The Girl of My Dreams

by Durjoy Datta

  ‘Are you done yet?’ asked Akash.

  ‘No,’ said Shreyasi. ‘Just this terribly written book is left. But I don’t want to get this signed. I will get it signed when he rewrites it or redeems himself in the next book.’

  Akash frowned. ‘That’s no way to talk to someone.’

  Just then, Ram Prakash came looking for Daman. ‘Oh, you’re signing books here. We were waiting for you inside.’ That’s when Ram Prakash noticed Shreyasi. They exchanged smiles and shook hands. ‘What you did at the book launch was uncalled for, Beta. He’s a new writer, why heckle him with questions?’

  ‘I am sorry, Uncle,’ she said.

  ‘I haven’t seen you in days. I hope you’re not buying e-books, are you?’

  ‘No, Uncle. Never,’ said Shreyasi. ‘And I am sorry I took away your author. I was just getting something signed.’

  Ram Prakash looked at Daman and said, ‘I told you, she’s one of our most regular customers.

  That’s why I couldn’t shut her up there. She was really excited when your book came out. But I don’t think she liked it.’ The man laughed throatily. He looked at Shreyasi and told her, ‘I have asked him to write the second book quickly.’

  ‘I hope he doesn’t make the same stupid mistake again.’ She looked at Daman. ‘I will be looking forward to it. Try not to screw that up or . . .’ she said. ‘Anyway, I won’t take any more of your time. Can I hug you before I leave?’ Before Daman could say anything, she had already stepped forward. As she hugged him, she whispered, ‘Best of luck, baby. I hope you will give me what I want.’

  ‘Me? Is that what you want?’ whispered Daman into Shreyasi’s ear.

  She whispered back. ‘I could have you any moment I want to, Daman. You’re not difficult to get.

  What I want is to have our love story back, not this pile of garbage you wrote. I live for our story.

  Do you understand?’ She stepped away and smiled at Daman.

  Akash remarked, ‘Happy now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Akash thanked Daman for his time and left with his wife, Shreyasi. Ram Prakash and Daman returned to the back office.

  ‘Have you met her husband before?’ asked Daman.

  ‘Yes, a couple of times. I went to their wedding reception as well. He’s a nice, cultured guy. Her parents were concerned about her marriage for a long time. People say she had a boyfriend who was in the hospital and that’s why she was stalling the marriage for a long time even after being engaged to the boy. They are a lovely couple though. God bless them.’

  17

  ‘So where do you want to go?’

  ‘Anywhere other than Summerhouse,’ said Avni, pre-empting Daman’s choice. ‘I heard you were mobbed by a girl when you left the back office? Celebrity, eh?’ She nudged him mischievously.

  ‘Was she hot? Did she make you sign her cleavage?’

  ‘She was with her husband,’ clarified Daman. He toyed with the idea of coming clean about

  Shreyasi, and telling Avni about the reappearance. He dropped it when he thought that word might reach his family and Sumit. All hell would break loose then. He decided to wait till he figured out what was it that she really wanted and where she’d been all this time. He needed to talk to her, sit with her, and figure this out.

  Thirty minutes later, Daman and Avni were in the parking lot of Hauz Khas Village drinking warm vodka and coke out of plastic tumblers. Daman just had the one peg. He had to drive later, he said. Together, they checked the pictures Daman had been tagged in from the book launch.

  A little later, Avni said, ‘I gave my mother your book.’

  ‘It will not make her like me.’

  ‘You never know.’

  Daman rolled his eyes.

  ‘Don’t spoil your mood. It’s your day, Daman,’ she said.

  ‘Fine. So you tell me about yours? How did it go? Did you make a lot of money?’

  Did you make a lot of money? He always asked her that. Avni lied and told him a story about a merger her company was working on. In truth, Avni was out on a business lunch with a senior executive from Barclays who had shown interest in recruiting her. The hike was substantial and the profile was exciting. Avni had already decided she would take the job. This would place her years ahead of her peers. Sitting there on the bonnet of Daman’s car, she wondered if she should tell

  Daman about her decision but decided against it. After a long time, it was his day.

