Rate, review and discuss The English Teacher by Durjoy Datta for free at Read Print. The English Teacher - Kindle edition by Durjoy Datta. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, PC, phones or tablets. Use features like bookmarks. Where can I download the book “The Boy Who Loved” by Durjoy Datta for free? hardcopy and u are eager to read the novel then this app is better than pdf.
|Language:||English, Spanish, Japanese|
|Genre:||Academic & Education|
|ePub File Size:||17.59 MB|
|PDF File Size:||20.87 MB|
|Distribution:||Free* [*Sign up for free]|
Start by marking “The English Teacher” as Want to Read: This short story outlines the dangerous obsession of a young, brilliant student with his English teacher. What starts as innocuous leching degenerates to compulsive obsession threatening to completely alter Kunal Roy's. THE ENGLISH TEACHER BY DURJOY DATTA PDF. As one of the book compilations to propose, this The English Teacher By Durjoy Datta has some solid. This short story outlines the dangerous obsession of a young, brilliant student with his English teacher. What starts as innocuous leching degenerates to.
He started writing while he was still in final year of his college. In , he quit his job at American Express as a marketing analyst and turned a full-time writer. She lives in Dubai , and is a model and air-hostess by profession. She was crowned as Miss Uttarakhand in It peaked at No. If It's Not Forever! The English Teacher, a short story written by him was released in August which outlines the dangerous obsession of a young, brilliant student with his English teacher.
It takes forever. And then a disquieting crunch fills the air. Metal against metal, bone against bone, bone against flesh, flesh against metal.
Im thrown backward and forward. My legs twist and tangle. Ligaments snap, bones break. A jagged piece of the metal enters my thigh and comes out from the other side where I cant see it.
Glass shatters and fragments lodge deep in my face. My skin singes from the heat. The burning smell of rubber engulfs us. Orange-red flames lick everything up. I try opening my eyes, now flooded with blood from my forehead. Shes being thrown like a rag doll inside the roll cage of the car. Her eyes are open and shes looking at me. I look for signs of her but can only see my own gory reflection staring back. Theres no trace of life in those eyes.
But she has a smile on her face. A cold, frozen, dead smile. A stray piece of metal pierces through my shoulder blade like a hot axe through butter and pins me to the seat. The car flips again and shes thrown out of the windshield. I give her my battered hand but shes out of sight. The car slams to the ground again. I snap out of the seat belt and slam against the roof of the car. I start to lose consciousness. I shout her name but only a whimper escapes my lips. Daman woke up with a start.
He had wet his bed again. Urine and sweat clung to his body and stank up the room. He shivered. His shoulders and thighs throbbed with pain. He ran his fingers over the deep gorge on his right shoulder; a pink scar had replaced where once was flesh.
The alarm clock screeched in the background. With trembling fingers he switched it off. Eighteen months had passed since the night of the accident but the nightmares hadnt abated. The pills helped but only to an extent.
He got up and washed himself. He changed the bedspread and threw the soiled one into the washing machine before his mother could notice. Out of habit, he punched Shreyasi into the search engine of his phone. Many faces showed up but none of them seemed like the girl from his dreams.
He closed the tabs. At least in todays nightmare the girl was behind the wheel; she was dead because she was driving, not because of him. At the breakfast table, his mother noticed Damans discomfort. She asked, Shopno dekhli abaar? Saw that dream again? Daman nodded.
She drove. She died. I lived. Still cant remember her face clearly, he said. Are you taking your pills on time, Dada? Yes, Puchku.
Dont call me Puchku! My names Ritu, call me that. Youre Puchku, no matter how hard you try. Kintu oi me taa jeebit acche.
That girl is still alive. You know that, right? I dont know why you keep seeing these dreams, his mother said, her voice laced with bitterness. I know. Morning dreams indicate exactly the opposite of reality. Tor or shonge gaadite choda hi bhulhoyechhe. You shouldnt have taken a lift from a girl you didnt know. That was a mistake, said his mother, her voice quivering in anger, like it was only yesterday that Daman had taken a lift from a stranger who nearly drove him to death.
Maa, leave it now, said Puchku. Yes, of course, I will leave it. But you dont know what we went through because of that girl, grumbled Maa. Damans parents had spent the subsequent six months anxiously waiting for him to wake up after the accident; another three when he was treated for debilitating post-traumatic stress disorder PTSD. If it were up to his mother, the girl would have been long dead, just like in Damans nightmares.
