TWO HEARTS: broken by a dream Read online

  TWO HEARTS

  broken by a dream

  Copyright 2017 Atul Todi

  Published by Atul Todi

  Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Falling in love

  Chapter 2: Surprise at the Wedding

  Chapter 3: She just won’t give up

  Chapter 4: Start of a Love Story

  Chapter 5: Mission Precious

  Chapter 6: Party in Panama City

  Chapter 7: Becoming Friends

  Chapter 8: One-sided Love

  Chapter 9: Journey beyond America

  Chapter 10: The Betrayal

  Chapter 11: Fighting to move on

  Chapter 12: The Phone Call

  Chapter 13: Revelation

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to express my gratitude to the many people who saw me through this book; to all those who read and assisted in the editing, proofreading. Without their help this book would not have been possible. With my limited experience with professional writing, their suggestions and feedback helped me make this novel a reality.

  While this novel is a work of fiction it derives inspiration from many incidents from my life. I beg foregiveness of all those who might think the novel refers to them. This story has no relation to any real life incidents. It is just my way to convey a message and share some of my life learnings with all those who care to read.

  Last but not the least, I beg forgiveness of all those who have been with me over the course of the years while I wrote this novel and whose names I have failed to mention.

  PROLOGUE

  Flashing lights and clicking cameras made the dark room light up. Rowdy reporters and their piercing glances made me uneasy. Hoards of microphones on the stage and a bulging crowd in the auditorium, made me a little nervous as I walked up the squeaky wooden stairs. Everyone had been patiently waiting; the curiosity in the air was electrifying.

  The fabulous afternoon, hosted at the Hilton Palace Los Angeles, was nothing less than a grand red-carpet moment. I was in seventh heaven, feeling like a superstar. As I stood at the podium, relishing my moment of glory, the much-awaited questions started coming.

  I had answers for absolutely none of them.

  "Do you know who is Bugsy?"

  "Is Bugsy living in Europe?"

  "Why is Bugsy hiding and not revealing his identity?"

  "Do you think Bugsy is in love?"

  "Do you think Bugsy is a heart-broken woman creating fictional stories?"

  The reporters were getting restless. They were anticipating a big revelation. I had nothing for them. All I could do was listen, put on a big fake smile and nod. It was an embarrassing situation to be in. But that was the best I could do and it was all because of Bugsy.

  BUGSY! Yes, I was there to represent Bugsy and reveal his latest book – "Love at War". Like all his other books, it was a work of fiction, dealing intricately with the topic of romance, passion, and heartbreak. Set in the fifteenth century, the novel took the reader on a journey from India to England, where an aristocratic British trader’s daughter falls in love with a banished prince. Infused with complex emotional turmoil, the novel was heavily doused with deep romance and elaborate visual imagery.

  There was impatient anticipation amidst the literary world for Bugsy’s new book. It had been almost a year since his last novel – "The Forgotten Prisoner", which became a New York Times bestseller, just like "Into the Dark", "Lost in Paradise", "The Silent Killer", "Love in the Deep" and "Imperfect Perfection".

  My few moments of glory as Bugsy's representative that afternoon, ended rather quickly. I revealed the limited edition book, a famous critic read a few excerpts from it and then I gave a short brief to the press, answering most questions with "No, I don't know".

  Leaving the disappointed crowd behind, I was glad to be back in my office before sunset. It was another hectic Friday evening at Wordhouse Publications’ Los Angeles office. Our books were selling like hot cakes, and new promising writers were queuing up to get signed up on a daily basis. It was all thanks to our exclusive deal with Bugsy, the elusive writer no one knew about; we had the legal rights to print all his novels, licensing deals and merchandise. He had given us eight back-to-back best sellers in less than ten years, and we could not have asked for more.

  Like every day, I was neck deep in work: reviewing endless number of manuscripts from amateur writers, giving interviews, expanding our distribution network to newer markets, signing deals to reprint our novels in multiple languages and handling movie licensing and merchandise business. Working fourteen hours a day, it felt like I had not slept for days. After postponing it for months, I finally listened to my wife and canceled all my weekend plans. I needed to catch up on some much-needed sleep and spend time with my son.

  Before I could leave my office that evening, I had a very unusual guest: A teenage girl looking for the famous tragic romance writer Bugsy. In the past, people from all over to the world, men and women alike, had approached us to know about his real identity. It was the first time that a young girl waited the whole day outside our office to find Bugsy.

  Bugsy’s love stories had made both men and women around the world cry. Some called his work trashy, while some called it piece-of-art. Dark and scandalous, his writing style was different. Set in remote parts of the world, his books had a message that could melt the readers’ hearts. But I couldn’t help but wonder why was a little girl looking for him.

  So who was this Bugsy?

