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  NOVONEEL CHAKRABORTY

  CHEATERS

  Nine Stories that Explore the Other Side of Love

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

  Tickets Are Done

  The Vacation

  Tomorrow Is Cloudy

  Clicks

  The Whore and the Wife

  Weekends

  The Flight Is on Time

  Children

  On Bed with Strangers

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  CHEATERS

  Novoneel Chakraborty is the bestselling author of ten romantic thriller novels. His latest work, the Forever series, was listed among Times of India’s most stunning books of 2017; it was also featured among Amazon’s memorable books the same year. The two books remained on the bestseller list for ten weeks straight; Forever Is a Lie was one of the highest selling books of 2017 on Flipkart. While the third instalment in the Stranger trilogy, Forget Me Not, Stranger, debuted as the No. 1 bestseller across India, the second, All Yours, Stranger, ranked among the top five thrillers on Amazon India. The Stranger trilogy has been translated into six languages.

  Known for his twists, dark plots and strong female protagonists, Novoneel Chakraborty is also called as the Sidney Sheldon of India. Apart from novels, Novoneel has also written for and developed several TV shows, including Savdhaan India and Yeh Hai Aashiqui. He lives and works in Mumbai.

  By the Same Author

  A Thing beyond Forever

  That Kiss in the Rain

  How about a Sin Tonight?

  Ex

  Black Suits You

  Stranger Trilogy

  Marry Me, Stranger

  All Yours, Stranger

  Forget Me Not, Stranger

  Forever Series

  Forever Is a Lie

  Forever Is True

  For each and every reader of mine, who has loved and appreciated my thrillers for a decade. Trust me, this short story collection was made possible only because of your continuous love and faith in me and my stories. Thank you!

  Tickets Are Done

  Night One

  I’m at Dharamkot, near Mcleod Ganj, Himachal Pradesh. Everyone is in their rooms. By everyone else I mean the director, the director of photography, the producer, and me, the art director. We are here for a week-long film recce. Even though I’m in my room, I’m not able to fall sleep. In spite of being under two blankets, my legs drawn up to my chest, and wearing woollens, I can still feel the chill in my bones. We got this house through Airbnb; we have four rooms. But we only have basic amenities. Personally, I hate nights like these when sleep is a far cry and thoughts from the past hover over my mind. I did WhatsApp my husband, Raghav, but he is asleep. It’s 2.30 a.m. What else will he do after working his ass off as a creative director in a premiere advertising agency in Mumbai. He has some important meeting early tomorrow morning. During nights like these I have a bad habit of revisiting my past. What happened, what couldn’t happen and what could have happened. I’ve always been a reader. Especially of love stories. They made me believe, from a young age, that a person can only have one soulmate. But as I grew up, I realized there could be more than one. I’ve had two. The first destroyed me and the second created me.

  His name is Kshay—the one who destroyed me. I’ve known many souls but none like Kshay. When he was with me, I could read it in his eyes that he couldn’t be anywhere else. But the moment we parted ways, I knew he wouldn’t try to get in touch with me ever. I had always been the one initiating things. It irked me. It pulled down my self-esteem. But I still did it. I did it for five long years. Then I told him I was done with him. But on nights like these I realize it’s a lie. I’m not done with him. Maybe I’m done with his presence. But what about his absence? When you become way too wary of someone’s absence, that too, is a kind of presence, isn’t it? The realization was scary. It occurred to me when I was with Raghav one day. And I still felt lonely. The worst kind of loneliness is when you are with your lover and his warmth doesn’t reach your heart. It made me aware of all the lies I had been telling myself. All the pretence I chose in order to ‘move on’.

