The World's Best Boyfriend

by Durjoy Datta

  He wanted to get into the middle of things again.

  While he waited outside for the meeting to start, knowing fully that he would have to leave the college, he knew he didn’t want the girl to suffer. He wanted to make sure the girl went through nothing because of the video that surfaced that day.

  Mitra made him wait for half an hour outside his office before he was called in. Childish, but nothing he hadn’t expected from Mitra. Mitra sat behind his dark mahogany desk, the one he had bought recently and through suspicious means. He had also bought a new car. It was safe to say that the centrifugal machine he had just bought for the college wasn’t as expensive as he made it out to be.

  Raghuvir took his seat and waited for Mitra to broach the topic which he did almost immediately, mincing no words.

  ‘The choice in front of the administration is quite simple, Raghuvir. Either you have to go or she will have to. If the transgression of the decorum of the college is from both sides, it will look bad on the college and we can’t afford that.’

  ‘With all due respect to you, let me get this clear. If I tell you I’m the person at fault, you will make me put in my papers and leave. And if the girl’s at fault, she will have to leave the college.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘It’s clear in your proposition that you want me to leave the college, don’t you? What I fail to understand is, why are you taking the step that you are?’ asked Raghuvir, his eyes narrowing. Leaving Aranya behind, unguarded, was terrifying but necessary. So was letting Mitra know that others aren’t fools.

  ‘People talk.’

  ‘That’s very reassuring coming from the dean of an esteemed institution. People talk? That’s your argument?’ grumbled Raghuvir, barely managing not to get swept away by anger.

  ‘Don’t teach me my job, Mr Raghuvir. I have been running this college since you were a child,’ said Mitra like every old person when they run out of defences.

  ‘Then pray tell me, if that student were a boy would you have taken the same step?’ asked Raghuvir.

  The dean looked uneasy. He looked at his watch, at his cup of tea, his tongue floundered. ‘You don’t get to ask questions.’

  ‘What do I get to do then?’

  ‘All you need to do is to choose between you and her. I have other matters to attend to, Mr Raghuvir.’

  Raghuvir leaned back in his chair and brought forth the crumpled resignation letter he had typed out that morning. Mitra read it with suspicion and kept it under the paperweight when satisfied.

  ‘Your accounts will be cleared within a month.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. But I do expect you to be nice to the girl.’ he said before leaving.

  Back in his room, Raghuvir dumped his sparse belongings into a big leather suitcase. He felt hollow. He had never liked being here in DTU; it was always supposed to be a stop-gap arrangement, something that would serve its purpose, some place he could move on from without attaching any nostalgia to it. But now that he was leaving . . . A few more days couldn’t have hurt.

  He would miss Aranya and the joy of having found someone he could relate to. All that radio talk about opposites being perfect for each other is nonsense. You always find someone who’s exactly similar to you. With whom you can stick so close that only a vacuum can exist between the two of you.

  He zipped the suitcase shut. He would miss Aranya. What was it in her? He certainly wasn’t in love with her. And what was love anyway? He had been with way too many women to know it didn’t exist. Maybe love was nothing more than finding someone who loved the exact things that you did. Love was not about loving everything about the other person, or being intimate, or being loyal, or being happy with sleeping with one person for the rest of your life; love was about finding yourself again. So he loved Aranya in that sense even though he really didn’t! Love was not really a fairy tale. It was a practical relationship from which both the partners gained something. And he knew that though Aranya fawned over him, she was into Dhruv. Only a fool wouldn’t understand that those two were supposed to end up together. So for now, there was no place for Raghuvir in the equation. Dhruv and Aranya were young and foolish and they didn’t know the world like Raghuvir did. He had been like them once and had got burned. They would too.

  A part of him hoped Aranya would bump into him and he would explain to her what love really was and maybe they would have a chance then. If not, he had the best in his heart for her.

  Having resigned, he spent the next day locked up naked in the room with Smriti and left the college without a word.

  I Love u Rachu

  41

  Dhruv rejoiced at Raghuvir’s disappearance from the campus.

