The Girl of My Dreams
Page 5
saying there wasn’t much to be disowned from anyway. Baba had asked him to leave the house if wanted to pursue his unwise dreams. He had moved out the next weekend. It was more out of defiance that he bought the car than anything else. That was the last straw in their perennially turbulent relationship, a pig-headed father and a, very often needlessly, mad, rebel son.
‘You shouldn’t have said that to Baba. Why do you have to be so mean to him?’
He turned to see Puchku standing in the doorway. She walked in and closed the door behind her.
‘I’m fuck—’
‘Language.’
‘He’s like a broken record, Puchku. Why can’t he just stop? How difficult is it for him to understand I didn’t want to do that job? You know what I should do? I should just go back and join my job, write a suicide letter saying that the stress and the unhappiness is driving me to death, and then ram my car into a pole and make sure I don’t walk out of it alive this time. Maybe that will teach him a lesson.’
‘Please don’t say that ever again.’
‘I—’
‘And you weren’t driving the car the first time around.’ Daman dismissed her with a wave. She frowned. ‘Always remember that,’ she said, this time more seriously.
‘I know that, don’t I? I was in the car.’
‘Yes, you were.’
‘And had I been driving it, I wouldn’t have crashed it, would I? Anyway, can’t you cut your tuitions and I will drive you to the book launch? Baba doesn’t have to know.’
‘Baba will skin me alive if he finds out. He’s turned his house into Fort Knox after you left. You just can’t see the chains around my ankles. He would be especially mad if he found out I got into that car of yours.’
‘It’s as if I drove the fucking car.’
‘Language, Dada.’
‘Fine. Fine. I’m sorry. I will get you videos of the event, okay?’
She smiled. ‘You will send me videos? You don’t even text me, Dada. Now I will have to take an appointment to meet my bestseller author dada.’
‘Please.’
‘Seriously, Dada. My friends are so psyched that I’m your sister! I even bumped into a fan of yours in the metro. And she was so pretty, but then I remembered you’re already dating Avni and didn’t take her number. She was so smitten by you! Why are you looking at me like that? I’m not lying! I told Maa also.’
‘Did you spot her with a book?’
‘No. She spotted me. I was with my friends and she came and talked to me. She told me she recognized me from the picture you had posted of us. Imagine! My friends were all so impressed.
She was really nice too. I already told you that, right? Look at you grinning.’
‘Why shouldn’t I! Go tell this to Baba. What did she say about the book?’
‘Err . . .’
‘What? Don’t tell me you’re lying now. I thought—’
‘I’m not. It’s just that . . . she didn’t . . . like . . . the book.’
Daman frowned. ‘So what was she a fan of? Oh. The posts I used to write? Okay. Fine.’
‘Don’t be disheartened, Dada. She was still a gigantic fan. She couldn’t stop talking about you.
She walked me to our house as well. She even asked me to tell you she is prepared to forgive you about the book.’
‘What? Who’s she to forgive me about anything? Not my fault if she bought it and didn’t like it!’ snapped Daman.
Puchku found it amusing so see Daman take it to heart. She came and sat near him. Daman instinctively hugged her. It was then he realized how much he missed being around his quarrelsome, unbearable, precocious sister.
‘Did she give a name?’
‘Ummm. I didn’t ask. But she told me she knows you.’
‘Knows me? How?’
‘She told me you had met her in Goa,’ mumbled Puchku, wary of talking about Goa.
In Daman’s house that episode was always talked about in hushed tones. Daman frowned.
Daman’s memories from that trip to Goa were hazy at best. ‘Goa?’
‘Yes, that’s what she said.’
‘I don’t remember meeting any girl there,’ said Daman.
Puchku wrested free of his embrace. ‘You did meet someone,’ grumbled Puchku.
‘Apart from Shreyasi.’
‘We don’t take her name in this household.’
‘Oh, c’mon. Not you as well!’ protested Daman. ‘Okay, whatever. I won’t take her name. But there’s something I need to tell you, Puchku. Do you remember what Baba, Maa and I used to tell you just before you left for school every day? Don’t take sweets from strangers. Don’t believe if anyone tells you they have been sent by your parents. Don’t let them take you anywhere. Don’t look them in the eye. Don’t even talk to them. I know you’re thirteen but I want you to remember that. If anyone comes and talks to you like this girl, don’t respond beyond a sentence or two. Say thank you and just walk away. Do you hear me?’
‘I’m not a kid—’
‘Of course you’re not. But you still walked with someone alone for a really long time. You are aware of the stretch from the metro station to here, where anyone can—what I am trying to say is, don’t interact with strangers.’
‘And despite your paranoia you took a lift from one?’
Daman rolled his eyes. ‘Then learn from me and don’t do what I did.’
Just then, there was a knock on the door and their mother walked in. She told Puchku to go finish her lunch and ask her father if he needed anything. Puchku nodded and left. Daman stared at his feet while his mother came and sat next to him.
‘When will you stop arguing with your baba, Daman?’
‘It was—’
‘I don’t want to know whose fault it was. Can’t I have one peaceful day in this house?’
‘I’m sorry.’