But the girl had escaped unscathed and had left the country since. Daman had never met her before or after the bloody night of the accident. He didnt know where she was from, what she did, or how he came to be in her car or what they talked about during that short, fateful drive. He hadnt even managed to edge out the fuzzy remembrance of her face. The paleness of her skin, that haunting smile, those dead eyes were all he remembered of herthe rest of the details always mutated between two nightmares.
Everything apart from her name had been wiped clean off his memories. Post his accident, he had been diagnosed with dissociative amnesia though he preferred the name psychogenic amnesia because it was much cooler which totally wipes out the memories of traumatic incidents leaving memories before or after the incident intact; its the brains coping mechanism. The condition had buried his memories of incidents leading to the traumatic accident in his subconscious.
There was a blank where a sepia-coloured reel of his trip to Goa should have been. Only a name remained. It seemed like a cruel joke. He remembered making plans with his college friends, getting on that flight, checking into the hotel but everything else.
It wasnt a mistake, said Daman. He looked at his watch. He was late.
Avni, his girlfriend, had already left three texts on his phone. She wondered if he was okay because he hadnt texted her since morning. Despite seeing her for the last eight months, Daman hadnt told her about Shreyasi or the nightmares. Whats the point? He finished his breakfast hurriedly and left. On the way out, he saw a few envelopes jutting out from their apartments letter box. As he flipped through the credit card bills, telephone bill, amongst others, he noticed that all of them had been carefully slit open, their contents read and then put back in, as is.
He put all the envelopes back inside the box except the one with the logo of Bookhound Publishers India emblazoned on it. On his way out, he lodged a complaint with the watchman of the society knowing full well that just like before, no action would be taken against his pesky, nosy neighbours. In the cab, he opened the envelope. Inside it was a letter welcoming Daman Roy to Bookhound Publishers line-up of authors.
He smiled, read it twice and slipped it back inside the envelope. And thats when he noticed a deep red lipstick mark on the envelope. Like someone had kissed it. Not for the first time, an argument had broken out in a coffee shop in South Extension, Delhi.
Daman leant back in his chair and shook his head in disappointment. Their coffees had turned cold. There were only a few people around, most of them were languorous with sleep. The grumbling voices of Daman and Avni didnt reach their ears while they waited for their takeaway cappuccino and latte. Cant you see my point? Theres nothing to argue about. I am quitting. I need to concentrate on my writing, answered Daman. He lit a cigarette and puffed on it hungrily.
But you No, I cant. It drives me crazy when I want to write and instead Im staring at blueprints of a power plant. I cant do it any more. Avni had the words and arguments ready before she agreed to meet today but they crumbled in the wake of Damans all-consuming obsession of seeing his name on a novel.
She had spent nights losing sleep over Damans maddening decision to leave a promising job to pursue a career in writing but now she sensed it was a lost battle. She leant forward and held Damans hand. If thats what you want to do, I will be with you, she said. In happiness and in madness, I will be with you. A hint of a smile crept up on Damans face and he clasped Avnis hand. I knew you will come around, he said. His eyes glimmered with hope and foolish dreams as he talked breathlessly there on.
I will sign the contract in a couple of days. Jayanti Raghunath is going to be my editor. Shes a bit of a bitch but shes phenomenal, the best in the business.
Shes the one behind all the bestselling books you see in the market. Avni nodded dutifully. She knew nothing of writers and writing till she met Daman eight months ago and had fallen witlessly in love with him. Having grown up in a family of chartered accountants and bankers and moneylenders, both money and keeping an account of money was what her life centred on.
Sports, arts and other creative pursuits were for the deranged, synonyms for gambling, signs of the weak and the delusional. What were the odds of a writer succeeding? Or a painter becoming famous and appreciated? With numbers, youre certain. Her parents knew of Daman as a mechanical engineer from Delhi Technological University working in Siemens Power and Engineering Limited as a design engineer, not as a wannabe writer who had a book contract waiting for him.
Even the words felt strange as she would roll them over her tongue: My boyfriend is a writer. Yes, thats what he does full time. No, its not a hobby. Thats all he does. He writes stories for a living. The only writers with careers were journalists who wrote for newspapers, not novelists with foolhardy dreams of churning out bestsellers.
