Download hold my hand

They are asking him to code a software for cataloguing for libraries. Plus, he is all grown up. I am an only child, pro- tected and loved beyond what is healthy for any kid to be, because parents die and then one has to go on road trips—just like it happened in the book I read this morning.

Why do you have to go? What will I do without you? And what if something happens to you? We will always be in touch over the phone! Remember technology? She cries some more at this, the serial ends, and we eat; Mom keeps blinking away her tears, and I daydream about cataloguing algorithms for libraries that would allow the books I like to be easily discovered, allowing me to slip in my own recommendations, quite like the desk in the library with book names engraved on it, only in binary and inside the computer.

But I hope not to destroy. All the people in my sketches look nearly alike. They all have crooked noses and slender bodies, the buildings always lean to the right, the birds and the bees are always dots and scratches, and yet I sketch, when I am extraordinarily bored. She is texting furiously on her iPhone. And your sketching is really bad, like really bad! He must be with his bimbo girlfriend, who cares?

Yes- terday I saw this really cute boy running on the adjacent treadmill and he kept looking at me, and then I kept looking at him, and then he ran faster and faster and looked at me and I wondered whether he was trying to run away from me! How does it feel to have, like, no flesh? The class ends and disperses, and no one takes note of us sitting at the last bench, one sketch- ing, and the other texting a nameless friend who I am jealous of, since Manasi is my only friend, apart from Aman, whose whereabouts are presently unknown.

New Delhi Technological Institute or NDTI, is not the most brilliant or unique or reputed engineer- ing college in and around New Delhi, but it is certainly the most conveniently located. If a capital city can be assumed to be the centre of a country, then NDTI was also literally at the centre of India, and we were at the centre of the country, sketching and texting.

The institute has four tall, red buildings, and although they are connected with passageways, they bear no resemblance to one another in terms of architecture, much like the students in the college who are like islands—disconnected, distinct and unconcerned about each other. That my college mates are islands, or a cluster of islands, becomes clearer in the canteen, which is one of the older parts of the college, because education or not, food is food. The cool students are in the corner sharing pictures, making plans; the studious ones are sharing notes; the buff students are discussing gym routines, and there are no passageways that connect these islands of people to one an- other.

You should get a new phone too. And my phone is fine. I can call and I can text. I use an old Nokia, the one which was secretly made out of toughened titanium or something, built to withstand holocausts and wars. It has Snakes on it, which is my favourite game, so I am happy with my phone.

Manasi weighs ninety-three kilograms. She just eats a lot, eats everything and eats all the time. Aman is too cool for his own good; he has no business hanging around with us, the real-life representation of Laurel and Hardy, except in this case, Hardy is a nineteen-year-old girl. Oliver Hardy was a hundred pounds heavier, though he lost one hundred and fifty pounds before his death which made him lighter than Manasi in the end.

Show him! Our college team sucks and I am a part of the suckery. I have seen you play! Blood splashes on the screen and the phone asks if he wants to continue. Aman hands it back to her. You will always be the undefeated champion of the great game of Snakes.

Manasi can take a tip or two from him, especially since she spends so much time staring at him. Are you still going to Hong Kong? Did your mother give you permission yet? Your mom will be so happy to get you one! He often addresses me as champ, champion, genius, THE man, super-dude, and I quite like it. Aman is looking away from us. A few girls from the other section pass us by and wave at him.

He waves back at them and they blush and giggle. Manasi frowns. You have to have a crush on him in order to move on. Aman leaves for his tennis practice and Manasi starts tapping on the phone again. She is playing NFS now. I still believe clouds are made of fluffy, soft cotton and not vapour. I would soon get to the bottom of this. I remember the churning in my stomach, the dizziness, the happiness that coursed through every inch of me, and I had smiled and nodded my head like a baby seal, happy and grinning from ear to ear.

If all libraries combined to make a country, we would be the first family of that country. And I was going to add another feather in its cap. Anything to hold her nineteen-year- old son back. She was mistaken. I love new books, course books or not, and I enjoy underlining the living hell out of course books and making little notes in my flowery handwriting on the margins. When do you leave? Aman would make a great hero in a Young Adult book: courteous, handsome and sensitive—a curious mix of Edward Cullen and Augustus Waters, without the canines or the cancer.

