Marry Me, Stranger

by Novoneel Chakraborty

  NOVONEEL CHAKRABORTY

  Marry Me, Stranger

  RANDOM HOUSE INDIA

  Contents

  About the author

  Also by the same author

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  Acknowledgements

  Next in the ‘Stranger’ trilogy…

  Follow Random House

  Copyright

  About the author

  Novoneel Chakraborty is the author of four best-selling romantic thriller novels. He works in Indian television and films and lives in Mumbai. You can reach him at:

  http://www.facebook.com/officialnbc

  Email: novosphere@gmail.com

  Also by the same author

  How About a Sin Tonight?

  Ex

  To you…

  …the girl living alone in a big city full of strangers.

  Prologue

  FEBRUARY, 2014

  She shut the elevator gate behind her and took a couple of steps to stand in front of her boyfriend’s flat. She took out the duplicate key from her bag and put it inside the keyhole rather swiftly. With two full rotations, the door unlocked.

  She was supposed to come two days later but the situation in Kolkata was such that she had to cut her trip short. She would have gone straight to her flat but she didn’t want to miss an opportunity to surprise her boyfriend the way he would all the time. In fact, there were times when she would wonder if she deserved the kind of maniacal care her boyfriend showered on her. The extent he went to bring a smile on her face scared her because she knew she was getting used to his attention. She knew well-enough that this getting-used-to is to a relationship what pollution is to air—nothing happens immediately, but when you inhale the polluted air for long, you make yourself vulnerable to sickness. But she also thanked her stars that he happened to her right when she was on the verge of doubting the authenticity of love as a concept and kill something valuable within her forever.

  Once inside the flat, she found herself standing in a pool of mess. Typical him! she thought and panned her sight around the room: the ceiling fan was switched on, the windows were open, the old pedestal fan had an underwear on top of it, a chips and biscuit packet was carelessly lying on the mattress, a pair of jeans had been thrown on the television stand while the doors of the almirah were wide open. From somewhere inside the flat the sound of running water was distinctly audible. One by one she sorted the mess. After cleaning up the room, she called him to check his whereabouts.

  ‘Hi baby, I’ve reached my place,’ she lied.

  ‘Great! I’ll come there directly,’ he said. There was a hunger in his voice that turned her on. As if he would eat her up the moment they met. Not that she would complain.

  ‘No sweetheart. I have some work in office. You go to your place. I’ll come there.’

  ‘Aye aye, princess. But don’t be late.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Ending the phone call, she closed her eyes and let out a sigh. She then envisioned herself cooking Chinese for him, then dining with him in the soft candlelight that she had brought with herself from Kolkata after which they would...

  She opened her eyes and blushed reminiscing about her first orgasm he had introduced her to on her birthday a month ago. She never thought her body was capable of giving her such ridiculously intense pleasures. Until that night, she had never felt so weak and strong at the same time. She smiled to herself imagining his athletic physique—strong broad shoulders, a pronounced worked-out chest, and a narrow waist. He was much taller and broader than her and she always felt safe in his arms. There was a magnetic manliness about him, a smell of sex that he carried which made her seek out lust in the love she had for him. She could respond to her lust with to-the-point-answers whereas love always asked her questions for which there was no specific answer. It was easier to generalize lust than love.

  The possibility of a carnal encounter that night made her opt for a Brazilian wax the day before. Her roommate had once told her it would increase her pleasure during foreplay.

  She took a shower in his bathroom; it was not the first time she had done so. Applying his used soap made her feel more connected to him. She was in the middle of her shower when she heard her phone ring. She stepped out of the shower and grabbed the phone kept on the cemented pedestal by the bathroom window. It was him. She swiped her thumb on the screen and pressed the speaker button.

  ‘Hey, where are you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m going to office. And you?’

  ‘I’m in the middle of something. I’ll reach home late. Just wanted to check on you. See you soon sweetheart. Bye.’

