The boy with a broken heart pdf download

You can join our newsletter by entering your details in the newsletter given in the right sidebar on the website and then confirm your subscription by clicking on the link provided in the welcome mail. Please also drop your email id in the comments. The result will be declared on our Facebook page. Can you please send it to debolinabiswas gmail. Please send it to me Uddipan. Pls email me when the book me available to download Email- yoganandparab gmail. Please Mail me the link to Download the Book in this address : rayta.

Please send me the link of the boy with the broken heart to shreyastcs gmail. Please send me the link of the boy with the broken heart to minecp94 gmail. Could you please send tge pdf file of the book at souravpati8 gmail. Please send the book to my mail.

Please send me the PDF I am being restless to read this. Please send me The boy with a broken heart — manjiri. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed. Product Description. Having lost everything, Raghu now wants to stay hidden from the world.

After all, the antidote to heartache is love. About the Author Durjoy Datta was born in New Delhi, India, and completed a degree in engineering and business management before embarking on a writing career. Durjoy lives in Mumbai, loves dogs and is an active CrossFitter.

Share this:. You're crying now. Now you're smiling. I'm done. I love you Having lost everything, Raghu now wants to stay hidden from the world.

However, the annoyingly persistent Advaita finds his elusiveness very attractive. And thee more he ignores her, the more she's drawn to him till she bulldozes her way into an unlikely friendship. He slumped to the ground, and buried his face in his palms. His body heaved and jolted vigorously.

He started to hysterically pat the blood off himself. I had to hold him and drag him out of there. He was lost, his body out of control, his eyes staring uselessly ahead. He trudged behind me at first, shuffling and stumbling, falling over twice, but once we were out of the hospital compound, he broke into a run.

I had to let go of his hand. After ten minutes, he was still running, sprinting away from me, saying things under his breath. I tried to keep up, but my lungs closed up and I stumbled over.

He was still running away, a blur to my muddled brain. If anything, he ran faster every subsequent second. I hobbled behind him as he ran distractedly, barely missing vehicles. Then he got on the Splendor motorcycle he had hired today. In a moment of recklessness, I hopped on too.

I tried to talk to him, shouted in his ears to stop, told him that we could talk, but he rode on. Overgrown men in VIP briefs and women and girls in soaked salwar kameezes scampered around, clicking pictures. He took his drenched kurta off. He stepped out of his pants and slipped into the water, navigating the crates of cold drinks kept there to cool.

I sat and saw him disappear to the far end of the waterfall. I have tried standing right where the water hits the ground during picnics with Mumma and Papa. He stood there unmoving, the water thwacking him violently. Other men and boys, exhorted by their egos, tried to walk to where he stood, and failed miserably. When he walked out, looking less shabby, he sat on the rocks and lit a cigarette. For a second I wanted to give him a piece of my mind, but he was still shivering, the cigarette and his fingers shaking.

The tears were gone, the smouldering look was back, but there was still that vulnerability in him. And anger and pain, pain and anger. He caught my gaze and tears trickled down his eyes again. Did that mean he wanted me to stay? Hoping to comfort him, I reached out and held his hand. Within seconds, he retracted his hand and looked away from me. The blood? What did you leave behind? Maybe I can help.

Talk to me. What was that you were trying to tell me? No one can. No one fucking can. I watched him walk away. I came back home, alone. Buaji had insisted on a low-key wedding. Twice I saw Divya Di and Sumitra look at each other and then away, the tension between them palpable.

Buaji was treading her ground softly, slowly ramping up. Manish Chachu, the protector, watched on silently. Fufaji took over. No reception. That would be shameful. We understand. Just tell us what you need from us and we will try our best to accommodate everything. We will do the best we can. They were in such a hurry to dispose of their daughter. Karan Bhaiya was sent to shut our door. This is not the time for this.

Who knew what you had been doing? Who knows how many people you have slept with in Delhi? Who did you find? Their anger, love and disappointment with one man choked the small room.

Suddenly the door was opened and in came Mumma. She led Sumitra out, and her teary face suddenly brightened and the crease on her forehead smoothened, her body no longer firm with rage. She was seamlessly slipping into the role of a wife.

The rishta was finalized. As we all left the house, a bunch of hijras were already outside, singing songs of weddings and love and heartbreak. No one knows how they come to know of festivities and then come asking for money. Whether they seek out happiness or sadness, no one knows. Given the fate nature has dealt them, I would bet on the latter. Divya Di was in the living room, walking around like a grieving ghoul. I had been thinking so much about him lately that for a second I thought I had conjured him out my thoughts.

I slowed down my cycle and followed him. He ripped off little pieces of paper with a scale and stuck them on bus-stop poles, electric poles, and car windows. He waited around for people, picked them out at random and passed the chits of paper. Most of them threw them away before reading. I stopped to read the crisp handwriting:.

At first it sounded like a prostitution advert seeking sad housewives seeking an outlet for their repressed sexuality. I imagined him in a dingy one-room kitchen near ISBT, waiting for libidinous women with his legs apart, naked, waiting to rub the humdrum of the boring lives of these women out of their inviting vaginas.

