Half Boyfriend
JUDY BALAN & KISHORE MANOHAR
First published in India 2015
Copyright © Judy Balan & Kishore Manohar 2016
The moral right of the authors has been asserted.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.
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Bloomsbury is a trademark of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc.
Bloomsbury Publishing, London, New Delhi, New York and Sydney
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Views and opinions expressed in this book don’t reflect the views and opinions of the editors and publisher.
E-ISBN 978 93 86250 04 9
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Bloomsbury Publishing India
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Dedicated to every woman who has tried to say ‘No’.
Not Particularly Thankful To:
‘Why don’t you stop all this and write something like the Bourne series?’ – Judy’s Dad
‘Got to love the shameless cover!’ – Junior Marketing Person
‘Wonder who’s got the movie rights!’ – Senior Marketing Person
‘How does one co-write a book?’ – Almost everyone
A parody: Because there’s always a better half.
Contents
Prologue
ACT 1
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
ACT 2
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
ACT 3
35
36
37
38
39
40
Epilogue
About the Author
Prologue
It was a scorching Tuesday afternoon in Patna. Or maybe it was a dark and stormy night. That’s the kind of freedom that writers love to misuse. You can just make stuff up. Like the need for a prologue.
Our hero, Manav Jha (whom we’d much rather call MaJah just so that 3 lakh Nepalis and 13 lakh Indians don’t buy this book thinking it has something to do with them), walked into the hotel room of India’s #1 Author knowing fully well that he could be walking into another insipid bestseller. In fact, it was MaJah’s idea. Having devoured all of D-Bag’s books, Majah was quite convinced that he, ‘himself’, was the perfect protagonist for his next book. He was inherently sexist and a borderline stalker. He couldn’t speak English well enough but knew exactly how to use that to his advantage against ‘the English types.’ And he possessed the unique ability to not only remember but painstakingly describe the colour and texture of women’s clothing—he was the quintessential D-Bag hero.
‘Here, read these,’ MaJah said, dropping what seemed like three folders of printouts on D-Bag’s table.
‘What? What is this?’ said D-Bag irritably. ‘I do not have the time or the energy for this.’ He was understandably pooped after almost single-handedly bringing down the standard of Indian literature over the last decade. ‘If that’s a manuscript, you should send it to a publisher,’ and then proceeded to mumble, ‘I haven’t yet bought over a publishing house, you see … because suddenly, nobody wants to read love stories. They want stories about Shiva and Ram. Who’d have thought? Now publishers are falling over each other, selling their souls to have him on board! Not that I care, I’m not even competing with other authors—I’m competing with apps and games …’ D-Bag suddenly snapped out of his little rant with the embarrassment of someone who had said too much to a stranger.
MaJah watched him in quiet amusement.
‘Anyway,’ D-Bag cleared his throat, ‘I’m quitting lad lit. I’m going to write something mythology-based. Krishna, maybe.’
‘Oh no! Don’t do that!’ said MaJah. ‘You are the prince of lad lit! No one writes better lad lit than you in this country …’
A suitably pleased D-Bag looked at MaJah as if to say ‘Keep going.’
Without missing the cue, MaJah went on. ‘Your writing makes a difference to the masses. The English you use is so simple, I sometimes think a six-year-old must have written it …’
‘Alright, enough,’ said D-Bag. ‘Now tell me what those folders are about.’
MaJah looked visibly excited. ‘These,’ he said, ‘are three years of Facebook records of my relationship with Rhea (a girl who needs no introduction). It has everything—the first time we met, the first time we spoke, the first time we changed our relationship status because Facebook didn’t have Half Boyfriend/Girlfriend …’
‘Half what?’ And now it was D-Bag’s turn again to get excited.
MaJah clearly knew that would be the way to hook him. D-Bag had, after all, made a career out of all things distasteful. ‘Yes, I was in love with her and she didn’t like to admit she was in love with me, so she suggested a compromise—she said I could be her half boyfriend.’ This, of course, was only half true but his plan was working perfectly so far. If he could only get The King of the Less than Ordinary to write his version of the truth—that would be the mother of all revenge fantasies come true.
D-Bag meanwhile let out a well rehearsed fake empathetic sigh. ‘She was pretty, I’m guessing?’
‘Very,’ said MaJah. ‘And tall. She was unusually tall. And slim. She had such delicate, feminine wrists …’ he said with a wistful, faraway look.
D-Bag leaned forward. ‘What about the eyebrows? Tell me about the eyebrows!’
It struck MaJah as mildly weird but eyebrows seemed harmless as fetishes went so he obliged. ‘Perfect. They were just the right length and thickness. Not bushy, not too light either.’
D-Bag looked positively horny by now. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said for fear that he might be outed. ‘Tell me more. You guys broke up?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘She died.’