  No longer would he have to imagine Raghuvir and Aranya in the mechanics of a solids laboratory, working on lowering the friction coefficient long after stipulated college hours.

  That day, every word of Aranya’s speech in class had stoked his fear of having fallen in love with her. He had wanted to throw something at her to make her stop harking about Raghuvir but the ferocity and control of Aranya’s words stunned him. Good riddance, Dhruv had thought.

  Although he had noticed the funereal expression on Aranya’s face, he was sure she would get over Raghuvir. It wasn’t as if she was in love with him or anything. A few more weeks passed and Aranya was still behaving like someone had died. She would constantly be distracted in class, doodling away in her notebook, lost in her daydreams, hardly caring about who submitted the assignment and which professor threw her out of the class.

  Sometimes, Dhruv would spot her hanging outside Raghuvir’s cabin. She would do her assignments sitting outside his door, papers strewn around her, books stacked in a corner as if Raghuvir was just late for a scheduled meeting. Often he would find her with her eyes shut, as if praying for his return. More than a few times, he had seen her text him on his now-defunct number.

  Irritated at the cuckoo behaviour and the insane devotion, Dhruv confronted Aranya one day while she sat outside Raghuvir’s room.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Dhruv.

  ‘Assignments. And if you don’t mind I am in no mood to have a conversation right now.’

  ‘I just wanted to point out that in the last three assignments I managed a better grade than you.’ Dhruv laughed and winked, hoping to anger Aranya.

  Aranya scribbled away in her notebook, not once looking at Dhruv.

  ‘I beat you. Are you not seeing that?’ asked Dhruv.

  ‘Good for you.’

  Dhruv tried not to say anything more but couldn’t help it. ‘That man left. Get over it. Show that Raghuvir’s leaving the college doesn’t matter to you, that you’re a heartless bitch because that’s how I know you as! Because that’s what you were. You fucking lied and ruined my life years ago when I loved you. And here you’re waiting for a man to turn up? What did I do that you didn’t stand up for me and fucking lied but you can sit here all day and rue about Raghuvir’s absence? Did you regret my absence as well? Did you sit like this in the last bench where we used to sit? Did you miss me as well? Or were you busy protecting your stupid scholarship? Why him and not me?’

  ‘You are getting nothing from me,’ Aranya said calmly. Dhruv threw his hands in the air, exasperated and walked back to his room. The girl’s unflinching devotion towards Raghuvir was excruciating for Dhruv. He would have preferred getting skinned alive.

  A month after Raghuvir’s resignation, Aranya had accepted offers from two more professors, Dr Sharma and Dr Mitra, to be their research assistant. Prof. Mitra, who had been waiting for his revenge on Aranya who had turned him down earlier, was exceptionally hard on her, making her work nights and days in succession, counting on her to either succumb or make a mistake, whichever came earlier.

  It was the latter.

  A couple of weeks after she had started working with Prof. Mitra, he came marching and shouting into the class with an army of teachers behind him. Apparently an expensive machine had shorted in the
laboratory and there was a small fire.

  ‘WHERE IS ARANYA?’ shouted Prof. Mitra. Aranya who looked like she was expecting it stood up. ‘Do you even know how much that machine costs, Aranya? ANSWER ME! DO YOU KNOW? How could you not keep the mains off? Don’t stand there like a fool—answer me! What’s the reason behind such carelessness? Will your parents pay for the damage? Tell me? Who will pay for it?’ Prof. Mitra’s face was flushed red, his voice shook with anger, his body convulsed like he was having a stroke. He addressed Prof. Tripathi, ‘Mr Tripathi, now you tell me what I should do? On your recommendation I chose this girl and now she has ruined the incubator I had ordered from Germany. Thirty lakh rupees! It’s all ruined. It’s all wasted! What do I tell the trustees now?’

  Aranya shivered, little drops of tears dropped on to her notebook.

  ‘DARE YOU EVER COME NEAR MY LAB! And tell me what to do with that junk machine now? Should I just throw it? TELL ME.’