I always end up associating people with characters from books. The professor is boring, he is the kind of character that dies in a Robert Ludlum book and no one misses him. Ritika is planning something big.

She constantly asks about you and whether you would be here. I saw this really cute guy who offered me a seat in the bus. He was looking at me, I could tell, and then I looked at him, and then I stared and then he got off the bus. The professor looks at us, shoots an icy look, and goes back to drawing flowcharts on the board.

She has like a million single friends in Miranda House. You should be there at my birthday. You will definitely meet someone. If I were in a book I would just be a tall character. Nothing more.

My one leg is usually clueless about the other. I have been to a club exactly twice in my entire life, and both those times I stood in a corner, play- ing Snakes, dressed in my loose checked shirt, my ill-fitting jeans and my chunky trekker shoes, while Aman weaved and met and hugged and danced with countless girls.

Wet bodies grinded in front of me, and it looked like a perfect opportunity for contagious diseases and lice to get passed on. Aman has been trying hard to get me interested in the idea of drinking, but how people use digest- ive tracts to transform alcohol to vomit is of least interest to me.

Just this morning she ate a humungous sandwich from Subway. GET UP! Aman catches it millimetres away from my spectacles—cool with an emphasis on the two Os.

But he stands there, furious, his hands on his hips, and I leave the class. Is that so bad? Manasi nods her head. I spot Wasim, the cricket captain of our college, in his soiled trousers and lame cricket cap, walk- ing towards us.

There is a crazy party tonight at Hype. You should totally come with your girlfriend, man. Despite our considerable width and length respectively, Manasi and I are like F stealth aircrafts, detectable by radar, but naked to the ordinary teenage eye. I think I am pretty hard to miss. Not that Manasi can ever hide. Aman tells me I will have plenty of pretty women around me in Hong Kong and though I laugh, I am nervous.

But new people, new places scare me. Even the Delhi Metro scares me. I can tell she is thinking about the imaginary cute boys in her life. Ritika is a thin girl, a foot shorter than me. As she walks towards us, her hips sway and if great music could be seen, it would look like her hips. She has a small face which is fair and cute and pro- portionate and symmetrical. I feel sorry for Manasi. Aman hugs her.

Manasi and Ritika smile, after which Manasi busies her- self with her cell phone. It goes perfectly with her pink denims. Please do come whenever I call you. I have told so much about you to the girls. Some of them really like you. Aman and Ritika leave after a while. This means I have a three-year head-start. The odds are stacked against me. But then again, there are two million books that get published every year, probably ten times as much get written and submitted.

I can take that chance to start thinking about writing a book—0. There is no one who better understands this than Arindam. He signed a contract with a publishing house while he was still in his first year of English literature at Delhi University. Arindam, himself, is like a character of a tragic book that gets turned into a bad movie. Though he is poor he had hoped life would change once he signed the contract. But after he has passed out from col- lege, he had bills to pay and is struggling.

He manages rent because he is a freelance writer for some websites and magazines but that is not enough to go by. I love him though. But he is also well read. I was fascinated by him when my father first introduced me to him. I used to think, and I still do, that I am going to be one of the lucky few who will see a well-written, thoughtful book emerge from a brilliant writer, and see it in print and read it and appreciate its genius before everyone else, and in a small way I will be a part of the book and it will be my legacy as well.

I nod. I finally resolved the issue I was facing with the conflicting ideologies of the fe- male protagonist. And when do I get to I read it? I would think of impressing you. A lot of websites need a lot of things to be written for them. That why do I look like a homeless person if the websites pay me well, right?

I am the book. Would they be the same if Wasim, the cricket captain, said them? But I suspect he would add dude and awesome and fuck in the sentence and totally spoil it. I see the printed stack of papers next to him, crinkled at the edges, fluffed up, and I feel like having my own stack of papers printed and bound with notes on them.

These website people are really far up my ass with deadlines. His spectacles slip down. I walk towards the machines of wrought-iron death, the elevators, and then to my seat and day- dream about my own stack of papers imprinted with my words.

