by Durjoy Datta
‘We are having dinner right now.’
‘I will wait.’
‘Daman, you need to go home. You can’t come here. Do you understand?’
‘But—’
‘Go home.’
‘I can’t—’
‘Write your book, Daman.’
She disconnected the call. Then she instructed the guard not to let him up. For the rest of the night, Shreyasi saw Daman loiter around the guard’s room, looking up at her window. Just before dawn, he fell asleep on the pavement. When it was morning, she saw him fumble with his phone to
find it was dead. He begged the guard to let him call her once but the guard refused. Daman took an auto home.
‘How many lives will you destroy?’ asked Shreyasi’s husband when he found her on the window ledge.
‘Did I ask you to speak?’
‘He was there all night.’
‘He needs to do the right thing. He needs to write about me. I can’t let him be till he does that. Is the breakfast ready?’
Daman didn’t text her for the entire day. Shreyasi checked up on him later that evening. The watchman at Daman’s apartment told her that he hadn’t left the building. He’s writing, she thought and smiled. For the next week, Daman stayed in his building, writing, dropping Shreyasi the odd text updating her on the progress of the book. He begged her to tell him that she loved him.
Shreyasi didn’t relent. Let him wait, she thought. After seven days, he had a few chapters ready and called Shreyasi home for a reading.
‘Did you like it?’ asked Daman.
Shreyasi looked at him, blankly. ‘It is . . . different. I will take it home and read it again and let you know.’
Daman smiled.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘So now do we go out? I have booked us a table at Orris. You can go home and change if you want to but I think you’re looking perfect. Why are you looking at me like that? Or do you want to order in? We can do that as well,’ said Daman.
‘I need to home. I have some work and my husband must be expecting me.’
‘But you told me—’
‘I NEED TO GO.’
‘Why are you shouting?’
Shreyasi calmed herself down. ‘I just . . . I just need some time alone.’
‘Is it something I did?’
‘No, no, it’s nothing. There’s just some stress on the office front,’ she explained.
She left Daman’s apartment in a hurry. They didn’t even open the bottle of wine Daman had got for that evening. She drove to the nearest bookshop and flipped randomly through the fiction section. I have read these words somewhere. These words are not Daman’s. She spent an hour searching the bookstore and her mind to ascertain where it was that she had read those words. And then she found it. The three chapters Daman had written bore a striking resemblance to what
Karthik Iyer had written years ago. Enraged and broken, she slumped on the ground reading it. She drove back to Daman’s apartment and threw Karthik’s book in Daman’s face and called him a two- bit plagiarizer.
‘THIS WAS THE LAST THING I EXPECTED FROM YOU!’ screamed Shreyasi.
Daman tried to defend his chapters but whimpered in the wake of Shreyasi’s unrelenting ferocity. She shouted and bellowed till Daman gave up and accepted that he had in fact copied from Karthik Iyer.
‘WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?’ yelled Shreyasi. ‘YOU HAD TO WRITE OUR LOVE
STORY! OURS! NOT HIS! OURS, DAMAN, OURS!’
Daman just looked away, ashamed.
‘SAY SOMETHING! EXPLAIN THIS. OR I WILL DESTROY YOU.’
Daman smiled sadly. He looked at Shreyasi, eyes flooded with tears. ‘What’s there to destroy?
Jayanti Raghunath won’t publish me or let me get published. I just wrote because I wanted to see you.’
Shreyasi didn’t feel pity, just blistering anger. ‘What would it take for you to write again?’
‘I don’t want to write any more. I just—’
‘STOP WHINING, DAMAN,’ she howled. ‘THIS IS NOT WHAT I FELL IN LOVE WITH!’
She picked the wine bottle that was kept on the table and flung it at him. Daman ducked away at the last moment. The bottle crashed against the wall and splintered. Shreyasi stormed out of the apartment. Once home, she ran herself a hot bath and stayed in till her skin puckered. She cried her heart out reading Daman’s texts.
DAMAN
I love you.
DAMAN
Why do I need to write any more? I love you.