  ‘It happened by mistake,’ mumbled Aranya.

  ‘MISTAKE? YOU CALL IT A MISTAKE, MISS ARANYA! Tell me, tell me, what do I do with it?’

  Dhruv had had enough. He interrupted Prof. Mitra. ‘Sell it for scrap. Do you want me to break it for you? Isn’t the machine’s delivery in college and your new car a delicious coincidence?’

  ‘These students, I tell you. Disgrace. I will not take this. I will call your parents. And Dhruv, you should keep your tongue in check or I will have you expelled,’ said Prof. Mitra and strode out.

  Dhruv left the class. These old failed men needed to be taught a lesson. Even if Prof. Mitra whored out his whole family, sold kidney, spleen and heart, he couldn’t have afforded a Mercedes CLA45 AMG. He strode to the sports room and issued a slightly old but sturdy Slazenger bat. Prof. Mitra’s lab was on the third floor. He ran up the flight of stairs, heaving and panting, and found the laboratory locked. He held the bat upside down and slammed the handle into the lock which didn’t budge even slightly.

  ‘I thought you would need this,’ said Sanchit who was walking towards the laboratory, a key dangling from his fingers.

  ‘How did you know I would be here?’

  ‘That’s not too hard to guess now, is it? Prof. Mitra berates her in front of an entire class. So the boy who’s irrevocably in love with her has to step in, right?’

  Sanchit opened the door and pointed to the machine that lay in the distance, gleaming in places, charred in others.

  ‘I am not in love with her,’ said Dhruv and smashed the bat on the incubator. ‘I got her into this mess. It’s my responsibility.’

  ‘Didn’t you want to destroy her?’

  ‘They are calling her parents.’

  ‘You should be happy about that, right? You can repeat history here, can’t you? What better opportunity than this?’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Because you’re in love, Dhruv!’

  ‘If you don’t stop speaking I’m going to swing this in your face.’

  ‘Speaking of swinging, wait for me,’ said Sanchit and grabbed a long spanner himself.

  And together, they smashed the machine to pieces.

  I Love u Rachu

  42

  A few days later, Aranya’s father received a letter from Prof. Mitra about Aranya’s behaviour in college. Prof. Mitra used the choicest of words to pull down Aranya and to highlight her waywardness in college. If his words were not enough, he had slyly attached with the letter the sign-in sheet of the hostel of the day Aranya had returned late in the night.

  Her father called Aranya when he was done reading.

  The letter lay in tatters on their dining table. Aranya’s mother was in tears. The brother had shrugged and only said that they could not expect anything better from a girl like Aranya.

  ‘Where were you that night?’ Aranya’s father asked in a menacing tone.

  ‘T . . . the mid-semesters had e . . . ended. The entire college was out,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Did I ask you about the rest of the college? I asked about you, Aranya! You’re not like them. Don’t you know that? And what is this letter? What on earth are you doing in the college? Did we send you for this? Night outs? And breaking college property? Summons to come meet the dean? Why? Explain it to me. Bol, Aranya. Answer me.’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘What happened that night? I want to know why weren’t you studying!’ her father barked.

  ‘All of us were there . . . us friends.’

  ‘Friends? Waah! Tere friends bhi hain? Tujh jaisi ki friends? Who would be friends with the likes of you,’ her father shouted. ‘I hope you remember what you did the last time you had a friend. What did I tell you before going? You’re not supposed to talk to anyone. And what are you doing? You’re partying! You’re staying out nights with your friends. You’re destroying college property! Waah. I’m so proud of you, beta. Why don’t you just kill us? Huh? We are tired of you. We do everything to hide you from the outside world and you leave no stone unturned to embarrass us. Why? What wrong had we done that you were born to us? Why would you do this to us?’

  In the background she heard her mother sobbing loudly, cursing her wretched luck. ‘God knows what I had done to deserve such a daughter. I wish she were dead.’

  Aranya sat in a corner, hands wrapped around her knees, the phone stuck to her ear, crying, wondering what she had done to her family, as if her disease was by her own volition.

