn it? Gossip Girl? Pretty little liars? You look the type. Dhruv looked away. Very 80s but still very cool. Now fuck off. Your parents should have smacked you with a dictionary. And if you had the boobies, I would totally go for you. I love a girl with muscles. I can loan you some FBB porn.

You must try it. Do you not like the female form? Or do you feel emasculated in front of a beautiful, muscular woman who has bigger traps than yours? The real question is, do you want to pee on the world? The juniors come together and prepare horribly synchronized dance routines, someone sings woefully out of tune, an unfunny fat person mimics professors, a boy in a gunjee does a solo dance performance ripped off from a Step Up movie without the dexterity or the awesomeness, etc.

She had cruised her way into the cultural fest organizing team, the IEEE, the debating team, and had turned out to be a professional ass-licker. Aranya was running the machinery with military-like discipline. Things were clearly tense. The group has only five girls now.

This is our heritage. Who likes perfect people? This is not IIT. We are the fucking upholders of average! I thought you hated that girl. Grow some balls and help me screw this up!

So what do I do about it? As if that incident which scarred him for life had no bearing on hers. Dhruv had every reason to see her crumble to ash. They were now sitting at the windowsill, looking inside. They have hired a choreographer this time.

Just imagine everyone in sync. The choreographer, along with his girl partner, pirouetted effortlessly on the dance floor and expected the students to follow suit. No one was spared from her caustic tongue. Move those feet! Do it like he does!

Are you pregnant? Then why are you so scared in the lift? The boy will not drop you and kill your unborn child! Are you trying to get pregnant? Be sensuous, not vulgar. Dhruv laughed at this and the voice carried to the inside of the dance room and everyone looked in his direction. But wait! I remember you being thrown out of the school because of it.

And before you go into reminding me about that childish story of when we were eight. Can we do it again from the top, please? Sometimes he would understand. But usually he would say never and ask the counsellor to piss off. But the girl he had refused to move on from had moved on. Dhruv walked around in circles, looking for something.

He found the perfect rock, picked it up and aimed it at the glass window. The bitch deserved it. He swung his arm and aimed, but Sanchit stopped him midway. I should do it. Let me have. Sanchit threw the rock and it went over, missing the target by a mile. The dance practice went on as planned.

The professors were nodding appreciatively at the fine balance of fun and sensibility, the precision of the start and end times of the events, and the smell of the fresh bouquets in their hands. The dance routine was in two parts, the first part was on the stage, pretty average mundane stuff, perfectly timed to bore people into a lull before the second group sprang up from the audience, a bit like a flash mob, and danced like their life depended on it.

Mitra, the dean, who told her that he was proud of her. Mitra shrugged as if not wanting to answer. He was like the yeti or the Loch Ness monster—a legend. Before she had joined DTU, she had thought he would be all over the place—lecturing, researching ground-breaking ideas, patenting stuff, being handsome—but he was turning out to be quite a recluse. Truth be told, ever since Aranya cleared the entrance, she had been waiting to meet Prof.

She even had cutouts of him in a physics book back in her hostel. She was a fan of his long flowing hair, the roundish spectacles he sported in all those newspaper clippings and his strikingly boyish looks. She had hired three professional bouncers to tackle anyone who misbehaved but she waved them down when they asked her if she wanted them to remove Sanchit.

Durjoy Datta

After the events were over, it was time to choose the Mister and Miss Fresher of the day. The forms had been pored over by Prof. Mitra, a couple of unimportant professors and one fourthyear student. Aranya had initially wanted Prof. Raghuvir to be on the panel but he was unavailable. Ten girls and ten boys were asked to step up on the stage and answer questions before they could show off any particular talent.

Dhruv was the seventh. One slip and he would break her. She had maintained the facade of being unaffected around him. She had to maintain that. He had destroyed her life once. Mitra, mentally patting himself for his insightful questions. She felt her breath get stuck in her throat. I Love u Rachu 19 Dhruv took a few seconds to collect his thoughts. Then he held the microphone close to his mouth and started to speak. Objectification of both men and women is rampant, be it in television, movies or books.

Beauty is defined by shades on a plastic strip, for both women and men, and by inches on a tape. Is that what we have become? Are we not the most conscious beings in the universe? Then why, I ask you, the boys and girls in the audience, then why, why would we always turn our heads when a gorgeous boy or a girl walks by, and not when a studious, ambitious, maybe averagelooking girl does? She had been looking at the projector lights, wishing them to crash on his head, but now she was listening to him.

If we were blind, we would have been better off for we could have seen things more clearly, for what they are. So are you. Suddenly he was Oprah. Mitra clapped followed by the rest of the bench. Dhruv was still smiling at the crowd, and at the girls.

Aranya stood there, confused, almost a little angry. Mitra to the panel, but the professors shook their heads. She has worked really hard for it. Can we have a huge round of applause for her? The auditorium erupted.