  ‘Am I meeting your parents soon?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Daman. ‘Let me sign the next contract. They worry about me. First I want to get my finances in place and then broach the topic of us. It’s been a tough couple of months. I’m a little short on money.’

  ‘Did you pay off your credit card bill? Do you want me to—’

  ‘I will do it this week. There are a few cheques from the articles I wrote. I haven’t cashed them but it will be a substantial amount once I do. I’m covered for three months.’

  She didn’t say anything. Instead she leant over slowly and kissed Daman on his lips. His mouth was bitter but just how she liked it. Ten minutes later, they were inside his car, the seats laid flat, his hands under her T-shirt grabbing and fondling, her both hands stroking him before she went down on him. Avni started by teasing him, licking him slowly, and was about to take him inside her

  mouth when the window was knocked on urgently. Startled, they sat up straight and quickly dressed up in full view of two Delhi Police constables.

  ‘Bahar aaja ab, ladke (Come out now, boy),’ said one of the men.

  Daman asked Avni to stay in and stepped out of the car. The constables took Daman to a corner and issued standard threats of dragging him to the police station and booking him on charges of public indecency. But soon enough, they were discussing money and Daman took out his wallet. He offered the 1500 rupees he had on him but the constables wanted more. Avni watched helplessly as he negotiated impatiently and poorly. They walked towards the car. Daman tailed close behind, grumbling. Avni was asked to roll down the window. Avni gave them another 1500 rupees and they let them go. During the drive back to Avni’s house, Daman had said nothing but one sentence, ‘You didn’t have to give them anything. I could have gone to the police station and sorted this out.’

  He dropped Avni home and then drove back to his house. Once on his floor, he switched on the gallery light and reached for the keys in his pocket. Fuck. He noticed that the lock had been changed. Daman’s landlord, Sharmaji, lived at the other end of the apartment complex, on the sixth floor. Daman was out of breath and simmered in a murderous rage when he knocked on his landlord’s door. It was already eleven in the night.

  ‘Yes?’ said the landlord as he opened the door.

  ‘The lock has been changed. I need the key. I don’t have time for this, Uncle. I have had a long day.’

  ‘Your cheque has bounced again, Beta. I need the rent first and the other post-dated cheques you had promised. I can talk to your father—’

  ‘Tomorrow. I will give it you tomorrow. It’s late, Uncle. Can’t I just get the key right now?’

  ‘See, Beta, you asked me not to talk to your parents about money and I respected that. But you need to pay me in time,’ said the landlord. He unhooked a key hanging from a nail near the door and handed the key to Daman. ‘Next time, I will have to talk to them. This was a warning.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Daman. He turned to leave.

  ‘Beta?’

  ‘Yes, Uncle?’

  ‘Why don’t you go back to your old job? All this writing business is not good for young people like you.’

  Fuck you. ‘I will think about it,’ said Daman and walked down the stairs, even angrier than before, with half a mind to go back up and bash him up. Once home, Daman dialled Jayanti’s number. If whoring out his book was the only way to keep a little bit of honour intact, then so be it.

  Everyone works for money, why shouldn’t I? But even as he dialled Jayanti’s number, Shreyasi�
�s unspoken threat rang clear in his ears.

  ‘I hope he doesn’t make the same mistake again . . . I will be looking forward to it. Try not to screw that up or . . .’

  18

  When Jayanti’s phone rang she was tucked in bed, reading on her iPad with the bedside lamp on.

  She had just got done with her emails. It had been a good day for Jayanti. Daman’s book launch had gone better than she had expected. He was still holding out on his second book but she was sure he would come around soon. Stupid idealism always loses to an empty bank account. Karthik had just submitted the first few chapters of his book and if he kept up the pace, Jayanti could push for a launch within this year. She looked at the clock. It was late. She picked up the call after three rings.

  ‘I hope I didn’t disturb you?’

  ‘No, tell me, Daman.’

  ‘I want to sign the next book with Bookhound.’

  ‘That’s great news! I’m glad you turned around. I’m so happy for you. This is so thrilling!’ She kept the iPad aside.

  ‘But this time I want more advance money and a 5 per cent bump in royalty payments. I want the advance to be split 50–50—50 per cent when I sign and 50 per cent when I submit the manuscript.’

