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Gitanjali met Randeep Singh Taneja at a farm party in Delhi. He called himself 'Randy'. He flirted with her; she resisted. She was a single mother, a divorcee, and Randy was five years younger. They became friends, went for walks in Lodhi Garden, had coffee in Khan Market, and he asked her hand in marriage. She refused, he beguiled her, they fell in love, and she said yes. The couple moved to London and this is where the first signs of trouble began. Away from all that was familiar to her, Gitanjali began to notice that Randy was not all that declared to be. Random phone calls from women who claimed to either be his wife or his girlfriend, a child who called him 'Papa', photographs of Randy with other women, multiple cell phones...and for all this he had reasonable explanations that left her with no room for doubt. Gitanjali thought she knew her husband. That is until she hadn't opened his cell phone and found out about the many lives he was leading across the world. This book is a dark and gripping story about a marriage gone wrong. It is a cautionary tale of how we may think we know someone when we really don't. Beguiled is a true story.
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Date de parution

14 février 2022

Nombre de lectures

0

EAN13

9789354924484

Langue

English

Poids de l'ouvrage

1 Mo

RUCHIKA SOI


BEGUILED
A Real-Life Story Of How A Woman Got Conned In Life
PENGUIN BOOKS

PENGUIN BOOKS
Contents
Prologue
Part One: The Fantasy
1. A Collusion
2. A Familiar Stranger
3. In Pursuit of Art
4. The Whirlwind
5. The Need for a Fairy Tale
6. Papa Wants It That Way . . .
7. Second Time Lucky?
8. Mumbai
9. Dubai
10. Arabian Nightmare
11. The Healer
12. The Artful Dodger
13. London Calling
14. The House Guests
15. Adrift
16. Is the End Nigh?
17. Red Flags
18. The Battle Within
19. Lady, I m Your Knight in Shining Armour and I Love You . . .
20. Showdown
21. Dr Jekyll, Husband Hyde
22. An Epiphany
23. Sage Advice
24. The Door Closes
Part Two: The Facts
1. The Real Randeep Singh Taneja
2. Joining the Dots
3. Unscrambling the Lies
4. Narcissists and the Family
5. Some Terms Explained
6. Trauma Recovery
7. The End
References
Acknowledgements
Follow Penguin
Copyright
PENGUIN BOOKS
BEGUILED
Born and raised in New Delhi, Ruchika completed her undergraduate course in history from Lady Shri Ram College and obtained her bachelor of law degree from the University of Delhi. She worked at India Today magazine before getting enticed by the world of art. Ruchika gained her qualifications in art history at the British Museum, UK, and the National Museum, New Delhi. After working at Bowrings Fine ART Auctioneers, she went on to curate exhibitions in India and abroad to promote emerging artists. Over the years, she contributed articles pertaining to art and culture in many travel magazines.
An avid reader, who also enjoys long walks on the beach, Ruchika is most in her element when she is exploring rock-cut architecture in places that are off the beaten track.
Presently, she can be found conducting tours at various museums in Delhi, happy to be sharing knowledge and ensuring her audience leaves with a piece of Incredible India etched in their minds.
ADVANCE PRAISE FOR THE BOOK
This is an amazing book because it s a riveting account of a true story, chronicled painstakingly by the author, who starts off as a victim but gradually overcomes her despair and helplessness to rise above her personal tragedy. She traces and puts down on paper the diabolical moves of a Machiavellian social criminal who could lie, cheat and exploit unsuspecting women across many continents with an implacable lack of conscience mixed with practiced charm and smoothness. There are many who prey on the vulnerabilities of women, and this book serves as a warning, helping women identify red flags in a relationship-after all, romance is a creation not of God but of our collective fantasies, which might lead us, at times, to throw caution to the wind. The book reads like a psychological crime thriller, and it walks us through the twisted labyrinths of an amoral mind! A guiding light and a damn good read! -Prahlad Kakkar, Indian film and advertisement director
Jaw-dropping, spine-chilling, heartbreaking: Beguiled is an unputdownable memoir of triumph over adversity that everyone needs to read. -Sonia Faleiro, author of The Good Girls: An Ordinary Killing
To my lifelines, Radhika and Ajay, and my superheroes, Ashrut and Rishi
The scars you share become lighthouses for other people who are headed to the same rocks you hit.
-Anonymous
Prologue
I have begun sleeping with a knife in my bedside drawer. Albeit blunt, it makes me feel less helpless. His erratic behaviour has become frightening. When he comes home late at night, I can hear his heavy footsteps echoing in the corridor. He turns the door handle and enters the room to collect his clothes from the closet. I shut my eyes tightly, pretending to be asleep. I am terrified he can tell from the rhythm of my breathing that I am actually awake. I can feel him looming over me, peering at me. I imagine he is trying to gauge what s going on in my mind. Isn t this the man who once knew every word even before I had uttered it? He turns and leaves the room, closing the door behind him. I open my eyes and feel the darkness envelop me, ever thankful that he has stopped sleeping next to me.
Part One
The Fantasy
1
A Collusion
I will always wonder whether I had simply decided to be wholly out of character and go to a late-night party or whether the universe had conspired to create a churn in my life and summon me to the threshold of a new beginning.