  She ended the call and stepped back into the shower after placing the phone on the pedestal. As the water drops cascaded down her body, washing away the white froth of the soap, she wondered if her boyfriend was trying to outsmart her. Was he going to come home early?

  After a prolonged shower, she rummaged through the clothes in her bag and pulled out a yellow tank top and a pair of denim shorts. She prepared some coffee for herself and, relaxing on the bean bag by the window, took leisurely sips while surfing her Facebook newsfeed on her mobile phone. There were a few ‘comments’ from her friends who wrote saying they loved her new profile picture. She thanked them and logged out. In no time, sleep snatched her from reality.

  She woke up late and wasted no time in preparing her boyfriend’s favourite cuisine—Chinese. Once the smell started teasing her olfactory senses, she thought of checking on him. The moment she picked up her phone, there was a power cut. That’s strange, she thought. It was the first power cut she had encountered in the area. She unlocked her phone quickly and checked the time: 9:05 pm. She was contemplating whether to call her boyfriend or not when she heard the main door unlock.

  I was right! He is being smart. She switched the light of her phone off with an amused face. With cat-like alertness, she trotted toward the drawing room. As she stood by the entrance, waiting to pounce on her boyfriend and take him by surprise, she sniffed a certain masculine fragrance approaching her. It came from a cologne—‘Just Different’ by Hugo Boss—which her boyfriend always used in abundance. She could smell him close now. She knew if she stretched her hand, she would feel him. And she did exactly that.

  ‘Caught you!’ she said and before she knew it, she was blindfolded with a ribbon. She immediately recollected sharing a similar fantasy with her boyfriend once: making love blindfolded. Was it going to be fulfilled tonight? she wondered and suddenly started craving for a quick communion. She lifted both her hands to feel him but they were grabbed with an empowering strength and handcuffed.

  ‘What’s this?’ she said with mixed emotions. In a flash she was lifted up by a strong pair of arms, flipped, and literally thrown on the mattress in the drawing room.

  ‘You are really in the mood tonight, aren’t you, hon?’ she said and lifted her leg up, not allowing him to come on top of her immediately. Her feet touched his clean shaven face. He was sweating. She liked it. Slowly she took her feet down to his bare chest. She liked the fact that he was already out of his tee. She hadn’t witnessed such aggressive behaviour from him before. He was always powerful but
soft with his lovemaking. And the fact that he wasn’t talking was making it all the more intense.

  A hand grabbed her right leg and moved it away from his chest. Then she felt something like a rope being tied around her calf. It was only when she felt another rope being tied on her left calf that she felt something was wrong. Very wrong. With one strong pull, her legs were parted. She called out her boyfriend’s name but there was no response. If he wanted to be rough, he could have told her. She needed it as much as he did. But now he was scaring her more than pleasuring her.

  ‘Talk to me dammit!’ she said, exasperated, only to feel a piece of cloth being stuffed into her mouth. She used all her energy to revolt, to free herself, to plead. In the dark quietude she heard her phone ring. She went numb when she heard the ringtone. It was the customized ringtone she had set only for her boyfriend. He was calling her. Was her boyfriend playing a game with her by calling her from within the room? Or, could it mean the person she was with was not her boyfriend? She felt like her guts were falling out. The phone ring stopped. The nerves on her neck became tense as she started screaming her lungs out but no cry escaped her mouth. She tried to sit up but was again pinned down on the mattress with one push. She felt a cold metal touch her outer thighs. She realized her shorts were being cut into half, probably, by a pair of scissors. She wanted to move her legs but knew she would only injure herself in the process. She remained still, holding her breath, as the scissors slowly cut her tank top open. The next moment her breasts juggled out as her top and bra was taken off with one single pull. Embarrassment clouded her mind. Before she could fidget, she felt the last bit of clothing—her panty—being torn apart. For sometime nothing happened. She prayed hard in her mind it was a nightmare. Why would anyone do this to her? It couldn’t be her boyfriend. Or could it still be him? Except for her stark nudity, she was sure of nothing. It was only when her breathing turned back to normal that she felt someone sniffing her face. She could feel his breath—it smelt of mint—but she couldn’t do much. The sniffing tickled her and made the hair on her nape stand right up. Then he rubbed the nose on her throat, her nipples, dipped the tip of his nose on her belly button, once, and lastly blew out a gentle breath on her waxed vagina. She knew she was wet and it added to the concoction of arousal, fear, and embarrassment that she found herself in. She felt the palm of his hand cover her vagina. It made her feel warm and acutely aroused. She wanted to draw her legs as a reflex but couldn’t. Again, nothing happened for some time after which she felt the tip of his tongue circle her inner thighs, her navel, her nipples, and her arm. A sensual tickle made her body wriggle. The tickle also made her listen to certain music within her whose notes were grossly sexual in nature. And these notes had distracted her enough to stop fighting back.