  ‘Aa raha hoon kal main. Theeka karta tujhe mai. (I am coming tomorrow to set you straight),’ said the father and cut the call. Aranya spent the night curled in a little ball on the floor shaking with fear.

  The next morning, her father landed in the college, veins bursting out of his temple, fists clenched. He marched right to her hostel mess and slapped Aranya in front of the hostel staff. Luckily, it was a Sunday and most hostellers were sleeping.

  Aranya was paraded for the next two hours, taken from one professor to another. Her father had begged and pleaded in front of the professors, apologizing for Aranya’s shortcomings, her professors had nodded, appraising Aranya in the newfound knowledge.

  ‘I’m extremely sorry for her behaviour, Sir. She will never do it again. She got into some wrong company I’m sure. She’s usually not like that,’ her father begged, hands folded.

  ‘I understand.’ Prof. Tripathi shook his head. ‘I will make sure I am stricter with her. Also, Prof. Mitra would want to see you as well.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Sir. And Aranya, say sorry to Prof. Tripathi again.’

  They met all her professors. Numbers were exchanged between her professors and her father and promises were made to keep Aranya in check. Like she was a teenager gone astray with tattoos on her shoulders, a dildo in her bag and cocaine her in her bloodstream. However, despite her father’s pleas, none of the professors took Aranya in their projects.

  ‘Who would want a research assistant like you?’ bellowed her father. They were made to wait for three hours for Prof. Mitra to get free from his meetings. He finally called for them. Her father shook Prof. Mitra’s hand and immediately started to apologize for his daughter’s digressions.

  ‘Sir, I apologize for my daughter’s behaviour. Her mother is still in shock. She has always been a perfect student, Sir. God knows what got inside her head. She must have fallen into bad company. I have talked to her. She won’t create any trouble.’

  ‘I would like to believe you, Mr Gupta. We all thought Aranya was a sincere student. Her indiscipline has shocked us too. The economic loss, the hit to the research, the spoilt machine notwithstanding it’s saddening for a professor to see a good student waste his or her life by mixing with the wrong people. I believe she has been spending a lot of time with that professor—’

  ‘Which professor?’

  ‘Prof. Raghuvir. The professor was expelled after a disciplinary meeting. But also ask her to not associate with that boy from her class. He was caught cheating in the mid-semester examinations. And yet—’

  ‘Boy?’ Her
father looked at Aranya.

  ‘Who was that boy who got suspended from the mid-semester examinations?’ Prof. Mitra asked the peon. ‘Oh yes, Dhruv, that’s the boy’s name.’

  The father’s eyes were still on Aranya. ‘Sir, I assure you she will stop talking to him right away.’

  ‘Mr Gupta, since you are here and you seem like a nice man, I should also mention that the day your daughter returned to the college late, she was drunk. It was captured on the CCTV cameras. We have strict rules against that kind of behaviour in this college. We have been very lenient with her till now, Mr Gupta. We never expected this out of her.’

  Aranya hands reflexively went up to save her face as her father swung wildly and smacked her face. She cut her lip on her teeth and tasted iron.

  ‘Tune daaru peena shuru kar diya? YOU WERE DRUNK, ARANYA? Kya bol rahe hain tere professor?’ The father stood up and asked Aranya to remove her hands from her face and slapped her again.

  ‘Listen, Mr Gupta. Take it easy. I’m sure it was a mistake and she will not do it again. Take it easy.’

  The father slapped Aranya two more times. She was crying now. Aranya’s father held his head and slumped in his chair. He stared Aranya down and raised his hand again. Aranya cowered.

  ‘Sir, I’m very sorry on her behalf. I will make sure she never gives you a chance to complain again,’ said the father.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Gupta. You can go now,’ said Prof. Mitra.

  ‘Sir, I have one more request if you allow me. I know my daughter has disgraced your institution but if you can give her some projects to do it will be great. We come from a humble background and she needs to keep her marks up.’

  ‘I will see what I can do. Now I have a few meetings to attend. Thank you for coming, Mr Gupta. The peon will show you out.’