  ‘Daman, I will have to talk to my seniors about it. You’re asking for too much,’ said Jayanti.

  ‘It’s a straightforward deal. You can make it happen.’

  ‘Fine. You have it your way. But Bookhound Publishers will have the last creative call on the book. We can’t give up on that. Is that okay?’

  ‘You will have the right to turn my book to shit. You can make it into a joke book for all I care.’

  ‘We need to work out what’s best for you.’

  ‘People around me need to stop thinking about what’s best for me,’ said Daman.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Nothing, Jayanti. Just figure things out and let’s lock this as soon as possible. I need the money in my bank as soon as possible.’

  Jayanti could smell the stink of Daman’s desperation. She smiled and said, ‘Sure. And I’m glad we are working together again. Just give me a broad outline of the story, something I can pitch to the editorial team . . . and I will start working on the contract.’

  ‘Give me two weeks.’

  She disconnected the phone soon after. Daman had turned around like she had expected. Daman was her trump card. After his last bestseller, Karthik Iyer was now an unmanageable success, a beast of an author with a commanding reader base, and with that came the opportunities for him to move to another publisher. She had already heard whispers of him being courted by Silver Eye

  Books and Purple Pen Publishers, amongst others. Daman’s books were her fall-back plan. She could make him into another Karthik if he let her. All he needed to do was write eponymously named characters and whoever he would be dating at the time, sprinkle a little bit of ‘Based on true events . . .’ type bullshit and he could even beat Karthik in time. Jayanti had some ideas for the

  next book. One idea in particular had been festering in her mind for quite some time now, but she wouldn’t share it with Daman till he signed on the dotted line.

  She had just got back to reading when her phone beeped. It was a match on Tinder. A smile crept up on her face. She thought she deserved a celebration tonight. She opened the app. She had been on the app for over a year but had been on only five dates—two women and three men. Half an hour later, she was in a pretty red dress and pointy heels, on her way to Starbucks, Greater

  Kailash. She found her date in her pyjamas sipping on iced tea and poring over a book.

  ‘Hi. Are you Shreyasi?’

  She looked up from her book. ‘Hi.’ She put the book aside and hugged Jayanti. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘Likewise,’ Jayanti said as she settled in. She’s beautiful, thought Jayanti.

  ‘Do you want something?’ asked the girl.

  ‘I’m good. I have had too much coffee for one day. You look younger than the pictures.’

  ‘Instagram filters change people.’ She smiled. ‘So do you do this often? Try to find love on dating apps?’

  ‘Am I being judged by a teenager on my dating choices?’

  ‘I’m twenty-three.’

  ‘I’m ten years older.’

  ‘And yet we are here.’

  ‘So we are,’ said Jayanti.

  ‘And you are in a dress and heels,’ remarked Shreyasi.

  ‘I like to be dressed well.’

  ‘Your dress is hot,’ said Shreyasi, biting her lip.

  Jayanti flushed. She wondered if her apartment was clean enough to invite her over. ‘Thank you.

  I would say something about your pyjamas but they are pyjamas.’

  ‘You can say something about me,’ said Shreyasi and leant forward.

  ‘You’re gorgeous. Would that suffice?’ Jayanti smiled.

  ‘For now, yes. Are you dating someone?’

  ‘Why would that be any of your business?’

  ‘Isn’t this a date?’ asked Shreyasi.

  ‘I wouldn’t take it that far. I am not sure if I like you yet. I don’t even know if Shreyasi is your real name.’

  ‘How do I know if Jayanti is yours?’

  ‘You don’t but I am sure I don’t give the impression that I would go to the length of changing my name for meeting someone,’ said Jayanti. ‘So what do you do? Or you’re still a student hopping from one date to another?’

  Shreyasi laughed heartily. ‘So you take me for a dumb teenager.’

  ‘I also said you’re hot. Don’t forget that.’

  ‘Oh yes. That does oodles for my self-esteem. Should I record that somewhere? I will listen to it on days I cry myself to sleep,’ said Shreyasi and sipped on her iced tea. ‘I work in an IT company.’

  ‘Is that interesting?’