‘What!’ said D-Bag with a start. ‘Are you telling me I’m flipping through a dead girl’s Facebook records?’ This apparently was too creepy and morbid even for D-Bag.
‘No,’ smiled MaJah. ‘That was the plot twist,’ he winked. ‘You see, she faked her own death because she knew I would not stop pursuing her if she had ended things with me in any run-of-the-mill easily misunderstandable manner. But I don’t give up easily. It’s been three years since she left the country after telling me she was dying of cancer! But I managed to get hold of her old journals and now I know exactly how to find her,’ he said with a psychopathic gleam in his eyes.
D-Bag looked impressed. He loved the plot twist. And that gleam was so … himself. In fact, it was better than anything he had come up with. ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘I’ll write it.’
‘Yesss!’ whispered MaJah, going for a fist bum
p. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank yo …’
‘On one condition,’ interrupted D-Bag.
‘Sure! Anything! Just say it!’
‘In the book, I will make it look like I was the one who pointed this out to you,’ said D-Bag.
MaJah was confused. ‘Pointed what out to me?’
‘Well, if I’m going to write your story, I have to be an important character in the story,’ said D-Bag with the callous ease of someone who had been thick-skinned for years.
‘Ohh-kayy …’ said MaJah. ‘But it’s your book. How can you be a character in your own book?’
‘My book, my rules’ said D-Bag. ‘If you want me to write it, I will make it look like you came to me a broken man and I was the one who pointed out that your girlfriend—err, half girlfriend—was still alive.’
‘Uhh, alright, fair enough,’ said MaJah. It was a small price to pay for the most epic revenge ever. This would really teach women everywhere for not reciprocating. MMS scandals were so yesterday. He was about to tell the distorted version of this non-love-story and five lakh people were going to be reading it (in the first print run alone). Rhea may have outsmarted him a couple of times but she’d never see this coming. And D-Bag’s eccentric request seemed like a harmless ego trip that did not really affect the grand scheme of things. ‘Just curious though,’ he said.
‘What?’ asked D-Bag.
‘How do you plan on featuring yourself in the book? Would you be my best friend or something?’
‘Oh, that’s easy,’ shrugged D-Bag like it was the most obvious thing in the world. ‘That’s why I always write a prologue. And wait for it … an epilogue.’
ACT 1
1
Short Version: Boy meets girl. Once. For one whole minute. Decides she is suitable wife material.
Rhea Somany had many things going for her—ravishing looks, a bottomless vault of wealth, friends and family whose lives revolved around her, the admiration of strangers, even a family name that set the right expectations for the pun-inclined. She was also endowed with what one can only ineloquently call plain good luck—birds never pooped on her, traffic lights magically turned green every time she approached, call centres never put her on hold, the clothes she loved were always available in her size and in her favourite colour, UV rays did not harm her, the videos she streamed never buffered—oh, the list is long, very long. But as with most stories that begin with girls who have everything, our heroine too was fashionably revolted by upper class privilege; which often manifested itself as a disguised need to take in losers, lost causes and other outcasts under her magnificent, steel-magnate-family reinforced wings. And as predicted by the spooky family astrologer when she was born, this was going to be her undoing—the loophole that would reverse her good fortune. Forever.
Rhea, in the meanwhile, was having a fabulous first day at college (well, of course). She had made more friends between the time she stepped out of her car and entered the main building than most people make in their entire college life.
‘Lanky dude at two o’clock giving you creepy eyes,’ said Kiran, the curly-haired girl who hadn’t let Rhea out of sight for a second since she emerged out of her car. Kiran was one of those people who occasionally used outdated words like ‘lanky.’ But then she had been Rhea’s best friend of many years and rumour had it that they were a lot more. However since that is not relevant to our story and out of respect for Indian culture, let’s just assume that Kiran was just Rhea’s fiercely protective friend.
‘Where? Where?’ Rhea’s pretty head bobbed around in excitement.
‘I said two o’clock, dummy,’ Kiran placed her hands on either side of Rhea’s head and steered it in the opposite direction till she was looking at said lanky dude squarely in the eye. Dressed in a pair of loose jeans and what seemed like his grandfather’s shirt, nothing about his looks or general demeanour screamed ‘royalty.’ But that’s who our hero, Manav Jha, was—Indian royalty but royalty nonetheless. And as the Prince and Heir to The Throne of Stereotypical Indian Village Number 4, he came with a fair share of entitlement. For starters, he had always assumed that when the time came for him to take a wife, he would simply point at the prettiest girl within his line of sight and she would coyly and most gratefully, accept the honour. The whole village would then dance parading the new couple on their shoulders, while the head priest sacrificed a virgin to appease the Gods and call for showers of blessings on the newlyweds. This was not an uninfluenced assumption, of course; it was just the handed-down version of the traditions of his ancestors— and as prince, it was up to him to uphold it. But there was just one hitch. This was one of the fanciest colleges in Delhi—hell, in India. It may have only been a few hours since he had got here but he was beginning to get the feeling that they just might not be on board with the whole virgin sacrifice thing. Also, the point-and-take-bride thing. For starters, the women seemed to be calling the shots here. The guys were the ones coming up with elaborate schemes to win them over, melodramatic plots to talk to them, go out with them, and on and on—a concept our hero was entirely unfamiliar with but not unwilling to try. He had a lot to learn about this shocking new urban culture where men and women were equal but he was determined to figure it all out. For now, he had learnt her name and got her to notice him and that was a lot.
