2

Not for the first time, an argument had broken out in a coffee shop in South Extension, Delhi. Daman leaned 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 didn't reach their ears as they waited for their takeaway cappuccino and latte.

"Can't you see my point?" asked Avni.

"There's 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 can't. It drives me crazy when I want to write and instead am staring at blueprints of a power plant. I can't do it any more."

Avni had the words and arguments ready before she agreed to meet today but they crumbled in the wake of Daman's all-consuming obsession of seeing his name on a novel. She had spent nights losing sleep over Daman's 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 Daman's hand.

"If that's what you want to do, I will be with you." she said. "In happiness and in madness I'll be with you."

A hint of smile crept up on Daman's face and he clasped Avni's 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. She's a bit of a bitch but she's phenomenal, the best in the business. She's the one behind all the bestselling books you see in the market."

Avni nodded dutifully. She knew nothing of writers and novels 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, you're 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 wannabe writer who had a book contract waiting for him. Even the words felt strange as would roll them over her tongue: 'My boyfriend is a writer. Yes, that's what he does full time. No, it's not a hobby. That's all he does. He writes stories for a living.' The only writers with career were journalists who wrote for newspapers, not novelists with foolhardy dreams of churning out bestsellers.

"What is the book going to be about?" asked Avni.

He took a long drag of his cigarette. "Shreyasi."

Avni's brow knitted. "Why do you keep using that name?" she asked, her voice bitter.

"I just like the name," answered Daman.

Avni forced a smile on her face. 'I hate that name.' "And the guy's name in the book? You will use yours?" she asked.

"Jayanti says I should use mine. Right now it sounds a little narcissistic." He paused before continuing, "But there's no running away from it. That's why they signed me on, isn't 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 Shreyasi's, 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 Daman's 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 wouldn't even pay for a month's 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 with technical jargon, marketing terms and the sophistication of her publishing team. They made him feel big, important, talented, wanted.

Daman was but a amateur scribbler when Jayanti had spotted him in 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 Daman's 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.

"She's fictional, she exists only in my head. I use my name because it helps me visualize things better," he had said.

"So there's 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 didn't 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. 'I'm the ONE, not Shreyasi,' she would convince herself.

Some of his online reader knew Shreyasi was fictional, while some 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 on of Daman's stories went viral and was shared over a thousand times. Avni had suffered that day. Daman had noticed it, because a few days later he'd written a story with the female lead's 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? Why? Why Shreyasi and bit me? She's not real! I'm real!' Avni had thought bitterly.

Though Daman deleted the comments, she often lay in bed recalling the words, WE WANT SHREYASI, and cried herself to sleep. In time Avni learnt to live with it.

"So what do you think?"

Avni broke out of her reverie. She hadn't bee listening. "Umm. It's terrific. I'm 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 onto her. "The Girl of My Dreams," he said. "That's 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 don't think I'll let her. Moreover, Shreyasi as a character is perfect."

'No she's not!' thought Avni hotly. 'She's your mistress, that's 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 men's washroom. A few seconds passed but the girl was still unblinkingly staring at the door. An eerie feeling griped Avni's heart. The girl was looking at the door and mumbling something, as if she was talking to it. "Daman," Avni heard the name escaped the girl's lips. Avni wasn't 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 Avni's 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. Avni's 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 girl's opaque-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 girl's mumblings but couldn't make out a word except one. 'Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch.'

"Hey?'

"Huh?"

"Where are you list?"

Avni noticed she was sweating. Daman took his seat and blocked the girl out if her view. She breathed easy.

"I was thinking we should go out and celebrate in the evening," said Avni.

Daman flashed a thumbs up. "Sure. I will call you. Aren't 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.

"What's. that?" asked Daman and took the paper from her.

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.

---Onlh yours, Shreyasi, The Girl of Your Dreams"

A clanged loudly in the background. Avni turned towards the Boyce 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 Avni's 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.