March 2006. There s a grand party that everyone I know is attending; I don t want to go. But my friend Arya wants to unwind after a whole day of babysitting her kids, and I don t want to be churlish. Besides, my sister Devanshi will be there too, and if I find myself bored to tears, I can always ask my brother to drive us back home. So here I am, among 400 people at a Chhattarpur Farms estate. Arya and my brother Arnav have bounced off in different directions, leaving me to my own devices, and I find myself more than a little bemused at the revelry around me. I don t know very many people here, and I find it hard to simply start conversations, so I look around for a familiar face or two. I spot my sister s friend who is accompanied by a man in a black shirt, and since they re both pointing towards me and moving in my direction, I steel myself for some social interaction. I remember noting with interest his jaunty gait, but inwardly rolling my eyes at the prominent biceps, dismissing him as someone I would never pay much heed to, good looks notwithstanding.
Then again, men in Delhi have set the bar low; they run out of conversation after they ve asked you where you live and if you d like another drink, though the more garrulous ones might discuss the merits of the paneer tikka being served. Eventually, if you don t make enough eye contact, they get the hint and wander off. But here was Randeep Singh Taneja who, in spite of the twang that gave away a life in America, replaced boasting with outrageous jokes, his sparkling wit piquing my curiosity, although I think it s ridiculous that he d rather be known by the absurd moniker, Randy.
Is that a nicotine patch or has your brain just fused with your spine? he asks, pointing at my neck, which was wrapped with a bandage infused with ayurvedic medicine for my bad knee.
I m under observation for excessive intelligence. I have a ready retort.
To be honest, I m not a fan of the overfamiliar. Besides, one doesn t get to be thirty-seven and with the emotional dust from a stormy first marriage just about settling down, without being a little bit sceptical. When he asks me how old I am, I bristle, but Arya, who has appeared at my elbow, says twenty-eight in jest.
It s none of your business, really, is my grumpy response.
All right, look, he says, whipping out his driver s licence to reveal his own age (thirty-two) and a New York address.
Yes, I might need that when the cops come looking for you. We re back to the banter. Arya has floated away again, leaving the two of us to laugh over the hors d oeuvres. The party-a kaleidoscopic haze around me. I feel lighter for a moment; the weight of the last several years seems to lift a little.
I m back home after fifteen years, he says. I ve been in the States.
I m back home too . . . after twelve years of trauma is what I leave unsaid.
By the time we are wrapping up, I ve discovered that he s also acquainted with my sister and a host of other friends, and since many of them have mentioned in his presence that they will be dropping in at my birthday party the next day, it seems rude not to invite him as well.
So, I ll see you again tomorrow, he says buoyantly at the gate.
I nod and shrug; I can see him already-the life of the party-so the burden of small talk will not be mine. I assume when he meets Akshay, my eleven-year-old son, he will put two and two together and bolt. After all, in South Delhi society, a divorc e with a child is regarded as a deeply flawed woman.
Surprisingly though, he turns out to be great company for Akshay. I spot them together the next evening while flitting in and out from the kitchen to the garden, as harried hosts are wont to do. His grand parcel has caught my eye, sitting there, larger-than-life, on the glass table on the patio, to be commented upon by everyone. I decide that I am certainly not going to open it right there and give him the pleasure of seeing my surprise at his obvious generosity. It s bad enough that my friends are whispering about the tall-fair-handsome stranger at my party! Later, I rip open the packaging to unearth three T-shirts, and the anticlimax makes me laugh.
Accidental meetings with Randy at Khan Market become the hallmark of that month after my birthday. It s also easy to keep running into him, when both of us live just round the corner from Lodi Gardens. Although I want to go my way after we exchange pleasantries, he keeps asking me to have a cup of coffee with him; I think it s rude to keep refusing. He s persistent about coffee, and I relent. Our first time in the Khan Market Barista, we find ourselves at a table near Priyanka Gandhi and Robert Vadra, but he does not seem to recognize either of them. I put it down to his long absence from the country and am happy to give him the low-down. He, in turn, is happy to foot the bill.
I m not averse to these impromptu t te- -t tes with Randy. His name amuses me, but his down-to-earth demeanour puts me at ease, and since it s a quality that is rare in my social circle, I find myself drawn to his company, though I am acutely conscious of feeding the Khan Market gossip mills. Once, while I was picking out a book for Randy at Fakir Chand bookshop at his request, I could feel a pair of eyes burning on my neck. Dipti. I didn t know her personally as she was much older, but we moved in the same social circles, and I had heard vague rumours about her socializing with Randy. I was sure she would make a mountain out of our little molehill coffee dates!
But I do enjoy his company, so th

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