  Bugsy was a writer who wrote under a pseudonym. He was a mystery in himself and forums around the world debated whether he was a guy or a girl. Media channels criticized his over-dramatic take on love and marketing gurus called him a genius. Book critics condemned his poor writing style, and blogs questioned his portrayal of romance. But, readers’ addiction to his extraordinary story-telling ability made his books sensational.

  Thanks to Bugsy, we had just reported our best ever financial quarter at Wordhouse. Besides selling his books, we had signed deals with Fox Movies to produce movies based on five of Bugsy's books. The deals were all worth millions in revenue and we just hoped Bugsy kept churning out new books. We even prayed that he remained a mystery, a writer the world loved and hated at the same time. His formula for writing, mixed with his secret identity was working very well for us.

  While his popularity was skyrocketing in the literary world; no one in the world seemed to know who Bugsy was, besides me. Even at Wordhouse Publications, I was the only one who had ever met him and I had no plans to reveal his identity. Perhaps I was too scared to lose him as a client or maybe as a friend.

  Almost a decade ago, Bugsy had trusted me with his secret identity and had assigned me as his publisher. I had kept my end of the deal: to never reveal his identity to anyone, while he continued to publish exclusively through my company. In the process, I had made a lot of money and had turned Wordhouse into a publishing powerhouse.

  Like most other days, when fans and people from the literary world came looking for Bugsy, I asked my secretary to tell the teenage girl to leave. The clear instruction was to tell the visitors that we just publish Bugsy's book, and we don't know who he
/she is.

  I did not entertain anyone who was looking for Bugsy. I was just not in a position to help her; Bugsy's secret was valuable for me. But, that girl did not leave. She insisted on meeting me.

  On my way out of the office, I saw her still waiting at the reception. Wearing a pink sweatshirt, she quietly sat on the bench. Biting her nails, she looked worried. The puffy hair and sad smile, with which she looked up at me, made me stop. It felt like a strange connection.

  Curious why a little girl like her would be looking for Bugsy, I decided to meet her.

  Her name was Khushi and she was unlike any other fan of Bugsy. Khushi was the first person who knew his real name, Abhay Bakshi. Claiming to be his daughter, she had been searching for a long time and was trying to track him down. But she did not know where to find him; there was no information about him anywhere.

  Khushi was a little girl on her quest to find her father. She had never seen him, but had evidence that he was her father. Her mother had remained single for all those years after Abhay left and Khushi believed that she was still waiting for him. Her mother truly loved him and it was left up to Khushi to find the truth. She had to find out why he had left, why he never came back for her.

  Her quest was emotionally touching and left me in tears. I wanted to help, but there wasn’t much I could do. I knew as much about Abhay, aka Bugsy, as she did: his name and his past before he became a writer. I had not met Abhay since the publication of his first book ten years ago. Besides the inquisitiveness to know his story, there was just no need to meet him ever. He sent the novel through an unknown address and I simply had to put his part of the royalty in his secret bank account.

  Long-time ago Bugsy made a deal with me: I would never go looking for him or divulge his real identity and he would publish only through me. If he ever had a question, he would call me from an unknown number. So I just had to wait for him to call and give me instructions.

  Even that call had not come for a long time. He was happy with the arrangement he had going with Wordhouse publications. There was no need for any interference, he simply had to keep writing and we had to sell it to millions of his fans.

  Getting paid royalty in millions, I was sure he was living in a palace and cruising around the world. However, for reasons known only to him, he wanted to stay anonymous. Maybe he did not want the world to know the real man behind all those lofty love stories. But, having read all his books, I knew that he was lonely and in great pain. There had to be a sad story behind the fictional romance he wrote about. Living in self-denial, he was looking for a reason to be happy.

  Besides being his publisher, I was also his well-wisher. If she was indeed his daughter, she could help him find some much needed peace within. So I was compelled to help her in her quest, but there was not much I could do. I did not know which part of the world he lived in and where to start looking for him. There was no contact information or an address to go to.

  So I told her what I knew.

  There was an upcoming marriage ceremony; Jolly, a close friend of Abhay, was tying the knot in India. There was a glimmer of hope because they were best friends until something happened and Abhay decided to become a recluse and disappear. If Abhay found out about the marriage, there was a possibility that he might show up for it.

  Giving her Jolly's address, I set sail to Khushi on her quest to find Bugsy, the tragic romance writer.

  CHAPTER 1: FALLING IN LOVE

  "Love is like grapes; it gets better with time. If you eat it too soon, it is sour. But if you take time to nurture it, it becomes sweet. Yet, it is still not at its best in its sweet form. If you are patient enough to cultivate it, slowly letting it ripe and ferment, fighting the hot sun and cold rain, it eventually turns into fine wine.”