What is the book going to be about? He took a long drag of his cigarette. Avnis brows knitted. Why do you keep using that name? I just like the name, answered Daman. Avni forced a smile on her face. I hate that name. And the guys name in the book?
You will use yours? Jayanti says I should use mine. Right now it sounds a little narcissistic. He paused before continuing, But theres no running away from it.
Thats why they signed me on, isnt it? Jayanti says I should stitch the posts on my social media accounts, including my blog, into a coherent story. I already have a readership, so it will help the book sell when it hits the bookshops.
If you use your name with Shreyasis, readers will think Shreyasi is a real person, argued Avni. How does that matter? The book will have a fiction disclaimer, answered Daman. Avni had not met Jayanti Raghunath but she loathed how much trust Daman placed in her.
It was she who filled Damans head with notions of having his name on the spine of a book, being on the bestsellers lists, signing copies by the dozen, and being shortlisted for literary prizes with cash components that wouldnt even pay for a months groceries.
A few weeks back Daman had come back dizzy with excitement after his meeting with Jayanti Raghunath, 32, Executive Editor, Bookhound Publishers, the biggest English-language publisher in India.
She had called him to an opulent five-star property and had blown him away with technical jargon, marketing terms and the sophistication of her publishing team. They made him feel big, important, talented, wanted. Daman was but an amateur scribbler when Jayanti had spotted him on the Internet. He used to write short stories about an eponymously named boy Daman and a girl named Shreyasi on Facebook, Tumblr, Wattpad, his blog and wherever he could find readers.
Avni had stumbled on these short pieces of fiction when she followed Damans social media profiles on the Internet after their first long conversation. She must have fallen in love with him because she felt envy pierce her heart like a rusted dagger and lodge itself there. The stories felt real. She thought Shreyasi was a real person, an ex-girlfriend, a crush, or worse still, a current girlfriend. She had stopped talking to him for a few days till he clarified.
Shes fictional, she exists only in my head. I use my name because it helps me visualize things better, he had said. So theres no Shreyasi? No, of course not. Not in my life at least, he had assured her. I just like the name. Are you sure? Writers are liars, my friends always say. They make up stories for a living, she had said with a smile.
Daman had laughed it away. But as they started seeing each other more often she had hoped Daman would start using her name and not Shreyasi. But it didnt happen.
The imaginary mistress, Shreyasi, stayed in his stories. She never uttered a word though. What could she have said? Shreyasi was fiction, made- up, while she was real.
It was her hand Daman held, it was her body that Daman embraced, and it was she who he said he was in love with.
Im the ONE, not Shreyasi, she would convince herself. Some of his online readers knew Shreyasi was fictional, while others thought it was more of a memoir, real incidents and stories with a smattering of fiction.
Avni and Daman had cut a pastry to celebrate the first time one of Damans stories went viral and was shared over a thousand times. Avni had suffered that day.
Daman had noticed it, because a few days later hed written a story with the female leads name as Avni. She had been ecstatic but her happiness soon turned to ashes in her mouth. The comments were harsh. No one wanted to read about this new character, Avni. They wanted Shreyasi back.
They had rejected Avni. Why Shreyasi and not me? Shes not real! Im real! Avni had thought bitterly. In time Avni learnt to live with it. So what do you think? Avni broke out of her reverie. She hadnt been listening. Its terrific. Im so happy. So when are you going to tell your parents?
Daman frowned. Never if I can help it. You know how my dad gets. He wants me to suffer at a job I hate for the next thirty years. Have you decided on a title yet? Daman grinned widely. He flicked his cigarette away and leant into her. The Girl of My Dreams, he said. Thats the name of the first book in the series. There will be more than one? Jayanti thinks it will be good to capitalize on the characters I have already created. She wants to change a few things but I dont think I will let her.
Moreover, Shreyasi as a character is perfect. No, shes not! Shes your mistress, thats what she is. But she said nothing to him. A little later, Daman excused himself to go to the washroom. Her eyes followed him. Just as he went in, Avni noticed a girl at the far end of the coffee shop staring at the closed door of the mens washroom.