Her mother nodded, she blew her nose into the end of her saree and wiped away her tears.
Lovingly, she cradled Daman’s face and kissed him on the forehead. She smiled and asked, ‘How’s
Avni? How’s her job?’
‘She’s good.’
‘Won’t you ever make us meet her? If you and her . . . you know, I will be less tense about you.’
‘I will. When the right time comes. She keeps busy with her job.’
‘You have been with her for over a year now and the right time hasn’t come? Ei ki baba.’
‘Maa.’
‘Okay, okay, you know best.’
‘Fine, I will make her meet you soon, okay?’
His mother nodded. ‘Daman?’
‘Yes, Maa?’
‘There’s no way you can write and still do your old job? Your baba—’
Daman stared hard at his mother and his mother took back her words. Daman spent the rest of the afternoon playing Uno with Puchku and munching on begun bhajas his mother served in seemingly endless quantities. In the evening he dropped Puchku to her tuition class and promised to send the video of the book launch. He had boarded a rickshaw back home when his phone beeped.
Number withheld.
He picked it up.
‘Hello?’
There was no answer. He disconnected the call after ten seconds. His phone beeped again.
‘Hello?’
9
Someone breathed heavily on the other side. Click. The phone disconnected. Daman muttered curses under his breath. It happened again. Daman put the phone on silent this time as he put the phone back in his pocket. When out of boredom Daman fished out the phone again he found it glowing. Number withheld. He received the call with a mind to blast the caller.
‘Hello, whoever this—’
‘Hello, Daman.’
‘Hello?’
‘It’s nice to hear your voice again.’
‘Who’s this?’
‘Thank you for the invitation for the book launch. I would have imagined getting a separate invite, not a bulk email, but I guess we are past that, aren’t w
e?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘The graphics in your mail invite were a little shabby but design was never one of your strong points, was it? You were always the one with the words,’ said a girl’s raspy voice from the other side. Her accent and diction were crisp, the tone authoritative.
‘Excuse me? Who’s this?’
‘You know me.’
‘Actually I don’t know you at all.’
‘Now aren’t those the magical words every lover wants to hear,’ said the girl, her voice prickly like shards of glass on a soft carpet.
‘Whose lover?’
‘Yours, Daman. The only lover you have ever had. The only lover you will ever have.’
‘What is this?’
‘I am your fan and your lover, Daman.’
‘I am disconnecting the call right now.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Yes. Stop wasting my time and don’t call on this number again. I hope this is enough of a warning,’ Daman said.
‘Oh. I note a haughty sting in your voice. Has the release of the book changed you, Daman? Your sister insists it hasn’t. But then she’s naive. We had a good time that day. She has quite a mouth on her, that one. She’s an intelligent girl though. Why do you send her to those tuitions? She doesn’t need them. I’m sure she’s brighter than her teacher. She’s beautiful too, just like you, baby. Both of you take after your mother.’
Daman gaped. ‘What? What are you talking about? When did you? How?’
‘You sound scared, Daman.’
‘Oh please—’
‘You know what it reminds me of?’
‘I’m disconnecting—’
‘It reminds of me of the first time you were inside me. You mewed like a cat. You were worse than a virgin, trembling, scared, and so turned on. There’s something about us and cars, don’t you think?’ she said, her voice a low hum now. Almost a soft whisper.
‘How did you? You met my sister?’
‘You were scared you would come within the first few thrusts. I took you out of me and wrapped my lips around your cock. You quite liked it. I remember how your head jerked back and you closed your eyes,’ whispered the girl.
‘What? What are you talking about?’ asked Daman.
‘You want to know why I called?’ Before Daman could say anything the girl continued, her voice now vulnerable. ‘It’s a cry for help, Daman. A request. A complain. From a lover’s sad heart. If you care to listen.’
‘Avni? Is this a joke—’
‘DARE YOU CALL ME BY THAT WHORE’S NAME!’
A second passed before Daman recovered from her booming outburst. ‘I’m going to hang up now. This is not funny. And if you ever hang around my sister—’
The girl giggled and then laughed throatily. Before long the laugh turned into a soft sob. Daman’s fingers hovered over END CALL but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
‘You’re right about that at least. It’s not funny. Nothing of it is funny, Daman. Are your nightmares funny, Daman? The ones in which I die?’
‘Who are you? Who the fuck is this?’
‘Do I need to tell you who I am . . .’
Her voice trailed off. The girl was crying on the other end. Daman was sure of it.
‘I need to cut the call right now,’ said Daman.
‘You shouldn’t do the book launch. Every time I see a mention of that vile book, it pierces my heart. I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for this. How could you allow yourself to do this?’
‘Hey—’
‘You insulted your own love story. WHY? It’s the last thing I would have expected from you.
But why do I still love you? Why do I still think of our time together? Why do I still think of our last ride all the time?’
‘Our last ride?’
‘I do share your nightmares, Daman.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ snapped Daman.
‘The nightmares I die in. I wish I did.’
‘Listen, enough!’ shouted Daman.
‘I will see you at the book launch,’ she said. ‘If you still decide to do it. I love you so much.’