  I still remember the day I met Kshay. It was so casual that I never could imagine that something special was in store for us. We were in a cafe. I was supposed to meet a friend. I had been waiting for her for some time and had gone to the washroom. And what do I see when I come out? The cappuccino that I had left on my table was being finished by a man. He was standing with his back to me. I found it weird. I went to him and told him it was my coffee. He was immediately apologetic. He thought it was his since he too had been to the washroom. He offered to buy me another coffee. I told him to chill and behaved as if it wasn’t an issue. However, he was persistent. By then, my friend had arrived. I went with her to another cafe. That night around twelve, someone rang the doorbell. I opened the door and found a steaming cup of coffee on the floor and a post-it note on it that said: Sorry, I followed you. But I had to get rid of the guilt. Here’s your coffee. I swear I won’t follow you again. But you can if you want to.

  There was a smiley and a phone number. I couldn’t help but smile. A stranger following me the whole evening only to say sorry? It seemed so irresistibly romantic albeit a bit alarming. I took the note and the coffee. His face flashed in front of me. From just a stranger, he had suddenly turned into someone desirable. Honestly, I wanted to ping him right away but chose to wait. Two days later, I texted him with a smiley in the end:

  Hey, if your guilt trip is over then you can text me. It’s the coffee girl:)

  There was no response. I felt as if I had expected a little too much. Almost a month later, when I had forgotten about him, I got a message:

  The guilt trip’s final destination is the coffee girl. Where do I find her? Any clue?

  I didn’t know what to say then. That’s Kshay. You just can’t bracket him into any kind of expectation.

  I turn over, shivering. My eyes fall on the mirror across the bed. I’m smiling. His thoughts still make me smile. My smile tells me so much about my present self even though I haven’t seen him for four years now. I dare not read too much into that smile. I close my eyes wondering how he looks now. Then a thought strikes me: what if he comes knocking at my door? And a few minutes later, I hear someone actually knocking at my door. I feel a thud in my heart. Maybe I’m imagining it. But I hear the knock again. I frown and get out of bed. My heart is beating fast. I open the door. It’s a bearded man with shoulder-length hair; he’s wearing black carbon framed specs. And has hypnotic eyes. It’s Kshay!

  * * *

  Night Two

  I stare at him. And he at me. Is this real or a figment of my imagination?

  ‘I had a feeling that someone was stalking me. Didn’t know it was you!’ Kshay says.

  ‘Oh, come on!’ I say, finally realizing that what was happening was real.

  ‘How did you know I’m here?’ I ask.

  ‘I didn’t. I needed a cigarette. The owner said he didn’t have any but one of you might. So . . .’

  Of course, how stupid of me to ask. How would he know that I was here, I think, and say, ‘I don’t have cigarettes.’

  ‘I know. You never smoked.’

  The fact that he is so conclusive irritates me. What he said was true but still, one shouldn’t be so certain about someone else.

  ‘No. I do. But right now I don’t have any.’ I lie so he knows there’s more to me than what he knows.

  ‘Ah!’ He raises his eyebrows.

  ‘My colleagues may have some,’ I say and step out of the room. It’s freezing in the corridor. Kshay stays where he is. I go to the director’s room and knock. When he opens t
he door, I ask for a cigarette. He is more than happy to give me a few. He offers company but I say I’m all right. I turn to find Kshay peeping inside my room. Is he checking who I’m with? I wonder.

  ‘What happened?’ I demand.

  ‘Nothing,’ he says and takes the cigarette from me. He has a lighter.

  ‘You want to know if I’m alone here.’ I try to sound smart. He lights his cigarette, looking curiously at me. I hate this look of his. It makes me uneasy. It did so before as well.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says and walks away. I want to call him. I don’t. That’s Kshay. He will approach you when you are least ready and leave you when you are totally ready.

  I’ve a fitful sleep. The next day I leave with my team to find some good spots to shoot. We zero in on a house in Rakkar village. It’s stunning, to say the least. In between, Raghav and I have a few phone calls but the network is patchy so we can’t talk for a long time. I want to tell him that I met Kshay but I don’t. He knows Kshay is my ex. When I had told Raghav about Kshay, I had edited a lot of that story. Whenever one is narrating something from one’s past, the story never comes out the way it actually happened, no matter how hard one tries to be faithful to the facts. There’s always something different that we end up introducing; or we omit something. I didn’t mention last night’s meeting because I didn’t think it was important enough for Raghav to know. Had I mentioned it, he might have assumed that it had meant something to me. When it comes to confessing stuff to one’s partner, one must second guess his or her reaction intelligently before spilling the beans.