A few seconds passed but the girl was still unblinkingly staring at the door. An eerie feeling gripped Avnis heart. The girl was looking at the door and mumbling something, as if she talking to it. Daman, Avni heard the name escape the girls lips. Avni wasnt sure at first. Daman, the girl whispered again. Most of her face was hidden behind her thick, dark cascading hair that fell down to her waist.
With a jerk the girl turned her eyes to look at Avni. Her face was pale as a corpse and her thick black hair melted into darkness. She held Avnis gaze. Her eyes were eerily opaque. She was beautiful but there was something terrifying in her beauty, something cold and sinister and hypnotic.
The girl smiled at Avni. Avnis heart thumped. She looked away. Her arms were covered in goose pimples. Avni pretended to text to pass the time. She could still feel the strange girls onyx-like eyes on her.
Her relentless stare made Avni feel like a spider had crawled inside her clothes. What is taking Daman so much time? Time passed slowly. She could still faintly hear the girls mumblings but couldnt make out a word except one. Where are you lost? Avni noticed she was sweating.
Daman took his seat and blocked the girl out of her view. She breathed easy. I was thinking we should go out and celebrate in the evening, said Avni. Daman flashed a thumbs up. I will call you. Arent you late? Avni nodded and he asked for the bill. Before long, the waiter placed the bill on their table. After he collected the money and left, Avni noticed a stray piece of paper on the tray.
She picked it up. Whats that? On the paper written in a beautiful handwriting was a message. Daman read it out: Best of luck for the book. I know it will be beautiful. Avni turned towards the noise and saw the girl walk out of the door. The bell was attached to the door. When she turned back, she found Daman laughing. He thought it was Avnis idea of a practical joke.
Avni smiled weakly and then stared at the lipstick impression on the piece of paper. A deep, dark, ominous red. Daman checked his reflection in the dirty, speckled mirror. His white shirt was new, bought just for today, but it looked pale under the weary tube light. He had been meaning to change the tube for the past couple of months but hadnt got around to it. He wouldnt have had to care about the tube light or the faulty stove or the leaking tap if he still lived with his parents but.
He popped the pills hed kept on the shelf under the mirror and chewed on them. He hoped the bitter aftertaste would be a reminder to not drink. In any case, the pills didnt make for happy companions with alcohol. He always felt as if the combination made his brain devour itself. He shaved twice, cut himself in three places, and dabbed the aftershave balm he had bought the day before.
There was plenty of time before he had to leave. He paced around nervously in his apartment. He smoked to calm his nerves. Jayanti had told him these parties seldom started on time. It wasnt as much a party as a get-together with everyone who had worked on his book, The Girl of My Dreams. After toiling tirelessly for six months, quitting his job and moving to a one- room-kitchen of his own, draining gallons of coffee, spending hours arguing with Jayanti over specifics, which stopped just short of them verbally abusing each other, the book was due to hit the stands in two weeks and today he would have the first copies in his hands.
Traffic was sparse but he drove slowly, steering away from the faster lanes and the SUVs. His car was practically new. It had cost him most of his advance from the book. He felt rich as he grasped the stitched premium leather on the steering wheel.
His father hadnt been impressed with his extravagance and had called him stupid and rash like he always did. He drove past Rajouri Garden and Naraina Vihar. He had just taken the serpentine flyover at Dhaula Kuan when it started to rain.
A drizzle and then a downpour. He slowed down even further and switched on the blinkers. He had barely driven for a kilometre when a speeding motorcycle overtook him from his left and grazed his car ever so slightly.
His lips turned into a snarl. Daman stepped on the gas. The engine responded with a groan and a roar. Damans blood tingled with anger, his scars throbbed. Water splashed all around him. Within seconds he was driving next to the motorcycle. Daman rolled down the window. The motorcyclist noticed him gesticulating. He weaved away from Daman, accelerated and whipped into more traffic. Daman didnt let up. He chased him down ten kilometres away from the skirmish to the motorcyclists destination.
Parking right in front of the motorcycle, he jumped out of the car, his hands clenching and unclenching. The motorcyclist had scarcely taken off his helmet when Daman swung wildly, getting the man square on his jaw. His knuckles rang with pain.
Before the man could recover, Daman landed three more blows, each one catching the mans face. The man stumbled and fell. Daman walked away from him, his heart continuing to pump urgently.
