THE ENGLISH TEACHER BY DURJOY DATTA PDF
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.
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Between his words, Jayantis words protruded like ugly, jagged rocks. 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 sat in the car and closed his eyes. He fumbled for his phone to call himself a cab but couldnt find it.
He imagined ripping Jayantis throat out. He passed out. 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 English Teacher
The party. The book. The waiter. The dream. The girl? Another fucking dream. He rummaged through the glovebox for his phone. 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. I just woke up, he said. He pressed his hand against his head which was bursting with pain. He needed a Crocin. You drove back home drunk? What is wrong with you, Daman?
And what was that text you sent me? What text? I didnt send you anything. Avni read out the text. You dont deserve him. I didnt send that, he said. He added after a pause. I must have been trying to send it to Jayanti. Why her? The book, Avni. I got the author copies and its. I will talk to you in the evening. I feel like Im dying right now Do you want me to come over?
No, I will manage. See you in the evening? I will talk to you in a bit, he said and disconnected the call. He found the text he had sent Avni in the Sent folder. He was glad he didnt end up sending it to Jayanti. But he wondered why he referred to himself in the third person. I should stop drinking.
He looked around for the books in the car. He checked the glove compartment, the boot of the car, even below the seats. He couldnt find them. He figured he must have left them at the restaurant. Disappointed, he stepped out of the car to call Jayanti and ask for more copies.
He had just dialled her number when he noticed what he thought was the burnt jacket of his book a couple of yards away from the car. He disconnected the call. Is it the book?
He walked closer to inspect. He bent over the smouldering heap of ashes. All that was left of the five author copies of The Girl of My Dreams was blackened paper and ash.
He picked out one half-burnt jacket which had miraculously escaped the flames. When did I do this? He texted Jayanti asking her to courier him more copies of the books. Daman trudged back to his apartment thinking of the book. The opening line that described Shreyasi written by Jayanti came rushing to his headBorn in , fair-skinned Shreyasi was every boys dream; nice and soft- spoken, she was a bundle of joy and kindness.
Damans stomach churned. Jayantis words ran in Damans head. He grabbed her by the hair and rammed her head repeatedly against the glass walls of her cabin till the cracked glass dribbled with blood and brains. Her body slumped to the ground, her fingers twitching, her legs trembling. Daman stomped on her smashed skull till she was unrecognizable. A fitting punishment for changing his book to a hunk of shit.
He snapped out of his reverie. He was staring at the cracked glass walls of Jayantis cabin. Jayanti sat smiling in her chair, waiting for Daman to speak.
Why does this room smell like shit? Can we come to the point? You answered Jayanti. You said everyone will love this new Shreyasi. They fucking hate her, grumbled Daman. You have no idea what youre talking about, Daman. Stop pacing around first and sit down. Youre freaking me out, said Jayanti leaning forward in her chair, hands crossed over the proofs of the book that was due for printing.
Three cups of black coffee lay empty on her table. Hundreds of paperback and hardback books lay stacked in teetering towers around her table. Millions of words by authors known and unknown were scattered all around her.
Jayanti looked at Avni. Ask him to calm down a little, will you? Avni tugged at Damans arm. Daman sat down. He spoke, Are you kidding me, Jayanti?
People dont like my book. Go, check the reviews online. They hate the Shreyasi in the book, the Shreyasi you created, the Shreyasi you wrote out. Shes just someone whom the protagonist loves and fucks.
She needed to be more than that. And Im goddam tired of answering the question if the main guy in the book is me. I told you we should have given the guy a different name than mine. We are NOT having this conversation again.
Because we used your name, people think its a true story and readers lap up true stories like anything. You should know that, right? Even movies do that all the time. Do you really think those movies are based on true events? Daman had feebly protested about the edits and rewrites till the day before the book went into print but there was no winning against the cunning of Jayanti who predicted doomsday for the book if they didnt do that.
I will just read the reviews out. She read them out. The book is a classic romance. Loved the ending. In love with Shreyasi I cried so much in the book. Heart emoji. Crying emoji. I totally heart emoji heart emoji the story. What are you talking about? Most of the reviews are good.
Durjoy Datta Wiki, Biography, Novels, Books, Wife, Wedding, PDF
She turned her MacBook around. Daman rolled his eyes. Avni pulled the laptop close and perused the reviews. They were overwhelmingly positive. But these werent the only reviews online. Especially those where Shreyasi had been called a spineless, stereotypical, weak damsel in distress, and the ones where Daman had been called a failure of a writer, his story old wine in a new well-marketed bottle.