‘Crap,’ Rhea squirmed uncomfortably. She was looking the guy right in the eye. ‘Let’s get out of here. This is so embarrassing!’
‘Uhh, for him!’ Kiran gave Manav her signature ‘don’t-even-think-about-it’ glare but it didn’t scare him away. Mostly because he had no frame of reference—women never glared at men where he came from, let alone at him—the prince! This was all highly fascinating and he was determined to get to the bottom of this cultural mystery and get the intros out of the way before the day ended.
Manav drummed his fingers restlessly on his desk as the prof took his own sweet time wrapping up. The bell had rung five minutes ago. Now there was no way he could ‘run into’ Rhea, introduce himself and still make it in time for basketball try-outs. He had the whole thing planned out ever since he had found out in the last couple of hours that Rhea had a Messiah Complex and couldn’t resist a lost cause. Great. Now he’d just have to get her to see him as one. After spending the entire English class distracted and getting pulled up for it, Manav decided that he’d be that Lost Small Town Boy Who Spoke the Kind of Broken English One Only Saw In 80’s Hindi Movies to get Rhea’s attention. His English wasn’t great but it wasn’t terrible either but now he was going to practise being terrible at it and totally use it to his advantage. It was the perfect trap. He gritted his teeth as the prof droned on and told himself that villains were a part of every great love story and Professor Singh was merely the first obstacle in his quest for true love. He had no idea how close he was to the truth.
Ten minutes later, he was racing across the campus like a man with his head on fire looking for the nearest well to dive into. He was late for the basketball try-outs and if there was anything Manav cared about as much as he had cared about Rhea in the last seven hours, it was basketball. Hell, he was here on a basketball scholarship. And getting anywhere exclusively by merit was a rarity for our prince, so this was important. Also, he had spent the entire day paralyzed by culture shock and was finally ready to show the world who was boss.
But the universe had its own plans.
There, on the basketball court, was our gorgeous heroine, trying out for the women’s basketball team. ‘Holy shit,’ thought Manav.
‘I know,’ sniggered the universe.
‘I didn’t notice how tall she was!’ sighed Manav.
‘5’9”,’ said the universe. ‘But wait till you notice her eyebrows. They are the most beautifully arched, pleasantly thick, evenly shaped eyebrows you’ve ever seen.’
‘Stop. Just stop,’ Manav begged. This was torture. As if on cue, Rhea floated up into view, going for a slam dunk and interrupting Manav’s exchange with the universe. And when she
was halfway through her move, he realized that this was no ordinary slam dunk. This was slam dunk ballet. Only to better music. Rhea had gone up in the air ball in hand and made a grand twirl like there was an invisible Russian figure skater holding her up in the air. Manav watched the whole thing in slow motion and just as his mouth was officially open, she dunked the ball while adopting the mermaid position in mid air for ten whole seconds.
‘Is it a girl? Is it a mermaid …?’ Manav wondered.
‘It’s Rhea Somany,’ said the universe. ‘And she deserves nothing short of a prince.’
Manav beamed with pride.
‘Really hope you don’t suck at basketball. Anyway, I’m leaving. I have a train to catch and another poor fool to make fun of,’ the universe sniggered on its way out.
Manav waited a few minutes before following Rhea to the car park just in case her psycho friend was around and accused him of being creepy again.
‘Uh … hi … er … good game!’ he blurted out just as she was about to get into her car.
Rhea turned around with a start. ‘Oh, hey! It’s you from … before …’
‘Yes, myself Manav,’ he said, stretching out his hand.
‘Hi Manav, I’m Rhea,’ she smiled and it was blinding. No, really—the whiteness of her teeth was unreal.
‘I know,’ he blurted out.
‘What?’
‘No, I mean no … umm … I’m also playing basketball,’ he said, carefully constructing his sentence in the present continuous like a good bad-English speaker. ‘In fact, I am coming here on basketball scholarship. I am coming from village.’
‘Cool, you play basketball! We should play sometime!’ she said getting into her car. ‘I hope you like it here in Delhi.’ She was just being adorable to strangers as always but Manav’s heart was already doing its own share of slam dunking inside his chest.
‘Say it, say it, just say it,’ he urged himself inside his head.
‘Umm, my English very bad so finding it difficult in Delhi. Maybe your good self can teach me?’
Half Boyfriend Page 1