  ‘Ummm...mmmm...mmm…’ she exclaimed in a muffled voice, at the zenith of her arousal. Something told her she would be penetrated any moment. The wait made her crave for it even more. But the moment never came. Next she felt her face being dabbed by something soft, as if the person was taking off the light make-up that she had donned for her boyfriend. It postponed the obvious and added to her sexual ache all the more. Cotton? she wondered. After the make-up had been rubbed off, she felt a cloth being pressed on her nose. Within seconds, her consciousness deserted her slowly. This isn’t my boyfriend...this can’t be my boyfriend...this has to be...

  1

  MAY, 2013

  Rivanah opened her sleep heavy eyes with a yawn, the saliva rolling down her mouth. Just before she could get out of her bed, her heart almost stopped seeing her own body hanging from the ceiling fan in her room. The hanging figure was wearing the same nightdress as her, looking dead straight at her with a lurid vengeance. As their eyes met, the hanging figure started chuckling. Rivanah wanted to get up and run out of the room but felt herself glued to the bed. Soon the ominous chuckle got so loud she thought she would go deaf. She woke up for real just before the dream could get any worse.

  It was the month of May and Kolkata was both hot and humid. Irrespective of the weather, Rivanah had a habit of keeping the air conditioner on at the lowest temperature it could be set to, using a blanket to cover herself up with. She let go of a heavy breath as if she was letting go of the dreaded feel that the nightmare had built inside her. She had seen the same dream one more time before. It had made her break into a cold sweat then. She stretched her hand and picked up her Samsung S3 phone from beside her pillow. It was 4:44 am. She knew the alarm would go off in a minute and it would be time for her new life: Rivanah Bannerjee, Programmer Analyst, Tech Sky Technologies.

  Four months back, Rivanah had successfully cracked the campus interview for two IT companies during her penultimate semester of B. Tech at Techno Asia College of Engineering in Salt Lake, Kolkata. One company had placed her in Bengaluru while the other in Mumbai with almost the same salary. When the company based in Bengaluru delayed its offer letter after she graduated as a computer engineer, Rivanah decided to join the one in Mumbai. Initially, her parents were apprehensive about her living away since she was their only child and had never stayed away from them before. Eventually they coaxed themselves because that was the demand of present times.

  The alarm screeched for a microsecond before Rivanah silenced it. She tried to forget the bad dream by saying a short prayer, asking God’s blessings for her new beginning. She climbed down from the bed and went out of her room, into the corridor that took one to the floor below. She leaned down from the staircase and noticed that the tubelight of the kitchen was on. Her mother, as usual, was up before her.

  ‘Mumma, keep my clothes on the bed,’ she ordered with the air of a princess and went to the attached bathroom in her room. She quickly took a shower and came out of the bathroom to notice there was indeed a kurti and a pair of leggings on the bed, as demanded by her, but the outfit wasn’t the one she had picked out in front of her mother the night before. What irritated her more was that the kurti wasn’t from BIBA, her favourite kurti brand. It was one of those low priced kurtis her mother had purchased from a cheap store in Hathibagan.