Almost immediately an illusion dances in front of my eyes, I am surrounded by a wave of books that open and close and mock me for thinking I can write, and then I argue with them, that the book is me and has nothing to do with them, and then they say they are only here to encourage me and poof! They are gone. The four words are running in my head even as I am reading The Silver Linings Playbook, the book whose movie made the Academy Awards jury jump up in childlike joy.

Though I think the book is infinitely better, incomparable even. Maybe the book was the author and the movie was the director, maybe the author was poor and earthly and the director was new and shiny. I spend the entire day scrawling on a piece of paper the names of all the favourite characters of the books I have read and what they are like, and I am surprised that I know more about them than I know about the people in my life. I felt light and disgusted, and soon, I was in a pit of inconsol- able despair, clawing to get out.

Staring at a blank computer screen is distressing, unromantic, and in stark contrast to feeling imprinted sheets of paper, yellowed by age and use, between your fingers. Their job is to burn all the books and stoke the fires that consume them, one page at a time, one story at a time. Anything that I write should catch fire and burn before anyone reads it, because reading it would destroy them. And I hope not to destroy. I shut down my laptop, dump my register and the solitary printed sheet with half a sentence in my bag, and storm out of the library.

I have come to realize that trying to write is the single fastest path to feeling worthless. But also, there is a little joy. I am reading a hardback and walking towards the class, wondering if the author battled with medio- crity like I am, trying not to crash into a girl or a lamp-post, but most of all trying not to fall in my own eyes.

The book I am reading is so brilliant that I want to cry and throw it away. Instead, I just keep read- ing, not thinking of writing a book, and soon enough I do crash into a stupid lamp-post, the book flies out of my hand, and I am sitting on my ass, legs splayed wide open. My chest hurts, and a few girls start giggling from a distance.

In all the years I have been walking, a perfect upright homo-sapiens- type walk, this is when they choose to notice me, in my brightest hour. Our relationship was brief but it happened. Stupid lamp-post, always there, never moving. We were a couple in tenth grade. She was my laboratory partner in chemistry, and I remember that time in slow motion—the two of us running endlessly on a sun-kissed beach with water foaming at our ankles; we would pour silver nitrate and potassium chloride and wait for the imminent reaction, look at the bub- bling of the solution and at each other, the invisible dissociation of ions, mixing together, interweav- ing like my fingers and hers, the precipitation of the silver chloride at the bottom the test-tube, and our fascination with it all.

We would talk about chemistry for hours at end, for I liked complex benzene rings with methyl groups hanging here and there, and she liked the thirty-something teacher who taught us the subject. For, I was like an inert gas, unlikeable and uninteractive, while she was like an alkali, combustible and excitable. As soon as we stepped into eleventh grade, she opted for Commerce and I opted for Science, and like so many long-distance relationships, ours broke down too; the corridors, the staff room between sections A and F, the water dispensers and the boys with gelled hair drinking from it.

It was more than our love could handle. Before long, I knew it would be over. And it was, within the first month of eleventh grade. Now she is doing BBA from my college, and today is the first time she has talked to me in three years. Your classes are held in the building next to ours. Do you want to walk together? We walk in silence.

She made me rui maachh that day. I weigh the question. It could either be a flirtatious question or it could be to check whether I am a creep who watches girls sitting near the windows. With great power comes great responsibility; my superpower of making people uncomfortable is nothing to kid around with. You would just walk away from me whenever I tried to talk to you. I am sorry for that. A little green Hulk pulsates inside me, puffing, nostrils flaring, fists clenching, ready to defend his territory.

I stay shut. Books make you rectify the mistakes even before you make them. Books taught me that. It should only make me try to understand you better. I am a pretty stupid Hulk; Stan Lee would be ashamed. It looks small and inadequate, and we look at each other, con- fused. It has three shirts—none of which are world-beating—two trousers, one old jacket, five boxers, a shaving kit, my toiletries, my laptop and its charger.

Some ready- to-eat food? Dry fruits? Also, you need to buy a pouch that you can strap around yourself—keep the pass- port and boarding passes and other documents there. And are you sure you checked you will get the visa on arrival? I stand there staring at the suitcase. All my life—boring, mundane and everyday—folded and stacked and set in it, and zipped. If one were to judge me by what my suitcase contains, I will come out as a poor guy with no fashion sense.

