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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. 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? Salvation of a Saint by Keigo Higashino.
May 16, Preview — Salvation of a Saint by Keigo Higashino. The Hindus: Preview — The Hindus by Wendy Doniger. Tolkien 4-Book Boxed Set: May 12, Karma by Cathy Ostlere Goodreads Author. Preview — Karma by Cathy Ostlere. Preview — Inferno by Dan Brown. Quotes by Durjoy Datta. I know you love me. Yes, you try to get me naked half of the time, but i love you for that too. Makes life a lot easier.
It's Not Love. But I am also a brain that forgets little. Which one is best among these? You can add your preferred author. From India only. Amish Tripathi. Sadhguru write-in. Nikita Singh. Sha Shatrujeet Nath. Ashwin Sanghi. Ravinder Singh. Durjoy Datta. Preeti Shenoy. Chetan Bagat Chetan Bhagat. Topics Mentioning This Author. Shinjini Reads- Reading Challenge 36 54 Nov 30, A-Z Challenge!!
Amycus Carrow Final 79 May 09, Team 2 Book Submission 27 29 Jun 27, Spell It Out - Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious Aug 05, It wasn't love at first. Prashant Sharma. One New Notification: You Are in Love. Arun Gowda. Mukulika Basu. The Pie Life. Christina Varghese. No Promises. What Happens in America. Arjun Panchal. Of Course I Love You! Now That You're Rich. She Broke Up, I Didn't.
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Choose Store. Joy never did. Relationships have never been his cup of tea. This, when she is already in a relationship. Will he realize her importance in his life and get Manika back? Or is it already too late? Skip this list. Ratings and Book Reviews 0 2 star ratings 0 reviews. Overall rating 3.
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You've successfully reported this review.I have better things to do. Quite unfair too if you ask me. Just like I used to. They were always on the same team. This is our heritage. The boy laughed some more and ran away. Dhruv was hungry.