It was only later that it struck me and that made me feel rank stupid. It was so obvious who he meant it for—it was unmistakable. Curious still, I dialled the number. It was the number of a PCO at the outskirts where I had seen him flying kites. What sort of people call him? Not one person has called. Do you think this has something to do with pyaar ka chakkar, love?

I had waited for today. I called the number first thing in the morning. I imagined him in the PCO with a handkerchief muffling the sounds of trucks and buses passing by, and the man in the PCO looking on surprised to see him actually taking a call. About anything that you would want to. At nine, or you can choose a time. I was seriously intrigued now. What was he trying to do? I reached FRI at eight-thirty, but he was already waiting.

I hid and watched him as he nervously swept the place clean, and plucked and arranged flowers as if preparing for a date. He switched places thrice before he chose to sit. His knees shook, and he rubbed his hands anxiously. It was precisely at nine that I stepped out from behind the trees and walked towards him. He got up when he saw me, at first with a rehearsed smile, then with confusion, and then hate and anger.

I stumbled backwards, once, twice, and found his hand firmly clutching mine. I could barely hear him over the thumping of my own heart. In those few seconds that he was screaming, foaming at his mouth like a rabid dog, I felt he would slaughter me, break my rib cage and crush the life out of my beating heart. I heard these words. I heard them repeatedly, but I felt too paralysed to answer. I gazed into his eyes and failed to look away even when I wanted to.

There was too much of everything. The little capillaries were too red, the pain too much, the fury unabated. What had I moved in him? What did I break? He waited and then his clenched fists went limp. He turned away and walked into the trees. The TV has been on for hours now. I was serving Dadaji his third cup of tea when I saw Manish Chachu preparing to sneak out again. This was the third time in three days. He had made a smooth shift from his starched white kurtas to white shirts and jeans.

It was no secret that this was all for Sumitra. Only yesterday I had seen them at the newly opened coffee shop near DIT, their hands close but not touching, and their lips moving softly, like they had always been in love.

They make me think that maybe love could be arranged too. She has been snapping at everybody and everything for the past few days, finding reasons to fight with me and Mumma.

You were telling me about teaching eighth-standard students? What happened to that? I went yesterday! And there was no work! You know that sort of thing helps no one! Not us definitely! Do you get that?

Or do you want us to rot in this house forever? Are you just waiting for that boy to be the knight in shining armour?

Where were you yesterday? And the day before? And the day before that? Do you hear me? If it was that horrible to have a friend to talk to. Of course. Maybe Raghu could take that place. I have been toying with the idea of apologizing to him, but Di is probably right.

How deep is that hurt? And how many lives will he have to save till he gets over it? Or am I reading it all wrong? Did he kill someone? That should be enough reason for me to maintain as much distance between us as possible. We were sleeping when we heard a few men shouting outside.

It was too early for fights about parking spaces and broken boundary walls. Dadaji and Buaji were already outside, holding their heads, murmuring among themselves. The entire neighbourhood—Shekhawat, the lecherous, drunk uncle who threw the biggest Mata ki Chowkis, Chibber Uncle, who along with his wife, had chased away their daughter-in-law in a mere two weeks, Nandi Uncle, whom everyone suspected had another woman in Meerut—was in our courtyard.

And that too a house with girls! Saala, deshdrohi, betrayer. We should have killed him. Within an hour, there were at least four, I counted. The first narrated by Nandi Uncle was that someone had overheard Altaf sympathizing with the Muslim terrorists who had mercilessly mowed down eighty men, women and children while they prayed at the Akshardham temple in Gandhinagar. The third narrated by Patnaik Uncle told of how Altaf wanted to repeat Akshardham in Dehradun, and how he wanted to spill Hindu blood this Eid.

The fourth, and the most vicious, was narrated by Shekhawat Uncle. Why would he have that? And money, more money than he should have. Where do you think that came from? You know how these people are. Her nails dug into my arm deeper with every story, every detail of how they had bludgeoned him close to death. Police mein hamare bahut Hindu bhai hai, baaki vo samhbal lenge We have enough Hindu brothers in the police, they will take care of the rest.

Of all the men, it was only Manish Chachu who had a different opinion. There were times he would drop Altaf and Iqbal to where they lived, and like us, he probably knew that there was no way these two men could be terrorists.

While the men kept talking about the incident repeatedly, I held Mumma and took her inside the house. Without a word, she went to the terrace and started to cook. Neither of us believed a shred of what those people had said about Altaf. He was a kind man, kinder than my own blood. To accuse him of terrorism was absurd. What do they know of the dresses he used to stitch from wasted cloth for Divya Di and me every Diwali when we were small?

This morning, Mumma gave us two packed lunches and an old, tattered purse with rupees in it. It was almost all the money we had saved. Ask him where Iqbal is. They will point you in the right direction. We hopped on to his scooter and he drove us to the shanty in which Iqbal and Altaf lived. He stared at the rows upon rows of houses—if they can be called that— breached into each other, a heaving, groaning mass of asbestos and tarpaulin sheets, and asked us to go ahead.