My obituary will read: He had three hideous shirts. He also wrote a one-page, half-a-sentence novel. It depresses me to know that I can uproot my life from one city and go to another and all I have to pack is three shirts. On the other hand, Isaac Asimov would need a gigantic trunk just to fit in the first editions of the books he wrote. He starts with making a list of all the numbers I can call in case of an emergency.

I would rather die than call the relatives whose numbers Dad is noting down. Mom is depressed; the zipped up suitcase a constant reminder of the empty house I will leave be- hind. She cries and runs to the kitchen, which today smells like all parts of heaven. I am watching a kung fu movie on television totally coincidental , where Jackie Chan is ripping through the streets, dancing through the crowd, jumping in and out of taxis, doing somersaults on the trams and on the trains and in subways in a city that could very well be Hong Kong, and it suddenly rings home that come tomorrow, I will be all alone in the foreign city, amidst all the madness I can see on the screen.

Suddenly, my phone rings. That will be so awesome! What will you get me? I have never seen the insides of an aeroplane. What if I freak out while the aircraft is in the air and embarrass myself? Aman has more experience in locking himself in a steel cage that floats with other metal cages, vision obscured by sunlight and clouds, 35, feet above ground. Do you remember? My childhood was a lie! Everything is going to be just fine! Air travel is like the safest. He talks about girls, nightclubs and things-to-do in Hong Kong.

He knows I am going to stay locked in my hotel room counting time backwards. The thought of being away from my parents terri- fies me. He has read about Hong Kong on Wikipedia and is throwing facts on me, trying to get me excited about the trip.

Look, it says right here, it has the most number of skyscrapers in the world. Also, tall buildings mean more people. We disconnect the call soon after and in spite of his trying to cheer me up about the trip, I end up feeling worse. What if I am in a place where no one understands me, I get mugged and slashed and find myself in a ditch, and I lose my passport and my three shirts?

I panic and look up the crime stat- istics for Hong Kong—for I think a search engine should do all the searching and we should stick to the panicking—and notice that there are fewer untoward incidents in the whole of Hong Kong in an entire year than my district has in, like, a day! Dad completes his checklist and goes over it again, holding his spectacles over his nose bridge; his concentration, unwavering.

Mom starts feeding me like this is my last meal between now and the time I come back to India. I am bat-shit scared. The woman from ATS calls before I leave for the airport to tell me that the trip is more of a holiday since most of the ATS colleagues I was to meet in Hong Kong had to fly out for an urgent meeting. She had mailed me an inconsequential and haphazardly put together list of things I should note about the Hong Kong Central Library.

The said library looks huge in pictures, and even though the nine- floored building is dwarfed by taller ones that surround it, it stands out. After going through my suitcase scores of times, I sit back and try not to freak out as the three of us wait in the living room waiting for the cab.

The cab arrives and Dad takes the front seat, while Mom and I huddle at the back. She holds my hands, rubs them, and occasionally cups my face and kisses it. I miss her already; I miss her kind face when she cries she is always crying— stupid, loving Mom , I miss her hands, calloused from all the cooking and washing, I miss her incessant calls to track my whereabouts; I miss everything about her.

I wish she could go too; she has never been outside India. Try to eat. And try to find good Indian restaurants there and call me whenever you have time.

I have a stopover at Bangkok which only doubles my chances of not reaching Hong Kong. The cab drops us at Terminal 3 of the gigantic Delhi airport which stands in front of us in all its modernity and glory.

I kiss her and she kisses me back. Dad smiles and pats my back. Waving them goodbye is tough, trying not to trip and fall over the trolley is tougher. I need them to go now. There is a black LED display flashing in three languages the names and timings of all the flights leaving that terminal that day.

The ground staff for the airline checks my passport and the ticket; I ask him if I can get a window seat and he nods. He gives me two boarding passes, one for Delhi to Bangkok, the other for Bangkok to Hong Kong, and wishes me luck for the flight. The middle-aged man at the immigration counter looks at me like I am a terrorist, a well-rehearsed doubting smirk pasted across his face makes me shiver, but then he deems me harmless and stamps on my virgin passport.

I am ecstatic now. I tuck my passport inside my back pocket, proceed for the security check where I place my laptop and my cell phone in a plastic bin and get myself frisked by a young security person who stamps my boarding pass.