It felt good. He put the key into the ignition and drove away from the scrambling man. I can do with some duelling with Jayanti too today, for tampering with and destroying my book. He tried to smile. Its not destroyed. She knows what shes doing. He drove. Calm down. Jayanti and he had come a long way since theyd signed the contract and the path had been thorny. It had been half an hour since he had battered the man but he was still antsy.
At a distance he saw Jayanti step down from her Audi Q5 and hand over the keys to the valet. Dressed in a shimmery silver dress, she looked resplendent, almost royal. Tall and tight like a whip, she strode towards Olives entrance, her thick thighs straining against her dress. In her hands she carried a little brown bag. The Girl of My Dreams. Author copies. My copies. My book! His name would be on a book for all of eternity. It would be his legacy. And yet happiness eluded him.
He stepped down from the car, checked his hair and his smile in the side mirror. He missed Avni. Things would have been much easier had she been there. She would have calmed him down. Daman sauntered towards the entrance, practising his smiles. Hands went up, wine glasses in the air, and everyone shouted his name in unison as Daman walked in.
Jayanti Raghunath stepped ahead, smiled widely, hugged him and thrust a glass of wine in his hands. Damans refusal withered when it met with shouts of Drink! Just one drink, he thought.
She introduced him to everyone. Most of their faces were flushed and they were inordinately happy with the book. They were also a little drunk. Ritwik, a smallish, fat, jovial guy, had designed the cover. Shraboni, a beautiful dusky girl with a strong voice, had worked on the final edits. Farhad, a tall, fair, handsome man with a little paunch, was the fiction marketing head. There was also a bunch of guys from the production and sales team whose names Daman had forgotten as soon as he heard them.
The waiter refilled his drink. The wine was expensive and delicious, better than anything he had had before. Its my day, he reminded himself. I will call a cab. A little later, a cake was cut and Daman was handed over the first copies of The Girl of My Dreams, a page-long book with a red and black minimalist cover, amidst frenzied claps and long hugs. They left him alone to enjoy the copies. Daman held a copy in his hands, smelt it, flipped through the pages, and ran his hands over the cover.
He wasnt as joyful as he had imagined he would be all those months back when hed signed the contract. Jayanti turned up next to him and put an arm around him. Her breath smelt of wine. Like it? I told you, didnt I? It will all be okay when the book comes out. You stress about the little things. Little things? Shreyasi was not a little thing.
Jayanti scowled. Now dont start that again. Those changes were important. Thats dead and buried. This is your day! Enjoy the moment, Daman.
This will be the start of something amazing. Daman skimmed through the book as Jayanti droned on about how excited everyone was. The more he read the more he was filled with revulsion.
This book was as much Jayantis as it was his; she hadnt just edited it, she had written large parts herself. He wanted to scream. Instead he drank. Okay, wait. I will dispel your fears, said Jayanti and waved Shraboni down.
Shraboni was already hammered. She stumbled twice before she placed herself in front of Jayanti and Daman.
Shes read the book. Twice, said Jayanti. Whos your best character, Shraboni? Daman pulled a face and sulked. Daman said, You need to congratulate Jayanti for that. My Shreyasi was different. Dont say that, interjected Jayanti. What the fuck am I supposed to say then? The people at the other tables looked at them strangely.
Jayanti asked Ritwik to take Shraboni away. She turned to Daman after she left. I told you. Let the book come out. Everyone will love the new Shreyasi. You can mope all you want if she doesnt work. It will be on me. The waiter asked Daman if he needed a refill. He knew he shouldnt drink; blackouts were common with him. But he needed to forget. He nodded. The waiter filled his glass to the brim.
There was no point in pursuing the Shreyasi conversation any more. Whats done was done. Jayanti had bulldozed her way into the book and wrecked the Shreyasi Daman had thought of. The Shreyasi in the book was a far cry from the cracked, lunatic, lovely, peculiar girl he had painstakingly created.
His pale-faced Shreyasi was a mathematics major, a gold medallist no less, working with a start-up that made algorithms for search engines. She filled her time reading thick books on organic chemistry and ancient history and dead religions.
She liked museums, caffeine, fire, multiple orgasms, Daman the character , occasional BDSM and knock-knock jokes. Coy and polite, she was an English major, an intern at an online news portal. She was all parts boring and bullshit. This is what will work. This is what sells.
