You Were My Crush: Till You Said You Love Me!

by Durjoy Datta

  Durjoy Datta

  Orvana Ghai

  YOU WERE MY CRUSH

  Till You Said You Love Me!

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Durjoy Datta

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright Page

  PENGUIN METRO READS

  YOU WERE MY CRUSH …

  DURJOY DATTA was born and brought up in New Delhi. He completed a degree in engineering and business management before embarking on a writing career. His first book, Of Course I Love You …, was published when he was twenty-one years old and was an instant bestseller. His successive novels—Now That You’re Rich …, She Broke Up, I Didn’t!, Oh Yes, I Am Single!, If It’s Not Forever …, Someone Like You—have also found prominence on various bestseller lists, making him one of the highest-selling authors in India. Durjoy lives in New Delhi, loves dogs and is an active CrossFitter.

  For more updates, you can follow him on Facebook (www.facebook.com/durjoydatta1) or Twitter (@durjoydatta).

  ORVANA GHAI was born in New Delhi. She is a postgraduate in marketing from University of Westminster, London. She has worked with international fashion labels, event management companies and NGOs in the past. She loves to dance and holds diplomas in various dance forms. This is her first book.

  To know more about her follow her on Facebook.

  Also by Durjoy Datta

  Hold My Hand

  She Broke Up, I Didn’t!

  I Just Kissed Someone Else!

  Till the Last Breath …

  Of Course I Love You

  Till I Find Someone Better

  (With Maanvi Ahuja)

  Oh Yes, I’m Single!

  And So Is My Girlfriend!

  (With Neeti Rustagi)

  Now That You’re Rich

  Let’s Fall in Love!

  (With Maanvi Ahuja)

  Someone Like You

  (With Nikita Singh)

  If It’s Not Forever

  It’s Not Love

  (With Nikita Singh)

  To the coolest brother anyone could ever have.

  Benoy, this is for you!

  Chapter One

  Ever seen the guy who drives like a maniac in a ridiculously big car? The guy with the powerful dad? The big house? Well, I am that guy.

  Benoy Roy.

  I am not flashy, but I have a big car and a big house, and there is no hiding that. But yes, I do not look rich. I stand five feet and ten inches tall and look like someone you would miss on a busy road. Wheatish complexion, slim, with short, neat hair—that is what my matrimonial ad would read like. Often, I have heard people say, He does not look that rich. I do not blame them; I was never impressed by what I saw in the mirror either.

  Well, it was another morning for me. I was in no hurry again. Life was awesome. I did not have to worry about the early morning lecture, shouting professors or pending assignments.

  My head did not hurt even though I was sure I had got sloshed the night before, since I was on the couch and not on my bed where I should have been! I was still in the clothes I had worn the previous night to the club.

  I must have passed out, I thought.

  These nights of excessive drinking, blackouts and bad hangovers were becoming a routine. This is the last time I am drinking, I said to myself. I was lying. I tried to remember why I had not gone up to my bedroom and slept, but I really could not. I tried to recall the girl I had danced with the previous night, but I could not remember that clearly either. I remembered the name though. Palak. I smiled. She was pretty, and Deb had introduced me to her.

  As I heated the coffee and poured it into a cup, my phone rang. It was Eshaan and he asked me the same question that he did every day. Was I going to college that day? No, I was not! I didn’t have a hangover but I did not want to spoil that day sitting on those broken benches, beneath the creaky fans. Moreover, three back-to-back lectures were not my thing! Just as I switched on the television, the door was flung wide open. It was the maid. I looked at her, and she smiled. She had the newspaper in her hand; she kept it on the table. Though the house was pretty big, I lived alone and so never had much work for her to do.

  ‘Benoy? What is in the sink?’ she asked, disgusted.

  ‘What?’ I asked as I entered the kitchen.

  ‘Come and see for yourself.’ She had covered her face with her pallu.

  I walked up to the sink and a pungent smell hit my nose. I looked at it and it almost made me puke. It was filthy and it smelled worse than a dead rat.

  ‘Damn it.’

  ‘Babu, you drank too much last night?’ she said in a muffled tone from behind the pallu.

  ‘I guess so.’

  I asked her to go and shop for vegetables; I told her I would take care of it by the time she came back. She grabbed the shopping bag and left the house as soon as possible. I stood there for a while, disgusted at what I had done. This was new. I used to black out, but I never used to puke. The drainpipe was blocked and I thought, Why don’t they just make bigger drainpipes?

  Because people are meant to puke in toilets, dumbass, a voice in my head said.

  I did not waste any more time. I wrapped a handkerchief around my face and got to work with a plunger and that day’s newspaper in my hand. Fifteen stinking minutes later, the sink sparkled and I stank.

  I am never drinking again! Definitely! I said to myself as I entered the shower.

  I loved the shower area. It was the second-best place after the gym I had set up a couple of months back. It cost me … well, I do not know how much, for my father paid for it. All I know is that I loved it. Meanwhile, the maid was back and she had started to cook.