  Plucking a bunch of burgundy grapes and admiring it under the sun, Abhay, the raggedy winemaker of Cumbum Valley said, “With both love and wine patience is of essence.”

  He was giving a lesson on love to the entranced group of visitors, who had come down from France.

  Inspecting the ripe grapes, he continued, "Good wine can help you drown all your sorrow and awaken your senses, often both at the same time. And that is what I call true love: ageless and imperfectly perfect."

  Pleased with the colour and smell of the beautiful round grapes, he knew they were ready to be plucked and made into wine. He handed out the grapes to the group of French visitors who had come to evaluate the quality of the grapes growing in his vineyard.

  With a shaggy peppered beard and long hair, he had the charm of an aging rockstar. His deep husky voice and dark brown eyes had mystery written all over it. The spark of life in his eyes was like that of an enlightened yogi, but his cheeky smile had mischief written all over it. His six foot two inch built, broad chest and leather boots made him appear like a Texan Cowboy, yet his calm demeanor had no ounce of aggression.

  Besides the eccentricity of an arrogant and rich winemaker, the hardship of working on the vineyard was clearly evident on his face. His caustic expressions made him appear heartless, unconcerned about the world, but the deep scar running down his left eyebrow made him look humane. He was charismatic, yet he looked aloof.

  "So you are not growing grapes here; you are cultivating love. Is that correct?" Smiling at Abhay, Anna, the youngest amongst the French examiners, spoke in her exquisite accent. Smitten by his rugged charm, she flirted with him while taking a tour of the lush green plantation.

  He did not reciprocate to her admiration, but he did reply back:

  "You are absolutely correct; we are promoting love and appreciation for finer things here in Cumbum Valley. Away from crowded cities and clogged minds, we are encouraging people to challenge their senses.”

  After a small pause, he added, “We all need to experience the good things in life and unclog our cluttered minds. We all need to learn to live a little and let go."

  His hand gestures and the intensity with which he looked made the listeners agree with every word he said. Still, the visitors were confused, trying hard to digest what the winemaker was saying. He seemed to be in his own convoluted world.

  Anna was amused and found it difficult to hold back. Looking sharply at him, she said, "Are you living a little? Are you experiencing the good things in life here in Cumbum Valley?"

  The hint she was dropping was subtle, but she was charmed by the strange winemaker. His muddled looks and mysterious persona made her extremely intrigued. He on the other hand, was not interested. He had seen many tourists come and go, and she was no different.

  Ignoring her question, he continued with the tour.

  Located on the eastern side of the Western Ghats in South India, his vineyard was unique. With an elevation of around 1200 meters above sea level, it was situated on the edge of the Periyar Tiger reserve and was surrounded by sloping hills and mellow rivers. The region’s red soil, rich in iron, was known for growing cardamom and other spices for centuries. Abhay was the first person to experiment with growing grapes in that tropical climate. No one believed that he would succeed; the skeptics hedged their bets against him.

  With years of hard work, Abhay nurtured his sprawling vineyards in Cumbum Valley. Spread across one hundred and fifty acres, it was the only wine-making property in the region. The moderating effects of the Mullaperiyar River, Suruli waterfalls and Megamalai forest gave the area a distinctive climate that worked in Abhay’s favor. The riverbed that encircled the valley helped keep the surrounding air temperatures cool which was vital for the vineyard. The plantation area got enough rain to keep the soil well irrigated, allowing Abhay to successfully grow quality grapes.

  More than the favorable climate, the scientific methods of crop management that Abhay incorporated helped him grow many grape varietals. His unique ways allowed him to make wines like Shiraz, Chenin Blanc and Cabernet Sauvignon that had never been tried before in Cumbum Valley. Besides the climate and the technology, it was Abhay’s relentless hard work that allowed him to create some e
xceptional wine.

  Relatively unknown in the wine circles, his Cumbum valley vineyard had very limited wine production. It was considered a boutique winery, making very selective handcrafted wines. As a master wine-maker, Abhay did not believe in making his wine too commercial and losing the quality in trying to make money. Instead, he focused on making the best wine possible that would make the drinker fall in love with every sip.

  The selling point of his wine that made it standout was its spicy after-taste. With hints of peppercorn, cardamom, and other spices, his wine was a treat for a connoisseur. It was deep and intense, like a monsoon sky drenched in colours of crimson and magenta; every sip of his wine made the drinker want to let go and get soaked in the magical rain.

  That afternoon, giving the examiners a tour of his vineyard and the wine-making facility, he invited them to feel at home and enjoy the various facilities on his property. The French examiners were representing a wine company that was in talks to purchase and market his wine all across Europe. If the deal went through, it would give Abhay an avenue to showcase the high quality wine he was making and also to stay afloat financially.