The first thing that strikes me post-security check is the dazzling lights, even at noon, of the Duty Free area, from outlets selling chocolates to alcohol to expensive Louis Vuitton bags to watches and laptops and computers, none of which I can afford. Two hours in an airport is a long time—watching people shop, scurry to their gates, and tap on their laptops can only amuse you for so long. I run my hands over the new hardback releases and though they seduce me like a woman with a plunging neckline, they are too expensive for my pocket.

I choose The Mystic Masseur by V. Naipaul, his first book, released when he was just twenty- three which means I have another four years , and I start reading it. Soon there will be thirty-five thousand feet between me and hard land, and jumping out will not be an option.

I close the book, leave Trinidad and Tobago be- hind on the bookshelf, hang my backpack over my shoulder and walk towards the gate. There is a long line of people already waiting at the check-in counter. A guy from the airline tears off a part of the boarding passes and hands it back to the passengers with a smile. Can I have the first one please?

He asks to me step out of the line. My stomach churns and I panic. I am out of breath. She, and her little sister Beth, are being tormented by their cruel Aunt, who has been sent to look after them following the death of their mother. Their father is so grief stricken by his loss that he is blind to the mistreatment going on around him.

But Kazyknows that things have got to change. She has to save Beth from the beatings and abuse, so she decides to run away and take Beth with her. But it will take all her courage and strength to keep them safe. And, once you've run away, it's impossible to go back. Isn't it? What about all that stuff you keep reading about: the moonlit walks, the red roses, waves softly kissing the sandy shore?

It doesn't exist. Does it have to be a problem just because you don't want to hold your mother's hand anymore and you're not ready to hold anyone else's? Before you try to give yourself a hickey tonight, read this! It's a disease.

Surrounded by a family that doesn't understand her, she's learned to cope and find solace where she can. Then, the unexpected happens. Her aunt dies, and her uncle sends her away to rejoin her father's family in Montana. Left to fend for herself, after the companion hired to escort her abandons her, sixteen-year-old Ivy faces continual hardship and danger.

Several men see an unaccompanied Ivy as a flower ripe for the picking, and things only get worse when masked men hold up their stagecoach. Barely scraping through, Ivy makes it to Montana with her nerves shaken and what little money she has in her boot.

Expecting a peaceful if not affectionate welcome, Ivy finds herself in greater hardship than she's ever known. Surrounded by a stepfamily that hates her, and flung into a life where hearing is vital, Ivy finds solace in a handsome cowboy named Remy. But things with her new family are not what they seem. And Ivy is about to find out that the danger she faced on the journey west, has followed her to Montana A stunning young adult debut that introduces a strong heroine, the hardships of frontier life, shocking twists, and a slow-burning romance that will leave you wanting more.

Third place winner of the Rosemary Award. To a small rabbit like Oakey, the big wide world seems to be a scary place. But with Mom holding his hand, he finds it can offer all sorts of exciting adventure. Be with you released by legendary American Aliaune Damala Badara Akon Thiam is an American-Senegalese singer, songwriter, record producer, entrepreneur, philanthropist and actor. No more you released by legendary American Aliaune Damala Badara Akon Thiam is an American-Senegalese singer, songwriter, record producer, entrepreneur, philanthropist and actor.

Connect with us. Hi, what are you looking for? Accumulated coins can be redeemed to, Hungama subscriptions. You need to be a registered user to enjoy the benefits of Rewards Program. You are not authorised arena user. Please subscribe to Arena to play this content. Why Mobile Number? Receive subscription updates via SMS. Rest assured we WON'T spam! A verification link has been sent to Kindly check your mail.

New User? We have received your winning story. It will be featured on Winners page shortly. We have receieved your request. Our customer support team will contact you on your registered email address and mobile number shortly. By Deactivating the Hungama Play Subscription, you will lose access to unlimited entertainment.

This action cannot be undone. Are you sure you want to unsubscribe? This website uses cookies to ensure you get the best experience on our website. Night Mode OFF. Hi Guest Login Register. Tuinfort , Claude Kelly 2, Aliaune Thiam Giorgio H.

Tuinfort Claude Kelly. Similar Songs.