The most scathing reviews were from people who had read Damans short pieces of fiction on Facebook before he had signed the deal and had come to fall in love with the old Shreyasi. They called him a sell-out. He blamed it all on Jayantis overbearing editing. If only Daman had known that behind that beautifully elongated body, those kind, tired eyes of Jayanti, there was a manipulative, control-freak shrew. Avni had borne most of the brunt of Damans anger, being the only one who could keep him from self- destruction.
Jayanti continued, Look, Daman I dont know what kind of acceptance youre looking for but selling 15, copies of a debut book in the first three weeks constitutes a resounding success.
You need to stop thinking what a few people think about your lead girl character. Look at the bigger picture. The book is a hit! Its even on the Bharatstan Times Bestseller list. Why dont you tape it to your head and strut around then?
I dont know what youre complaining about, Daman. Other debut authors would kill to be in your position right now. She has a point, said Avni. Daman threw Avni a murderous look. He said, Should I clap for you, Jayanti? He mocked her. People out there are calling me another Karthik Iyer, the lowest fucking denominator.
Listen, Daman. You were writing notes on Facebook when I spotted you and gave you this book deal. Dare you make it sound like I wrecked your career! I gave you a career if you look at it closely.
You spotted me, remember? You came to me. You offered me a book deal because you thought the book would work. It wasnt charity. You knew I had an audience online that would buy the book. You knew my book had potential. Jayanti laughed throatily. Like really? Followers on Twitter and Facebook dont mean anything, Daman. It doesnt cost money to like or share something. It takes a good relatable book, a marketing plan, a smart editor, a smart publicist to sell a book. People share videos of poor people dying all day with sad smileys and complain about how wretched the world is but wont part with a rupee for them.
How would you have made them spend on you? They already did. Data isnt free, Jayanti. Big joke, Daman. Youre so funny. Why dont you put that in your next book, haan? Avni looked at the two of them volleying verbal insults like a spectator at a tennis match. Avni had been in this cabin once before. It was the day Daman had signed the contract for his book which was supposed to change his life. That day she had noticed the massive cloth board behind Jayanti Raghunaths heavily cushioned chair.
It had been covered with jackets of all the bestsellers Jayanti had edited in her decade-long career. Some thirty-odd books in ten years. The probability of success had made Avni nauseated. What if Damans book doesnt go up there?
But today the board was covered completely with a white chart paper. Im getting something done here, Jayanti had offered as an explanation. It wasnt the only thing that had changed in the cabin. The desk looked new. Even the printer and the laptop and carpet looked largely unused. The glass wall was cracked and splintered. And the room smelt strange. Like it was heavily perfumed to cover up a rotting corpse.
Avni stole glances at her watch as they continued to argue. Her meeting at Avalon Consulting would start in another half an hour. If she were to get stuck in traffic there was no way she would make it on time. I want to stay but I have to get to work. She wanted to say, For your and for my sake.
Look around you, Daman. So many authors. And only a few names have made it to that board of hers. The money from your advance is already running out. If only you hadnt bought the car.
I have to work so you can write. Jayanti and Daman both looked at her. She pointed at her watch. Daman nodded knowingly. Avni got up and hugged him. She whispered in his ear, Stay calm, and took his leave. Jayanti said after Avni left, You are good writer, no doubt about it, but you still have a lot to learn.
Do you know why you finally agreed to all my changes, Daman? It was because you were scared. You were scared the book wouldnt work. Thats why you fought with me, but didnt fight enough, thats why you dissented, but not enough. Because in those moments of doubt you trusted your editor who has been in this industry for far longer than you have. Yes, it was wrong to trust you. You fleeced me. I left my job and moved out of my parents house because of your deal.
The English Teacher
And what did you offer me? A shitty royalty percentage and an editor like you? No one forced you to sign the deal. You could have fought harder for Shreyasi. But you didnt. And you got enough money and a bestselling book if I may add. Maybe you wouldnt be so angry if you hadnt spent all the money buying that car of yours.
Oh, so now youre my financial advisor? What next? You will dictate what I should eat? Enough, Daman. I dont take nonsense from my authors, especially first-time authors, and you would be off my roster if you werent talented Daman ignored her aggressive tone and interrupted her.
Whatever, Jayanti. The fact of the matter is that there will be a book with my name on it with a character thats as shitty as Shreyasi. Nothing you say will ever change that.