Click. He stared at the phone, bewildered. With trembling fingers he called Avni. She picked up after the third ring. ‘Hey? Where are you?’
‘In a meeting,’ Avni whispered into the phone. ‘Can I call you back in an hour?’
‘Hmm,’ said Daman and cut the call.
Who is it if it’s not Avni?
Has she come back?
10
Daman had written most of his first book at the British Council, a library in the outer circle of
Connaught Place where he now sat and tapped mindlessly through blogs and browsed through the new releases in the fiction section of an online retailer. On weekdays the British Council Library would be deathly quiet and he could pick any corner of the library and get some writing done or read a book. It helped that the Wi-Fi was blindingly fast. It had been an hour and he had had the extra sweet coffee from the dispenser, a soggy chicken burger which he washed down with Coke and yet he didn’t feel like writing. Time and again, he would think of the inexplicable phone call he had received. It couldn’t be her. There wasn’t a snowflake’s chance in hell it was her. She wanted to have nothing to do with me. What the girl said on the phone was nonsense. Nothing happened between them. Lips wrapped around my cock? Bullshit. I would have remembered. He went to the old string of emails exchanged between him and Shreyasi, the girl everyone hated and asked him to stay away from. And yet . . .
From: damanroy111@gmail.com
To: shreyasibose07@gmail.com
Hi.
I am fine. Thank you for not asking. Is this a rude beginning to a start of a correspondence? But you should know I am mailing you despite my friends and my good senses asking me not to. Queer thing I talk about senses. It’s only recently I got back to them. That car ride with you left me sleeping for six months and in therapy for another few. It broke my body and my mind. I just thought I will update you on this.
How did I get your mail ID? It was almost as hard as the therapies, mind you.
P.S. How badly were you hurt in the accident? I am told you walked away from the hospital with minor fractures?
Seems like I got the wrong end of the stick here.
Daman
From: shreyasibose07@gmail.com
To: damanroy111@gmail.com
Hey. m sorry bout what happened. i was okay after the accident. thanks
From: damanroy111@gmail.com
To: shreyasibose07@gmail.com
You drove me off the road and nearly killed me. And that is your reply?
Daman
From: shreyasibose07@gmail.com
To: damanroy111@gmail.com i didn’t. the taxi came from the wrong side. read the accident report
From: damanroy111@gmail.com
To: shreyasibose07@gmail.com
Do you think I didn’t read them? I did. But we were drunk, weren’t we? I remember making us drinks in ragged memories I have of the night. Anyway I didn’t mail you to blame you. The taxi guy was to blame. But he’s quite dead.
Daman
From: shreyasibose07@gmail.com
To: damanroy111@gmail.com a sip of vodka doesn’t make anyone drunk. whats the point of this.
From: damanroy111@gmail.com
To: shreyasibose07@gmail.com
I thought we will catch up.
Daman
From: shreyasibose07@gmail.com
To: damanroy111@gmail.com why.
From: damanroy111@gmail.com
To: shreyasibose07@gmail.com
It might sound a little bizarre to you but I dream of you sometimes. They are not always dreams. Sometimes they are nightmares, flashes of the accident. Do you get them as well? I have PTSD and mild memory loss. I am quite all right though. If I keep taking my pills, that is.
Daman
From: shreyasibose07@gmail.com
To: dam
anroy111@gmail.com
No
From: damanroy111@gmail.com
To: shreyasibose07@gmail.com
The funny bit is I don’t even remember your face correctly. It’s all faint outlines. I remember your long, thick hair and your sunburnt skin but the face changes a little in every dream. Even the colour of your eyes changes. I searched all over the net for pictures of yours but I am guessing you are not a fan of social media.
Daman
From: shreyasibose07@gmail.com
To: damanroy111@gmail.com no
From: damanroy111@gmail.com
To: shreyasibose07@gmail.com
You’re still working in that start-up you told me about?
Daman
From: shreyasibose07@gmail.com
To: damanroy111@gmail.com i never worked in any start-up.
From: damanroy111@gmail.com
To: shreyasibose07@gmail.com
Oh.
Daman
From: damanroy111@gmail.com
To: shreyasibose07@gmail.com
Are you still reading books on the Roman Empire? Or is the Aztecs?
Daman
From: damanroy111@gmail.com
To: shreyasibose07@gmail.com
?
Daman
From: damanroy111@gmail.com
To: shreyasibose07@gmail.com
Least you can do is reply?
Daman
From: shreyasibose07@gmail.com
To: damanroy111@gmail.com i am not into history. you are imagining things
From: damanroy111@gmail.com
To: shreyasibose07@gmail.com
Okay. My bad. My memories of that night are at best vague. Must be someone else then. Everything gets mixed up in my head. Watched Black Hawk Down a few days earlier and voila . . . in the next dream, you were telling me you’re an amateur pilot. My bad.
Daman
From: damanroy111@gmail.com
To: shreyasibose07@gmail.com
If you wouldn’t mind, could you share a picture of yours if you have one? I faintly remember (though I could be dreaming wrong) clicking one with my camera in the car but it got smashed.