  ‘Aunty! A little less oil,’ I shouted out as I came down the stairs.

  ‘Babu, where will you get the strength? And stop drinking so much, babu. It’s not good for you,’ she shouted back.

  Just as I flopped on the couch, the doorbell rang.

  ‘Who’s it?’ I shouted from where I was sitting. The door was being banged now. Harder.

  ‘FINE!’

  ‘Deb?’ I exclaimed. Debashish was my cousin, five years older than me. He had turned twenty-five just the day before, and it was his party last night. LAST. DRINKING. NIGHT. EVER.

  ‘Fuck you, Benoy,’ he said, and he looked pissed. ‘Where ha
ve you been? I have been calling you for the last twenty minutes. Anyway, where is Palak?’

  ‘Palak?’

  ‘Benoy? I don’t have time for this. Her mom has been calling me since the morning; she’s freaking out. Where is she?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Deb!’

  ‘What? You left with her last night. Don’t you fucking remember?’

  He started looking everywhere and I followed him around; he was clearly freaking out and was out of his goddamn mind.

  ‘No! I do not,’ I insisted.

  ‘Did you guys come home? You said you would drop her at her friend’s place?’

  Deb’s phone was ringing constantly.

  ‘I don’t remember, Deb. All I remember is that we were there in the club and you guys were there too, and then I woke up on this couch. That’s it!’

  ‘You were on the couch? Then where the hell is she?’ he demanded and sprinted up the stairs. I still had no clue as to what was happening.

  ‘PALAK?’ he shouted and entered the bedroom.

  As I followed him into my bedroom, and tried to remember the sequence of events from the previous night, I saw him bent over an unconscious girl who lay on the side of my bed. Palak! We both helped her sit up on the bed. She was still falling all over us and she stank of beer.

  ‘Huh?’ Palak looked up, still not in her senses.

  ‘PALAK. Wake up!’ Deb said. ‘Your mom called me up. She wants to know where you are. Where is your phone?’ Deb kept repeating these sentences.

  ‘Benoy? Don’t just stand there. Get her some water!’

  ‘Fine,’ I said and sprinted downstairs.

  As I came back upstairs, I saw Palak mumble something. I was in a state of mild shock! I really had not expected this, even from myself. I had no memory of getting a girl home. It was not really the first time though, but usually I remember.

  ‘Where is my phone? What did Mom say? Is she angry? Does he know? Did he call?’ she asked a million questions. I tried to avoid her gaze as I looked for a room freshener. She stank.

  She was freaking out, and she held her head. I stood there wondering whether it was in regret or if it was the hangover. I wanted to ask her, but I thought it would be better to let Deb handle it. He had been in a relationship for over five years now. He had more experience in handling crying females than me.

  ‘Relax, Palak, don’t cry. I told your mom that you were with Avantika. And that you’re fine. You really don’t remember where your phone is?’ he asked her.

  She shook her head and tears streamed down her cheeks in full flow. Thank God for Deb!

  ‘Okay, just go wash your face and then I will drop you home,’ Deb said to her and she left.

  ‘Benoy? Are you CRAZY?’ Deb almost shouted.

  ‘What, Dada? She is your friend not mine. I can’t help it if she is crazy.’

  ‘She is not supposed to be here. You got her here. You are the one who is crazy, not her. And what would I say to Avantika? You have screwed me, man!’

  ‘Why are you so afraid of Avantika?’ I asked.

  ‘I am not. I just like not to screw up things with her,’ Deb said.

  ‘Whatever, I am sorry,’ I said. ‘Do you want me to drop her home?’

  ‘No, I will do it. Anyway, how is your hangover? Better?’ he asked, concerned. I nodded; he was my brother after all. He even looked like me. He was just a shade shorter than me, but he never agreed on that. We weren’t the best-looking people in the world, but we had something in common—a dimple, a facial deformity, and it was probably the only good thing about us. Lately, we had been working out together to get ourselves a perfect set of abs, but till then, we were sexually very unappealing.

  ‘Can we go?’ Palak gulped, as she stood at the bedroom door, still crying softly.

  ‘Sure.’

  She was yet to exchange a single word with me or establish eye contact with me. Deb helped her down the stairs. Bai looked at her, surprised.

  ‘Bye, Palak,’ I said as those two were leaving through the door.

  She did not say anything, just looked at me and gave me a half-hearted smile.

  ‘I am fine,’ Palak told Deb as she got inside Deb’s car.

  ‘I am going to talk to you later about this, Benoy. All this nonsense has to stop,’ Deb said as he opened his car door. ‘And this is the last time I am going to help you with your crushes.’

  We shook hands and he said, ‘And one more thing, Benoy. Go to the kitchen or somewhere. She just said she puked in your house last night. And she is sorry about it.’

  Fuck! Fuck her! Fuck her! Crush? Bullshit.