The stench and the mud and the number of people were overwhelming. My insides threatened to come up my throat. I stifled the feeling when I saw Di marching from house to house without a shadow of discomfort on her face.

She asked around and people kept sending us deeper into the maze. We knocked and waited. It was quite some time before the door opened. It was Raghu. He quietly stepped out of the way. Iqbal got up. We entered with our heads bowed, ashamed. It felt like we too had been a part of the mob. Raghu dusted the ground and put two stools for us to sit on.

Altaf was in the nursing home. Iqbal asked us not to go there. They wanted to douse his spirit, make him a cripple. Raghu poured us tea in three little tumblers. There was not much to say after that. We finished our tea and assured Altaf that we would be there for anything he would need from us. We made hollow promises that Altaf would be OK. But no matter how hard we tried, he refused the money, but took the food gladly.

Altaf or Iqbal? Grief is the luxury of the rich. Mumma has thrown herself headlong into work again. Dadaji has forbidden Muslim tailors inside the house, their religion reduced from a badge of honour in the profession to an abomination.

Her eyesight is not as it used to be, and it pains me to see her working for hours, hunched over a piece of cloth. But whenever I offer to help, she gets furious. I was fed, loved and cared for. In those moments I felt how boys must feel with their mothers fussing over them; they showered me with such attention that I could not really handle it. She led me to her room, a concept that had always fascinated me, a room for yourself, for your things and your secrets, for all things you. We both knew the answer to that.

And he could make everything seem right, even abusing me. He was good at making me feel as if everything was my fault. Would have been much easier to adjust and fit in, and mould ourselves to the ways the world wants us to. When I got back home, Manish Chachu was wringing the water out of his kurtas.

Chachu looked at me. Di lied through her teeth. Delhi assignment, my foot! Not the modelling agency she has supposedly signed up for, not the three music videos that were promised to her, and not the agent who has promised her big things. They were all lies, one after another! I know you have been meeting Sumitra and telling her to walk out of the marriage.

See what this agency is about and how many music videos you have been offered. She then tore it off and kept it in her pocket.

Delhi is a harsh place. Who will you turn to if you get into trouble? Nothing you or Mumma and Papa have to say is going to change my decision. When will you come back? She took me into her arms and kissed my forehead. Why the hell did you fall in love if that meant losing your sister? I would never do that! Di chuckled. Buaji and Dadaji were told. The news had been slipped to Karan Bhaiya and Anshuman Bhaiya who relayed the information with the requisite anger.

The thought of an agency, of her being in a music video, of making a mockery of her khaandani izzat, but most of all the mere thought that our family would be known through the name of a woman, was profane. Dadaji and Buaji assumed that this reaction of an upturned nose, a light warning would be enough for Di to know that it was an unimaginable thing to hope for.

From what I could hear through the closed door, Mumma and Papa were being lambasted by Buaji for their failures in raising us. Papa stayed quiet for most of the conversation, acted upset and disappointed in his daughters. It looked like Divya Di would have to run away from the house if she decided to not change her mind. Divya Di was briefed about what had happened in the evening. She listened, and with every word, her face grew harder, her skin paler. We played down the happenings, knowing that every word we say would only weigh her down.

Not enough to keep her here but enough to keep her awake for nights. Divya Di and I lay down on the roof, but sleep evaded us. I searched in vain for words that could tell her how devastated I would feel when she was no longer there, when I would be left alone in this cesspool of toxic relationships. She had no words to assuage my pain. Whatever happened to that guy? I have enough problems already, and so does he. Di and I stayed up for the rest of the night, stared at the stars, and played our favourite game—What if We Had Money.

It was a shock to see him on the terrace. He stood there standing with his arms crossed in front of him. He stopped and turned. My head was scrambling to put in perspective what he had just said to me. True, Karan Bhaiya and Anshuman Bhaiya had an effeminate classmate who is said be in love with boys, and that boy has had a tough time about it. Di tells me that Bombay and Delhi are full of such men, even women, but here, in Dehradun? And Chachu? How can that be? He seems so normal.

Manish Chachu. How can he. But the more I think about it, the more it seems plausible. However, Chachu is nothing like the men who are supposed to fall in love with other men.

Nothing I had seen in the movies about homosexual men resembles Manish Chachu. And yet when I told Di, her reaction was subdued, as if she always expected it. She got me thinking as well. The possibilities were endless with a secret like this. Many of those love to read and now it has become a trend as well. Till today there are many novels and books that have been published.

On the other hand, you even do not have the idea of. So according to your needs and also most importantly interest you can take away the novels of your choice. Besides this, there are some people who have an interest in a lot many categories as well. Sometimes people think that they are ignoring others and keeping up their own pace. If you are thinking the way then you are wrong.

This is where you at times think that you think, and also you can take your own time to live yourself. Also, there are many novels that are made up the same storyline. I Was Never Broken Book is one of the novels where you can read the story.