  ‘Mumma!’ she screamed.

  ‘What happened Mini?’ her mother asked. She could tell her mother was climbing up the stairs.

  ‘Where’s the blue kurti, mumma? I told you I’ll wear that today,’ Rivanah asked making a face as her mother walked into the room.

  ‘I had given the blue kurti to Bishnu yesterday to get it ironed,’ her mother said with guilt, ‘but he didn’t return it last night. You’ll look good in this maroon one too.’

  ‘It’s not that, mumma. You know how particular I am about brands. If you would have told me the blue one was not available, I’d have chosen something else. Baba has already packed all my clothes.’ She sounded rude. Even Rivanah knew it. She saw her mother leave the room quietly. She immediately followed her downstairs to the kitchen to find her in tears.

  ‘I’m sure,’ her mother said wiping her tears with the loose end of her sari, ‘when you’ll stay alone in Mumbai you will be able to wear whatever you want to.’ Rivanah held her by the shoulders and turned to face her, saying, ‘I’m sorry mumma. You don’t know how much I’ll miss you and baba.’ She then kissed her mother’s cheeks and gave her a tight hug. Her father appeared by the kitchen door, yawning.

  ‘Did you miss your flight, Mini?’ he said wiping the sleep off his eyes.

  ‘No baba. But I will if I don’t hurry up now. And please take out the new off-white kurti from my bag.’ she said and went to her room.

  It took her another twenty minutes to get ready. She joined her mother on the breakfast table where a steaming boiled potato meshed in rice and butter along with an omelette was waiting for her in a dish. She wanted to complain because rice and butter would add some extra kilos to her already voluptuous frame but she made a happy face instead and ate it. God knew when she would be back from Mumbai to have her mumma-made-food.

  ‘What should I tell Shantu Mukherjee?’ her father asked standing b
y her chair and gulping his normal quota of lukewarm water with a squeeze of lime in it.

  ‘You tell Shantu Mukherjee what you told Mrs Ganguly and everyone else who comes asking for my hand in marriage. I have a boyfriend, and even if I didn’t have one, I won’t ever marry a stranger,’ Rivanah shot back shoving a spoonful of the rice in her mouth.

  Both her mother and father stared at her.

  ‘What?’ she shrugged. ‘Why are you looking at me like that? You have already met Ekansh.’

  ‘We have and neither your mother nor I have objected knowing well he is not a Brahmin like us,’ Mr Bannerjee said.

  Rivanah couldn’t believe her father had brought up such a trivial and dated matter. ‘How does it matter if Ekansh is a Brahmin or not? He doesn’t intend to earn his livelihood doing Durga, Saraswati, or Kali Pujo anyway.’

  ‘It matters to me,’ he said putting the empty glass down with a thud. ‘You don’t even let me talk to his parents.’

  ‘Baba, times have changed. I love Ekansh and he loves me too, but we haven’t discussed marriage yet.’

  ‘Not yet? Then what do you guys talk so much about?’ her mother chipped in.

  ‘About everything but marriage,’ Rivanah said finishing the rice and saw her mother shoot a furtive glance at her father.

  ‘I’ll tell you both when we are ready. Till then, no more marriage talk or proposals please.’

  ‘Abhiraj is an IIM pass out and...’

  ‘Who is Abhiraj?’ Rivanah stood up.

  ‘Shantu Mukherjee’s son.’

  ‘Baba, please!’

  The parents sighed watching their daughter saunter to the washbasin.

  ‘Good that at least you went from Mrs Ganguly’s school teacher son to an IIM pass out. God, who marries a primary school teacher!’ she said rinsing her mouth with water.

  ‘Okay!’ she said and raised her hands in the air animatedly. ‘I will talk to Ekansh about marriage but don’t give me that look now.’