DAMAN
I will make my CV and apply for an engineering job. I think it’s not too late.
Shreyasi deleted all his texts. I killed his will to write. She got out of the bath and towelled herself dry. She scrolled to Jayanti Raghunath’s folder on her phone. Apart from snarky gossip about her authors, there was nothing to leverage. She had to look somewhere else. She couldn’t sleep well that night. All she could think of was Daman slowly losing his mind. Over the next few days, she dreamt recurrently of Daman chained and locked inside a psychiatrist facility, scratching at the walls and shouting how much he loved her.
46
The Mumbai Literature Festival was in its second year and it was tottering. The lack of funds had pushed the organizers to look for cleverer ways of making money. One of them included selling tickets to interested readers for the Authors Dinner on the concluding day. They priced it steep at
3000 rupees per reader but Shreyasi didn’t mind. Earlier that week, Shreyasi had implored Daman to come to the literature festival, network, and find a publisher but he’d laughed at her suggestion.
‘They will mock me,’ he had said.
All her pleading had fallen on deaf ears. He had suggested a short trip to Neemrana instead.
Shreyasi had been so annoyed she barely kept herself from socking him in the face. Things had gone from bad to worse, his attempts at writing after Shreyasi caught him plagiarizing were laughable to be kind; he was making a fool of himself.
Daman had grown irritable and lazy and mercurial; his devolvement into madness had been so glacial Shreyasi hadn’t noticed it at first. They would either fight about her husband or he would cry holding her. His complaints about her absence had kept getting louder and more desperate.
Twice, she had come back to his apartment to see it trashed. He had broken his laptop twice in a week. ‘The new laptop is going to help me write better,’ he had said. The new laptop Shreyasi had bought had suffered a similar fate. Like a guilty dog, he had cried and begged at her feet. The more vexing Daman became the more she found herself drowning in guilt. She had to make things all right.
The dinner was a sham. The readers who had paid good money stood in a group in a corner and the writers lounged about with each other. Every now and then a reader would muster up courage and walk to his or her favourite writer, get a book signed, talk for a few minutes. The writer would uninterestedly answer their questions and walk back to the authors’ group. Maybe not the sharpest but Karthik was the tallest, most handsome of all authors present there. Even the walking stick he carried added to his looks. Wrapped around his arm was his beautiful girlfriend, Varnika. Shreyasi bided her time. She waited for Varnika to get drunk on the free wine. She bumped into Varnika at the dinner buffet.
‘Hi,’ said Shreyasi.
‘Hi,’ answered Varnika, flashing her perfect white teeth.
‘The spread is nice, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you a writer?’
‘No, I’m here with my fiancé. He’s a writer,’ said Varnika and flashed a ring.
‘That’s so beautiful! So who’s the guy?’
Varnika blushed and pointed to Karthik.
‘You two are perfect!’ exclaimed Shreyasi. ‘I’m Shreyasi.’
‘Varnika. And you’re too kind.’
‘I will not keep you away from him much longer. It was nice talking to you. Give him my regards,’ said Shreyasi.
Shreyasi filled her
plate, picked up a flute of wine, and hovered around tables looking for a place.
Before long, Varnika called her out.
‘Join us,’ she said.
Shreyasi waved her hand as if to say no but Varnika insisted. Shreyasi took the chair at their table.
‘She’s Shreyasi,’ Varnika introduced.
‘Hi. Karthik,’ Karthik said. ‘I would shake hands but . . .’
Shreyasi smiled back. ‘So your girlfriend told me you are a writer?’
‘I might have written a few books. I’m a little new in this field,’ said Karthik with an impish smile.
Varnika laughed. ‘He’s a bestselling writer. Google him! You will see,’ gushed Varnika.
‘In my defence, I don’t read Indian authors as much,’ said Shreyasi.
Karthik frowned.
Noticing that, Shreyasi said, ‘It’s just that the last time I read an Indian romance novel I wanted to claw my eyes out. Someone named Daman Roy.’
Varnika smiled.