  Well, at least I could drink again. Later, I found her cell phone in the kitchen. I had no intention of returning it. She had puked in my house.

  Chapter Two

  The morning did not start well. I had cleaned up someone else’s puke and the smell was still somewhere in my head. I had images of her puking in my sink going through my mind all morning and she was no longer cute to me! Filthy.

  All this while, my phone kept ringing. It was Eshaan and he kept calling incessantly. I had a ground rule—never answer Eshaan’s call until he calls you for the sixth time. If he called less than five times then it had to be something frivolous.

  It had been one year in Hindu College, Delhi University, and there had not been a single day that he had not called me to let me know about the scheduled lectures, the extra classes, the extra notes that I might need, et cetera. My default state was to ignore his calls. I picked up the sixth call.

  ‘Why don’t you pick up my calls?’ Eshaan said angrily.

  ‘I was a little stuck,’ I said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Okay. Next time, please pick it up the first time,’ he said. Yeah, right!

  Eshaan told me that a tax-planning professor was less than impressed about being offered money (by Dad) to mark my internal exam paper (I had decided to leave the answer booklet blank) a little leniently. The professor wanted to talk to me in person now.

  ‘Your father cannot buy everything!’ Eshaan had said once.

  He was not quite right. My father was a wealthy man. I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, or diamond. You get the drift. My bank accounts were always loaded; credit-card bills were never a problem. The car I drove, the house I lived in, it was all his but still mine.

  Last year, when I had screwed up my board exams and it looked like it would be hard to get into a Delhi University college, I had called up my father. Next day, I was a Delhi squash champion, and I got admission in BCom (Honours) through the sports quota. Not bad at all, was it? I did not hate studying, but when you have everything, education is never the top priority.

  My father was kind to me but not without reason. My parents were divorced and we were never on talking terms. He was a stranger to me, and I was brought up fatherless since I was eight. I did not miss him. Until a year ago, till the time Mom was alive, he had some point of contact in the family. However, when she lost her battle to cancer last year, he had no one left. The car, the house, the gym—all these were his attempts to buy me. I was greedy enough to let him buy things, but not as much to sell myself.

  I drove all the way to college to meet the honest, upright, asshole professor of mine. Why couldn’t he just accept the money and shut up? I always assumed that professors are poorly paid. Why would he turn down extra money?

  ‘Have you thought about what you will say?’ Eshaan asked as soon I got down from my car.

  ‘No. He wants to meet me, right? He wants to talk, not me,’ I said as I walked towards the professor’s offices.

  ‘Benoy. Listen.’

  Eshaan was always full of motherly advice. Nevertheless, I could not ignore Eshaan either. If there was anything I knew about BCom, it was through him. Well, not just BCom: he had my back for everything.

  ‘Yes, Eshaan?’

  ‘Just go in and tell him that you weren’t well and you had to go home. Tell him you passed all the ot
her exams … and that your dad was just concerned about your future, that’s why he—’

  ‘Eshaan? Why don’t you go and talk to him?’ I joked.

  ‘I did.’

  Despite the frequency, his over-involvement in my life never ceased to amaze me.

  ‘I just asked him what the issue was and he said he would only talk to you,’ he said. ‘I am sorry.’

  Eshaan was asking for my forgiveness because he could not unscrew what I had screwed up. He was such a darling! Had I been a girl, I would have kissed him and hugged him. Well, maybe not.

  ‘No, man. It’s fine. I will handle it,’ I said.

  ‘If there is any problem, just call me. I will be in Kamla Nagar. Okay?’

  ‘Sonil?’ I asked him.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, as I saw him blush a little.

  Relationships, I tell you, they totally fuck up even the sanest of men. He had started dating a girl from Daulat Ram College. It had been a year and he was nuts about her. Eshaan was charming, smiled more than necessary, cared more than necessary, was unnecessarily fair and was immensely likeable. He was cute, like a little brother, like a panda. It often went against him. He was often too cute for any girl.

  I wished Sonil would see that, too. I hated her. She thought I was a vain, ill-behaved, rich brat, and an asshole. She had asked Eshaan to stay away from me, but Eshaan wasn’t that stupid.

  I walked through the corridors, smiling at every face that I came across. I recognized a few faces and a few of them recognized me. Last year, I had joined college with much fanfare. I drove big cars to college, argued with seniors and professors alike. Very soon, I was infamous in the college for my behaviour and unabashed abuse of the power I wielded. After a few days, people got busy and they promptly forgot about my existence.

  Mom’s condition had worsened and her chemotherapy sessions had started. I had to be with her. She had left her job and her condition deteriorated with every passing day. Doctors had not given her much time. I wanted to spend every waking second with her. She had started losing herself to cancer and it became infuriatingly tough for me. I had always seen her as a strong woman, who brought me up as a single mother—managed work and a worthless son. It was torturous to see her like that—frail, weak, losing weight and hair every day, vomiting and crying. Even behind those smiles she faked, I could see what she was going through.