Jayanti shrugged. You know what wont change? That you can be a writer. That you can sell books for a long time if you let me tweak a few things. You wont have to go back to your engineering job any more. And that would mean a lot to a whole lot of people, said Jayanti. You know how many authors in India can claim to earn a living out of just writing? A handful! If you cant be grateful I think youre being short-sighted. Listen I have been doing this a long time. Fixing books, thats what I do and I do it well.
Just then, the door was knocked on by the office boy and Jayanti was summoned for a meeting. She looked at Daman and spoke, I need to go now. When you go back home, think about what this book can do for you. Also when you realize I am talking for your own good, start writing your second book and we can proceed with signing the deal for it.
Daman scoffed. No way. We all need to earn, Daman. I know you have burnt through the advance money from the first book. You did this to me Let me finish. Youre refusing to do any book launches for The Girl of My Dreams. How long do you think the book can sustain without any publicity? So think rationally and stop acting like a brat.
Do a couple of book launches for this book and then start work on the next one. We make a great team, Daman. Never forget that. We are all working for you. You stand to gain the most out of it. I like you, Daman. You have passion and I like that but you need to take things easy. I got to go now, she said and got up.
I will wait for your decision. She stretched out her hand to shake his. Without another word Daman strode out of the room, leaving Jayantis hand hanging mid-air. Jayanti watched him go. The reason why she liked Daman was also the one why she hated him. He was passionate, almost a little mad, teetering on the edge of insanity, and she could see that in his neurotic and chaotic writing.
Of course, it was her responsibility to tone down the madness of his book. She was terrified for a second; it felt like he would smash the wine bottle against her face. Thankfully he hadnt and the evening had run smoothly. It was only that coy little girlfriend of his who could keep him grounded. Jayanti hoped she would knock some sense into him. She looked around and sighed. Someone had broken into her cabin a week ago.
Her desk, her laptop, the printer were amongst the many things the intruder had vandalized and spray-painted on. The intruder had even tried to throw her chair through the glass wall. She had to get it changed. But the most disgusting thing had been the smell. The floor was smeared with human faeces and water from the sprinklers.
They had to shut the entire office down for two days because of the debilitating stench. Despite the perfume, Jayanti could still feel the ungodly smell lurking. Whoever had broken in hadnt even spared the books.
Luckily, the water sprinklers had taken care of the fire before it could spread. The CCTV cameras at the Bookhound office had long been defunct so they didnt record who did it or how it happened. A couple of years back, a crazed fan had broken in and stolen a few advance copies of Karthik Iyers book. Screwball fans had always been a part of this industry, but even Jayanti admitted that this was the farthest anyone had gone.
She picked up her laptop and closed the pages with the reviews. As she turned to leave, her eyes fell on the bare white chart paper she had covered the cloth board with. Behind the chart paper was the most telling review of Damans book, spray-painted in bold red letters over the jackets of the bestselling books Jayanti had edited over the years.
A tall glass of cold coffee sweated on his table, untouched. He had successfully resisted the temptation to order a beer.
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It wouldnt be the first time if he were to have one drink too many and run amok at this pub. He smiled thinking of the time he had sneaked behind the bartender, filched a new bottle of Jack Daniels, and replaced it with his urine-filled beer bottle. This had taken place only three years ago but now it seemed like another lifetime. Oh, the celebrity is already here! Screw you, Bhaiya, said Daman stepping down from his high stool. He gave Sumit a one- handed hug.
You seem to be in a foul mood, said Sumit and ordered two beers. He noticed the glass of cold coffee and cancelled Damans.
Wise choice, he said. Remind me to go easy as well. I have a date later tonight. Tinder date. I got a match as I climbed up the damn stairs, said Sumit. Sumit always complained about the stairs of Summerhouse Caf. They were tall and misshapen and a horror to climb down when drunk. Shes coming here. I told her I would be at Summerhouse and she told me its exactly where she and her friends are hanging out tonight. This has to be my quickest conversion from a conversation to a date.
I think my game is getting better. Show me her picture, asked Daman, still incredulous. Sumit fished out his phone and showed him the photograph. Daman smirked. Thats just a pair of lips. The sexiest lips in the universe you mean. Just look at them, said Sumit, turning the close-up picture of the girls blood-red lips towards him again. Best of luck, said Daman. I hope shes a not a guy. Or a serial killer. We should meet more often.
You might be my lucky charm, said Sumit poking Damans shoulder. Daman sniggered. Although Sumit was Damans senior in college, Sumit and he had struck up an unlikely friendship which had strengthened over the last six years. Unlike Daman, Sumit hadnt dreamt up a fantasy for a career and put his fate in the hands of a wench like Jayanti. He had been biding his time at Alstom Engineering.
Sooner or later he would immigrate to the Middle East, get a resident visa, buy a Japanese-made SUV and never look back. Sumit awkwardly climbed up on the high stool. Did you read it? What did you think? Sumit took a long, big gulp of his beer.
I am with Jayanti Raghunath on this. I never thought I would like anything you wrote. She did a good job of making the book readable. You cant be serious. Did you really like the Shreyasi she wrote? I did. She was way better than the strange Shreyasi you wrote about in those Facebook posts. She wasnt strange, protested Daman. No, she wasnt strange. Strange doesnt even cut it. In one of your stories on Facebook, she burns the guys phone just to prove a point. In another, she shears off her hair in protest against the guys behaviour.
Who the fuck does that? Thats not strange, thats complete madness! Thats love. Well, not the usual garden-variety love, but still. Moreover, she had reasons to do those things in the incidents preceding her actions. She was doing everything to protect her relationship.
I would have done the same thing, he argued. Youre twisted, Daman. Sumit laughed. Then he continued, irritably, Whatever, man. The new Shreyasis believable and shes nice. Jayanti knows what shes doing. But I wish shed made you change the name as well.
Shreyasi isnt even a nice name. Bhaiya, youre still stuck there? Yeah, right! Youre the one who never tires of writing posts using her name and now you have written a book using that name and its me whos stuck there.
Just fucking brilliant, snapped Sumit. Its just a name I use. You know that. Are you still getting those nightmares?
Does she still die in those nightmares? More or less. Sometimes she doesnt. Do you remember anything else? No, nothing. Its just those few seconds before the drive, different versions of the same dream, said Daman. Youre taking the pills? Sumit sighed and said, The next time you think of her name, just remember the girl who holds that name nearly drove you to your death.
Youre never going to forget that, are you? Of course I am never going to forget that. It was us who suffered for six months in that hospital. Not that girl. She ran after the accident. I hate her and I hate her name. I would have really liked it if you hadnt used that bitchs name. You could have used Avnis name instead, said Sumit. Sumit along with Damans father had spent months running from one doctor to another to take second opinions and then third.
Later, once he had woken up, they had driven him to physiotherapy and psychotherapy sessions. The coma had wiped out certain memories but Daman had responded rather favourably to both therapies.
When he had first regained consciousness, he had even forgotten how to walk or use the toilet or to hold a pen. The girl in the car has nothing to do with the girl in the book.
I dont even know what she was like. Its just a name I picked for a character. Just a name? Then why does the Shreyasi in the book look exactly like the Shreyasi from the car wreck? The pale face? Long black hair? Daman didnt have an answer for that. He said, Fuck it. Can we talk about something else?
If I were Avni I would have strangled you before you used any other girls name in the book. I dont know how she tolerates you. You shouldnt have happened to a girl as nice as she is. Tell me, have you told her about the nightmares? Theres no need. She already worries about me a lot. And again, can we talk about something else? But promise me you will come to me if the nightmares get worse? We can put you back in therapy.
PTSD is not to be taken lightly. I will tell you. Sumit took another big gulp of his beer. He said, And stop being so sullen about the book. Its not good for your mental health. Its selling well you told me. So just enjoy your success. I dont want to be another Karthik Iyer. He has achieved the privilege to work with famous authors in which includes Manvi Ahuja who associated with Durjoy with his fifth book.
The way Durjoy presents words and touches the heart of the readers has made him of the most prestigious authors in India. He lets his books reachable for every corner by keeping them at an affordable price. In , he received the Teachers Achievement Award along with many other famous celebrities.
His first book, Of course! I love You became a bestseller. Born on February 7, in Delhi, Durjoy is an engineer by profession. He pursued his degree at Delhi College of Engineering. He left his job as a marketing analyst at American Express in and started writing full time.
He initiated writing during his final year in college.Unlike Raghuvir, or the girl he was in love with, Aranya was a hard worker. Yet right here, when you see this web page, it will be so simple to obtain and also download and install guide The English Teacher, By Durjoy Datta It will certainly not take often times as we mention in the past.
He would have seen through it, that you had copied. He needed a new dressing for that wound. He slumped against the front tyre. His name would be on a book for all of eternity. Im so happy. He grabbed her by the hair and rammed her head repeatedly against the glass walls of her cabin till the cracked glass dribbled with blood and brains. Dont be surprised.