‘Shit. I hope he’s not a friend of yours!’ said Shreyasi.
Karthik smirked. ‘He’s not a friend. But I know him. He’s—’
Varnika interrupted him. ‘Let me tell you an interesting fact! Karthik thinks he’s a good writer, even better than him, whereas I have always told him that he’s crap.’ She looked at Karthik. ‘Let’s give her one of your books and let her decide?’
‘We don’t need to do that. Hey? Your drink has finished,’ he said and waved at the waiter to repeat their drinks.
A little later, Varnika left for the washroom and returned with a copy of Karthik’s book. She made Karthik sign it and gave it to Shreyasi.
‘Thank you. That’s really kind. I could have bought it—’
‘It’s a gift. When you finish, let Karthik and me know who’s better. Him or Daman.’
‘We don’t need to do this,’ protested Karthik.
‘He thinks I tell him he’s a better writer because I’m in love with him, so you will be our second opinion,’ said Varnika. ‘Ever since he heard her editor call this Daman guy the next big thing, he has started feeling that his time is over.’
‘I will let you know,’ said Shreyasi, waving the book. ‘I should go back to my room now.’
‘You’re staying here?’ asked Karthik.
‘308. Are you guys staying here as well?’
Karthik nodded. ‘304.’
‘I will drop in a message if I read this book tonight.’
Varnika lips curved into a drunken smile. ‘We will wait!’
Back in the room, Shreyasi waited for three hours. She walked through the corridor every thirty minutes to check if the lights of room 304 had gone out. It was a little after one when she dropped
in a voicemail on 304’s hotel landline. I read the book. I can’t say much. A bright smile crept up on her face when half an hour later when she peeped out of the door and found Karthik making up his mind to ring the bell outside her door. His insecurity and impatience had drawn him to
Shreyasi’s door. She had taken care to wear just a long, flimsy T-shirt that barely covered her buttocks. She wore no bra. She feigned surprise when she saw Karthik at the other side of the door, leaning on his walking stick. She welcomed him in. She walked slowly in front of him, hoping he would stare, hoping he was less perfect a lover and more susceptible to vice than he let on. She offered him coffee. He refused.
‘So what did you think of the book?’
‘I didn’t think you will come in the middle of the night asking me this.’
‘I wasn’t sleepy.’
‘How does my opinion matter?’ asked Shreyasi.
‘You have read both our books. That’s why it matters.’
‘But why compare yourself to anyone? Two books can coexist in the market without one having to be better than the other,’ she said.
‘Bestseller lists don’t say which books are better. They tell you what’s selling the most. It’s not the same thing,’ he argued. ‘Tell me? What did you think?’
‘Daman is an average writer but he’s better than you,’ said Shreyasi.
‘Is he?’ he asked, trying to be polite, but she noticed the poison in Karthik’s voice.
She could almost hear his thoughts. How dare she? What does she know? Fucking slut.
‘I don’t think I have missed anything by not reading Indian authors,’ she said, trying to be as calm as possible, knowing the more she refused to react, the more it would agitate Karthik’s urge to beat her, own her, act like a man. She could see his eyes do an angry dance.
‘Okay.’
‘I just felt your story was too . . . cheesy,’ she explained.
‘Are you a cynic?’ he said sharply.
Classic. Blame the reader and try to establish superiority. It was time to make her move. She cast her eyes down at her coffee and then looked up.
‘In terms of love, I am.’
‘Why? Did you get your heart broken?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it. Anyway, I think your book works for people who believe in love.
Like you and your girlfriend, Varnika. For me, it doesn’t. Maybe some day, but not right now.’
Karthik eased up. It wasn’t his fault any more that his book did not appeal to her. It was hers.
‘Aw, that’s sweet. I should give you another one when you do find love,’ said Karthik, a kind smile pasted on his face.
‘All the good men are taken. Exhibit A. You!’
Karthik giggled nervously. She got up from the bed and made herself another coffee. She felt
Karthik’s eyes follow her. And then she deliberately walked back to the bed.