Aranya looked on, confused. We slaved for hours together to perfect my routine. Thank you, Aranya. A few boys in the crowd whistled, the professors nodded approvingly. But Aranya knew that smile. That fucking smile. He motioned for the music to start. An orchestra with violins and pianos and cellos and saxophones started to blare out of the speakers. He threw the microphone on the side. Dhruv took a deep breath and started to sway his hips to the music. The lights went out. A spotlight shone on Dhruv, it split into two, red and green and revolved around him, as Dhruv gyrated.

Dhruv swayed his hips faster, his hands on his chest, slowly and seductively slipping down, and he tugged at his shirt and pulled it out. He came to the edge of the stage and winked at the crowd and slowly started to unbutton his shirt.

Now, he was looking at Aranya who stood frozen. Three more buttons were unbuttoned and he ripped his shirt off. The music reached a crescendo. He was stripping. No doubt about it now. It was a goddamn striptease. People gasped. The professors were too stunned to react.

Dhruv jumped into the crowd, shirtless, and started twerking and grinding like Beyonce on steroids. He grabbed his crotch and thrust his pelvis rhythmically towards the crowd. Well, at least partly. Aranya felt bolted to the floor.

Mitra, the laughing guys, the gasping girls, were one homogeneous mix in her ears, and while she was falling to the ground she saw him shirtless and laughing in his red printed boxers, the three bouncers tackling him and punching him in his face.

Her eyes shut, thinking of his murderous smile, his bare torso and Prof. Sanchit had offered him a metaphorical blowjob whenever he was in need of one and a spare Tshirt. Dhruv inspected the bruises on his stomach. Any other day he would have taken them, but they came from behind, and he was distracted by the white-faced Aranya. I think I heard women come in the crowd. Oh her! The thumps of bass from the speakers started to filter through to the washroom.

They left the washroom and walked towards the amphitheatre where the DJ was playing pirated CDs of bygone hits. Most of the students were sitting on the topmost stairs of the amphitheatre. As Dhruv trained his eyes he saw a handful of students dancing out of tune. Sanchit was a masterful bartender but a lousy drunk.

They walked back, their feet unsteady, Sanchit struggling to light his cigarette, the lights of the auditorium piercing their pupils. I need to sit. I need to walk. Hold my hand. It will be like Sylvester Stallone and Arnold after a long drunk night. Dhruv walked towards the crowd, leaving behind Sanchit, who walked unsteadily, still trying to light his cigarette. The girls, a few of them drunk, were dancing without caution now, their facial hair and unchecked sideburns glistening with sweat. The boys looked around themselves to copy steps from each other, big, wet patches on their shirt underarms making them extremely desirable.

Dhruv closed his eyes, forced himself to think that the music played by DJ Raju —a twenty-year-old boy with brown streaked hair and betel stains on his teeth —was still relevant and there was no harm in dancing to Katie Perry. He started to dance alone with his eyes closed and his arms in the air; he was never a good dancer but who gave a damn. The man sat next to her.

What he carried in his right hand was a curiously shaped bottle, Vodka she guessed, and two plastic glasses and orange juice in a tetrapack in the left. He looked straight ahead at the students dancing, the strobe lights, the eager young men and the shy young women, the madness. He poured what looked like a lot of vodka in one and kept it aside. He filled the next with orange juice and offered it to Aranya who readily accepted it.

Having now recognized the man, she was finding it tough to not fling herself in his direction. Aranya hyperventilated. She smiled like a silly schoolgirl.

He was handsomer than the pictures in the newspapers. At once she was jealous of all the female reporters who got him to pose. There was something very Christian Grey about him.

Like a young, toned-down, sane, cute, not a psychopath, Christian Grey. Raghuvir asked and whipped out a cigarette. Not like a boy, but a man, experience and habit reflecting in his jagged, swift moves. He could kill a puppy right now and still look gorgeous.

Accidents happen. He was an asshole. Forget about it. Snippets of information about Dr Raghuvir bounced about in her frenzied brain. All named after him. Filed eighteen patents. Filed thirtythree patents. And it had been nine years since then. His reputation in the scientific community had been of a self-aware prick. He knew he would change the world.

If he thought he was right about something, he would obsessively bulldoze others with his theories, deride them, question them and make them believe in him. He was a temperamental, obsessive, control freak, manic genius— like all geniuses should be, the stuff legends are made of.

During the latter days of his illustrious career as a young path-breaking researcher it was speculated that he became a bit of a philanderer, stumbling from one relationship to another, ending up an emotional wreck. When these relationships ended Raghuvir was often found blaming a lack of common ground for the failure. A less talented man would have made a fool of himself but not Raghuvir; he had the choicest quips for anyone who still doubted his abilities. Slowly, he had snuck out of limelight.

My room is on the first floor and you can come over. Shall we go? He still looked like a PhD student who lives in the next building, a bit nerdy yet unobtrusively good-looking. His slightly longish hair flopped around his head and he sported a three-day-old stubble. He had these big black pools for eyes which no contact lenses could dull. To Aranya they were huge, like portals to another world of love, puppies and rainbows and supercomputers. Aranya frowned. He picked up the bottle of vodka from the floor.

Hope you had a good night. As per directions from the dean, girls are supposed to go back to their hostels and sign the register! Everyone swore and threw empty plastic cups at him.

The World's Best Boyfriend

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.