  We have lunch at a Tibetan restaurant in Mcleod Ganj; we check out the monastery close to the restaurant and in the evening, return to our house. The producer and the director go for trekking, while the director of photography prefers to stay back in his room. I was hoping to bump into Kshay during dinner but he wasn’t there. I return to my room, have a hot water bath, dive under my blankets and call Raghav. Then I start watching a movie on my phone. Somewhere in between I stop, not able to focus. Truth be told, I was really hoping to bump into Kshay. I had thought I would find him downstairs during breakfast or in the town when we went for the recce. I felt that he was nearby but didn’t see him. I hear footsteps outside my room. I wonder if it’s Kshay. He is supposedly in a room nearby. I feel an urge to open my door and check. If it’s him, I can always say that I wanted to take a stroll. I keep toying with the idea of leaving my bed when I hear a knock at my door. Exactly the way it had happened the previous night. It’s enough to help me make a decision. I get out of bed and open the door. It’s Kshay.

  ‘Is it cigarettes again?’ I ask sarcastically.

  ‘I have a cigarette,’ he says.

  ‘Then what do you want?’

  ‘You,’ he smirks.

  ‘What you need me for?’ I ask. It’s not that I don’t want to go out. I just don’t want to relent too easily.

  ‘Care to join me for a smoke?’ he asks. Another smirk. I try to look away before I lose myself a bit more.

  * * *

  Night Three

  I follow Kshay outside. I know I have left my phone in the room but then who will call me at this time? We leave the house and walk till we reach a small open space. We stand against the iron railings; one can see the hilly road below and the snow-capped mountains in the distance. It’s misty and the visibility is poor. Kshay sits down and lights his cigarette. He offers one to me. Should I tell him I lied? I wonder but take the cigarette. He helps me light it and then lights his. He takes a puff. I too take one. This isn’t the first time I’m smoking so at least I don’t make an utter fool of myself and cough when I inhale the smoke.

  ‘So, what are you doing here?’ I ask. The silence between us is becoming awkward with every passing second. He puffs out a cloud of smoke and says, ‘Want to play a game?’

  ‘A game?’

  ‘Let’s guess what we have been up to in the last four years.’

  ‘Interesting. But what will we gain out of it?’

  ‘What will we gain if we don’t play it either?’

  I stare at him. Does he remember why we broke off? It was because he was never direct about anything. Men like Kshay should never commit to any girl. Commitment is a destination and the moment men like him see it clearly, looming in the horizon, they change their tracks. He is like the wind. You can feel him, but you can’t trap him and make him yours entirely. Only the bit which hits you stays with you. And you, in your innocence, assume that’s the whole of him. No! He is an emotional tourist. Women should be careful of such men. But they always end up falling for them. Such men are conquests. Hopeless conquests to make nests with people who are inherently emotional vagabonds. I tried making that conquest for five years. And trust me, if there wasn’t a society, any parental pressure on me to settle down, I would have continued. There’s that heady feeling in pursuing someone. That’s also because men like Kshay never tell you directly that they aren’t with you for the long run. They keep you hanging. In that, I had developed a certain pleasure. Or so I had thought. Until, of course, Raghav happened.

  ‘All right. Let’s begin,’ I say.

  ‘Okay. The one major change is that you are married now,’ he says. There is nothing in his voice or face to help me understand if this fact at all matters to him.

  ‘That’s easy, Kshay,’ I say and add, ‘At thirty-two, almost every other person in India is married.’

  He smirks and says, ‘Your turn.’