‘. . . and you know how men from Delhi are,’ said Shreyasi. ‘I’m from Delhi.’
‘That’s blatant stereotyping. I am from Delhi!’
‘And that’s why you got into a dick-measuring contest with another writer? Who is better? Me or him? Him or me? That is such a Delhi trait.’
‘That’s a writer’s trait.’
‘But also a Delhi trait,’ said Shreyasi with a naughty glint. ‘I wonder though who would win an actual dick-measuring contest.’
Karthik was visibly embarrassed.
Shreyasi chortled and said, ‘I’m sorry. I think I’m still a little drunk. I take that back!’
‘I would win it,’ he said and winked.
‘Ha! Typical Delhi boy!’
Shreyasi coughed.
‘You want water?’ asked Karthik.
She nodded. Karthik got up from the chair and got a bottle. He walked close to the bed and stretched out his hand to pass on the bottle. Shreyasi took the bottle and with the slightest of movements ran her hand over his crotch. Karthik stepped away, flushed in the face. Shreyasi rolled over and laughed.
‘Look at you. So shy!’
Karthik didn’t know what to say.
‘Daman has to be really big to beat you!’ she said and covered her lips with her hand. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’
Karthik grinned, his manhood and ego both stroked.
‘I told you.’
‘Hey? Look at that,’ she said and pointed at his crotch. ‘Is that why you were big? You have . . . a . . . boner?’
She laughed.
Karthik smiled uncomfortably. ‘No,’ he protested. ‘I’m not . . . I don’t . . .’
‘I thought writers were better liars, Karthik. You are disappointing me.’
‘I’m not lying,’ argued Karthik, playfully.
‘You’re not? I can bet anything you are.’
‘I am not!’
‘Take the bet then. Show it to me?’
‘What?’
‘Show it to me!’
‘What if I lose?’
Shreyasi got up from the bed. She walked close and said, ‘We will decide on the terms later.’
Karthik smiled. In the corner of the room, a phone lay recording the entire conversation.
47
Shreyasi had been waiting for hi
m for three hours now, trying to think of words she would say to him. When Daman entered his apartment, he walked over to Shreyasi and kissed her on the cheek as if nothing was wrong. He asked Shreyasi if she were interested in watching the new Deepika
Padukone movie. He took off his shoes and threw them in the corner. He sat at the study table and scrolled through his mails.
‘Did you see? I wrote three chapters. I’m getting the flow back. I think it’s all falling into place,’ said Daman turning to her.
‘Where were you?’ she asked.
‘British Council, why?’
‘With?’
‘Avni,’ he answered.
‘You aren’t even trying to hide it?’
Daman took off his shirt. He wiped his sweat off and rummaged through his cupboard for a fresh
T-shirt. He put on a frayed, grey T-shirt.
‘Why would I try to hide it? We just met and talked for a couple of hours. That’s it.’
Shreyasi got up, exasperated. ‘A few weeks ago you were sitting there on the chair asking Avni to fuck off while she cried out your name on the other side of that door. Then you got beat up by
Sumit—’
‘The bouncers beat me up, not Sumit.’
‘THAT’S NOT THE POINT!’
‘Whoa, you’re overreacting, Shreyasi. Avni and I have moved on. We are just friends now,’ said
Daman.
‘DID SHE TELL YOU WHO HELPED HER MOVE ON?’ bellowed Shreyasi.
‘You pulled some strings and got the Barclays guys to give her job back to her. She asked me to thank you again. But to be fair it was you who fucked her up in the first place. It was that video—’
‘JUST SHUT UP, DAMAN!’ she exclaimed. ‘Will you stop punishing me now? Can’t you just do what you want to do, say what you want to say once and for all and get it over with? Why do you find a new pretext to fight with me every day?’
‘On the contrary, I’m not fighting with you at all. It’s you who’s fighting with me. Can’t you see that, baby? I love you. I love you so much. We are just perfect. Like so perfect. I don’t see anything wrong with us. Apart from the fact that you were trying to seduce the one man I hate the most—’