  ‘Sometimes, it is. What do you do?’ asked Shreyasi.

  ‘I edit books.’

  ‘Ah, nice. So did you notice me reading? Will it better my chances with you?’ said the girl, winking as she blew air into the straw and bubbled her drink. Before Jayanti could say anything, she added, ‘I was just kidding. I have a husband.’

  ‘You do?’ said Jayanti. ‘Why are you on Tinder then?’

  ‘I didn’t say I have a wife.’

  Jayanti reddened. How long has it been since I last had sex, she wondered glumly. The last time she had someone in her bed was six months ago. It wasn’t even good, she remembered. The guy had no idea what he was doing so she had finished him off quickly, rolled over and slept.

  ‘So your husband is out of town?’ asked Jayanti.

  ‘No, actually he just came to town. He’s a sailor. Marine engineering. He’s out with his friends getting drunk silly so I thought I deserved to get a girlfriend of my own.’

  She smiled at Jayanti. Jayanti could feel her eyes linger on her legs. ‘So we are friends, are we?’ asked Jayanti.

  ‘Of course, if you want us to be, that is,’ said Shreyasi. ‘But for that we would want to know each other better. So tell me, what books have you edited? Anything I would have read?’

  ‘Have you heard of Karthik Iyer? I edit all his books.’ The girl’s face scrunched. Jayanti continued, ‘Not a fan of romance, it seems?’

  ‘I would say the exact opposite. If I were not a fan of romance would I be seeking romance in a friend despite having a loving husband? I just don’t like Karthik Iyer’s brand of romance. The limiting, monogamous, gender-defined romance. It’s too . . . banal for me. I am sure people like it.

  But to each their own. Though I do like this guy . . . his name . . . Yes, Daman! He wrote these crazy stories about himself in some Facebook posts. I only noticed because I read my name in the stories.’ She giggled. ‘They were quite entertaining and zany and wild and mad and passionate.

  That’s the kind of love that never dies, the only kind on which books should be written. Immortal, eternal, whatever you might call it. He wrote a book too I heard but I haven
’t got hold of it yet.’

  ‘I will get you a copy. I am his editor as well.’

  ‘Ah! Are you? Am I sitting with someone really important?’ said the girl, grinning. ‘I should be more courteous then. Maybe wearing these pyjamas wasn’t a wise choice.’

  The girl laughed and covered her lips with her fingers. She might have been in her pyjamas but her lipstick was precise and hot. Jayanti wondered what it would be like to kiss her. Her mind went to the first time she had kissed a girl. She was in eighth standard. It wasn’t sexual. It was just a thing to do. It felt thrilling and nice and wet and warm. It was long after that that she kissed her first boy. She had kissed both men and women since and had not been able to tell apart which was more fulfilling. She stared at Shreyasi’s full lips as she spoke.

  ‘I will look forward to the copy,’ said Shreyasi. ‘It will be fun to read my name in print.’

  ‘Though you might not like me after,’ said Jayanti.

  ‘Who says I like you now?’

  Sharp girl, thought Jayanti. ‘Okay, let me amend that. Like is a soft word. Instead, you will hate me. I edited the book to make it read more like Karthik’s books—the constricting, limiting love you mentioned. The brand of books you don’t like.’

  ‘But you already had Karthik Iyer? Why would you need two?’

  Not so sharp now, thought Jayanti. ‘For the same reason you are here despite having a man to go back to. I like to keep my options open too.’

  The girl lifted the empty glass of iced tea in the air as if to toast her. And then she asked, ‘Are you sure you don’t want anything?’

  ‘Actually I wouldn’t mind another coffee,’ said Jayanti.

  They both got up and walked to the counter. Jayanti ordered herself a latte and the girl asked for another iced tea. While they waited, the girl put a casual hand over Jayanti’s right shoulder and asked, ‘So it must give you a lot of kick having these authors and their stories by their balls, right?’

  ‘No one has anyone by the balls. They can walk out, choose a different publisher any time they want to,’ said Jayanti. She was doubly aware of Shreyasi’s lingering hand over hers. Slowly, she started to draw little triangles on Jayanti’s hand with her nails.