  Kshay had never stuck to one job for a long time. Last time I knew, he was working with Discovery Channel as a line producer on a north-east India project. Before that he was the brand manager of a celebrity cricketer. And before that he was an investigative journalist. How he does all this I have no idea. He once told me why he does it though. One life—many desires. That’s his punchline of sorts.

  ‘You have a different job now. And, of course, you aren’t married.’

  He looks at me for some time and then bursts out laughing.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That was so obvious,’ he says.

  ‘Just like your guess.’

  ‘Okay, so should I guess something which is obvious to me but not to you?’

  ‘Go on.’

  Kshay comes a little closer. ‘Your husband doesn’t know you met me last night though he knows who I am.’

  I swallow nervously, hoping he will not notice.

  ‘He knows!’ It’s a reflex lie.

  ‘He does?’ Kshay looks at me intently.

  ‘Whether he does or not is actually none of your business, Kshay. Not any more.’

  ‘So he doesn’t. The question is why not?’

  ‘It’s not important. We aren’t doing anything.’

  ‘Or is it because if he may think we are?’

  ‘Please, Raghav isn’t the possessive or the jealous type.’

  ‘Give a man the right information and it won’t take too long for him to start behaving in an entirely wrong manner.’ His smirk is back. And I hate it. I don’t know why exactly I do it, but I drop the cigarette. I stamp on it angrily and go back to my room. I pick my phone up, dial Raghav and while waiting for him to pick up, rush back to where Kshay is sitting.

  ‘Hi, baby, sorry to disturb you. I forgot to tell you something. Last night I happened to meet Kshay. Remember, my ex? Yeah, he is here for some . . . I don’t know what,’ I say the last bit looking at Kshay. A deliberate look. I want him to know he isn’t important. Not any more. I hear a sleepy Raghav ask me if there’s anything else, otherwise he will talk to me tomorrow.

  ‘He knows,’ I say with a smile.

  ‘Well, good to know that.’

  I notice he has finished his cigarette.

  ‘Can I be honest?’ he asks.

  ‘About?’

  ‘You know why I wanted you to tell your husband about me?’

  I frown.

  ‘I didn’t want to feel guilty.’

  The frown deepens.

  ‘G
uilty about?’

  Kshay smirks and walks away, whistling an old Hindi song. Like he always used to when he had something wicked on his mind. And he knows I always had a thing for his wickedness.

  * * *

  Night Four

  I am with my team, checking out a few houses. We left after breakfast. Yet again I thought I would see Kshay but didn’t. I called Raghav right after I woke up but he didn’t pick up. I left a message but there has been no call. It’s only when my team decides to have some steaming hot momos from a restaurant, recommended to us by a friend from Mumbai, that my phone flashes Raghav’s name. I pick up. He sounds a little different. The way men do when they have something on their minds.

  ‘You had breakfast?’ he asks.

  ‘I did. And now we are going to have some lip-smacking momos,’ I say cheerfully.

  ‘With Kshay?’ he asks. It’s so blunt and quick, almost as if he had that name on his mind for quite some time.

  ‘Of course not. I’m with my team! Why would you say that?’

  ‘If you can meet him in the middle of the night then in the daytime it is nothing, right?’

  Raghav has never been curt with me. Not until this morning. Did the phone call change something? One bit of true information and a barrage of false assumptions? Is our relationship that fragile? I wonder and tell him that I’m indeed with my team. He pushes me for a video call. I take it as an offence.

  ‘Why should I video call you? Why can’t you trust me?’

  ‘If you are not with him then why can’t you video call? It’s just a video call.’

  No, it’s not just a video call. It’s a question of trust. The foundation of all relationships. I realize the call has ended. Before I can guess if it is a network issue or a deliberate action, I notice my phone is flashing Raghav’s name again, but this time it’s a video call. I feel extremely angry. I told him I’m not with Kshay; I said there’s no point of a video call and yet he is calling me? Doesn’t my word mean anything to him? I never knew that such minor information could expose such a shade of him. I don’t take the call. A message immediately pops up: