Hold My Hand

DURJOY DATTA HOLD MY HAND Contents About the Author Dedication Part One: The Nerd Boy 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 Part Two: The Blind Girl 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 Part Three: Hold My Hand 23 24 25 26 27 Part Four: The Nerd Boy 28 29 Read More Follow Penguin Copyright PENGUIN METRO READ HOLD MY HAND Durjoy Datta was born in New Delhi, India, and completed a degree in engineering and business management before embarking on a writing career. His first book Of Course I Love You! was published when he was twenty-one years old and was an instant bestseller. His successive novels —Now That You’re Rich!, She Broke Up, I Didn’t!, Ohh Yes, I Am Single!, If It’s Not Forever, Till the Last Breath, Someone Like You—have also found prominence on various bestseller lists, making him one of the highest selling authors in India. Durjoy lives in New Delhi, loves dogs and is an active Crossfitter. For more updates, you can follow him on Facebook (www.facebook.com/durjoydatta1) or Twitter (@durjoydatta). To the great cities of Delhi and Hong Kong Part One The Nerd Boy 1 When I was a little child, I could squeeze between the tiny bookracks where no books would dare find a space, with my favourite Roald Dahl book, and stay there till the end of Dad’s shift, away from the bullies, protected from people who didn’t appreciate books—I have grown up sitting in such secret places. In the last decade, I have gained inordinate height, though my weight has remained constant, making me resemble a praying mantis—tall, gangly, awkward and strange with spectacled eyes. Mom thinks I am beautiful. Today, I sit in the corner, almost embarrassed, my extraordinarily long legs folded awkwardly under the chair as I read my favourite Henner Jog book for the thirteenth time this year. The table I sit on is engraved with the names of my favourite authors and poets and lines from books I have read. When younger, I would scratch out the name of every book I would read with a compass. I stopped when I realized that all books, like all writers, aren’t equally good, and Dad slapped me and told me that I wasn’t supposed to destroy library property. The word ‘destroy’ stuck in my head—and I wondered if by engraving names of books and writers that I didn’t actually like any more or would recommend anyone to read, would destroy anything. Now, I use permanent markers, which are anything but permanent, and I continually remove the names and the writers I wouldn’t want anyone else to read. Indraprastha Book Library was set up in 1926; its best days behind it, now its patrons are mostly old people who still look for books that are long forgotten and out of print. In all probability, one can find the book here, given they have the requisite patience to find it amongst the 300,000,000 books and journals and magazines stacked and piled and racked in the six hundred shelves spread over four floors. The library still uses an archaic cataloguing software that hardly works. Dad is still at his desk, and I figure I have four more hours to finish the book (I know I will finish it in two). ‘Namaste, Deep, reading the same book again?’ Asha, a woman of fifty-two years, who has been working here almost as long as Dad, smiles her toothy smile and asks. She wipes the floor with a wet rag, but the floor doesn’t dry up easily because the ceiling is too high and the fan above rotates with painful slowness. I nod and say, ‘There are not many books around here,’ and she smiles at the irony, and she gets back to her mopping, and I get back to my book. It’s about a father and a little girl and the road trip they go on after her mother dies in an accident. It’s tragic, but it’s also funny and beautiful, like all good books are. I always cry reading the book, not when the mother dies but when they order for three people at a pit-stop and the girl takes the third plat