After numerous delays and skipped deadlines, Daman had given in. Daman drank through the rest of the evening. Slowly everyone left. Jayanti was the last to leave. She told Daman he could stay if he wanted to. After she left, Daman sunk back into the couch and ordered for numerous refills. Things became muddy thereafter. He started to read the book. The sentences Jayanti had written floated outside the book, coiled around his neck and squeezed it. His chest tightened. Before long he tossed it away.
He ordered another drink. He passed out soon after and dreamt of angry readers burning his books in large piles. He woke up to a waiter staring at his face and asking him to leave. He stumbled out of Olive with an unfinished bottle of champagne and walked to his car.
He put the bottle to his lips. He fumbled for his phone to call himself a cab but couldnt find it. He imagined ripping Jayantis throat out. He passed out. When he opens his eyes next he sees a girl in the drivers seat smiling at him. Hi, says the girl. Are you for real? Show me your face, he slurs. He sees the girl smile. I will remember your face, he says. I hope you do, he hears the girl say.
He mumbles a few words, smiles stupidly and drifts off. He wakes up and finds himself in the back seat. Where are we going? Are you Shreyasi? No one answers. His head swims. The world spins violently around him. In the drivers seat he sees the girl again. Dark hair, white skin, deep dark eyes, violently red lips, as if she has stepped out of his book, The Girl of My Dreams. Shes Shreyasi. Hes sure of it. He smiles in a drunken stupor. No, I am dreaming, Jayanti killed you, he says in disbelief.
She destroyed you, he continues. I am dreaming, its the pills and the alcohol, he says to himself. I shouldnt have had the last bottle. Sleep, youre drunk, baby, he hears the girl say. And like a child, he sleeps again. He wakes up. The car is parked in a deserted area. Theres silence. He tries to help himself up but loses balance. Falling forward he cuts his lower lip and bleeds.
The girl is reading his book, The Girl of My Dreams. She turns towards him. The kindness has drained out of her face. She is glowering. She pulls out a spanner and keeps it on the passenger seat. Then she takes out a lipstick and darkens her lips in the rear-view mirror.
Putting the lipstick back in, she raises the spanner as if to smash his face with it. This is not me, he hears the girl say. The book, the fucking book! He woke up with a jerk. He tried to feel his face; he wasnt hurt but he was bleeding from a small cut on his lip. He was in the drivers seat of his car. It was parked outside his apartment building. He stumbled out of the door on all fours and promptly vomited. He belched and retched and vomited till there was nothing but air inside him.
He slumped against the front tyre. Sitting there he drifted in and out of sleep, sweating under the beating sun. It wasnt until noon that he was wide awake. He found himself inside the car with the air conditioner on full blast. He turned the AC down. Sitting inside the car, he cursed himself for having drunk so much and strained to think what happened the night before.
The motorcyclist. The party. The book. The waiter. The dream. The girl? Another fucking dream. There were twenty missed calls from Avni and a few from his parents. He called Avni first. What the hell is happening, Daman? I have been calling you since forever. I was so scared! I just got drunk last night, he said. I only just got home.
I called Olive and you had left when they closed. Where were you? Yes, yes. I drove back home and passed out in the car. As one of the window to open up the brand-new globe, this The English Teacher, By Durjoy Datta supplies its incredible writing from the writer. Published in among the preferred authors, this book The English Teacher, By Durjoy Datta turneds into one of the most ideal books recently.
Every book will always provide best resources to obtain the visitor all finest. Nevertheless, some people will seek for the best vendor publication to check out as the initial reference. Some individuals like reading this publication The English Teacher, By Durjoy Datta because of this preferred book, but some love this due to preferred writer. Or, lots of also like reading this book The English Teacher, By Durjoy Datta since they actually need to read this book.
It can be the one that actually love reading.
In getting this The English Teacher, By Durjoy Datta, you may not still pass strolling or using your motors to guide stores. Obtain the queuing, under the rainfall or hot light, and still search for the unknown publication to be during that publication establishment.
So currently, this time is for you to choose the download web link as well as acquisition The English Teacher, By Durjoy Datta as your personal soft documents book. This short story outlines the dangerous obsession of a young, brilliant student with his English teacher. What starts as innocuous leching degenerates to compulsive obsession threatening to completely alter Kunal Roy's perception towards his nubile, newly married English teacher.