Chapter Fourteen

Crash Landing

SAARANSH

 

I stagger past the larger-than-life hand mudras at the arrival hall of T3 Delhi International Airport. My feet are bogged down by the weight of the dark clouds in my mind. The irritating question marks buzz in a constant loop. Bees from whom you scurry. In my case, all escape routes are closed. They chase me inside my head and sting my brain. Even Ele and Gillu are mourning. They haven’t spoken a word since yesterday.

After a sixteen-hour flight to Delhi, I am desperate to go home and hide in my bedroom. The immigration official acknowledges and congratulates me. I try hard to keep the pretense of joy. The embers of any genuine happiness are still wet, doused by regret. My heart is mourning.

Once I am through the immigration counter, my anxiety increases. What awaits me beyond those exit gates? First, I need to gather my kit and bags at the conveyor belt. Officials gather around us, congratulating and handing the members of the contingent bouquets. The reception raises my hopes. My gold will outshine any darkness from the fiasco at the finals. Can’t wait to hug Ma and Pa at the gates. I use the time while the luggage arrives to read my text messages.

Congratulatory messages from my gym group fill the feed. I skip everything and search for messages from Ma and Pa. My anxiety increases when I find none. No one from my family has called, not even B. Karan left a bland one-line text. The silence does not bode well.

A message from Babita pops up. They must have arrived at the airport. The joy of receiving the message dries up at the words inside. ‘Come out only through gate five. Do not answer questions and walk straight to pillar seventeen on the outermost lane. We will be there.’ The skin on my neck itches. Something is not right. There is no time to dwell as my coach calls out for my stuff. He is taking a connecting flight to Chennai. I pick and load my luggage on the trolley.

I dial B. “Hey.” Before I can speak further, Babita rattles off her instructions. “But what about the officials? They will escort me to the exit gate.”

She sighs. “No buts, Saar. Make an excuse and escape.”

“But…”

“Saar, do you want a dozen mikes stuffed in your face? Trust me—you have made enough headlines to last a lifetime.” Babita’s panicked voice raises my concerns. I am flying blind into Delhi after logging off my Twitter account and deleting my Facebook profile. In London, the Olympic Village kept me safe, but here, I am easy pickings for reporters baying for their next scoop.

“Okay, meet me at pillar seventeen.” Now to get rid of the entourage gathered around. “Ma’am, I need to use the washroom. Why don’t you accompany the wrestlers? I will meet you at the exit gate.” I hope the lady accepts my lame excuse. Two wrestlers who won a bronze and silver were on the flight to Delhi along with me. She dithers for a minute before agreeing. I wait for them to disappear in the crowd before taking a detour. Dread follows me to gate five.

The beats of drums and patriotic songs blaring at a distance drag my attention to gate number two, but I tuck my head between my coat lapels, flipping them up and walk to pillar seventeen. Babita waves me over. She is with my friend Karan. The contrast in their heights is more evident when they stand together. Karan matches my size but is bulkier. The regular workouts and weekend tennis show on his body.

They hug me, faces full of pride, but the hugs are distant. The small space between our bodies filled with hesitancy. Not the warm, affectionate tight cuddle we always share. Anytime I return from a tournament, Babita and Karan jump me when we meet. Why are they muted today? They settle down and scan the area near us.

“You might as well carry a placard plastered over your head announcing yourself.” Babita tugs at my India jersey. “Why are you wearing this in such muggy weather? Want to become a steamed pulao?” In one swoop, Babita takes off my navy-blue jersey and bunches it on her arm. She takes out a bandana and orders me to wear it. Next, she plucks the sunglasses from my pocket and puts them on my face.

She is right. People are staring, and a few phones are out. My head turns in the direction of the drumbeats at the gates. The wrestlers must be walking out as slogans hailing India rend the air.

“That is a recipe for the front pages.” Karan pats my shoulder, commiserating at my longing.

“I won a gold medal. Why am I sneaking in like a thief?” My voice cracks, and my eyes fill with tears.

Karan hugs me. “Bro, no amount of gold glitter is saving your butt from the speculations. The hounds are out searching for you.”

Karan grabs my bag and Babita my hand. They rush me across the road to the parking lot.

“Whoa! What is going on? Why are we in such a rush?” I scamper after them, matching their stride.

Karan surveys the area again and shoves me ahead. “Shut up. We will talk in the car.”

We stay silent rest of the way to his white Maruti Dzire. Karan dumps my stuff into the trunk and takes the wheel. Babita joins him in the front passenger seat, leaving me to take the rear seat. Once the doors are closed and we move, I can’t hold my anxiety any longer. “Will you two tell me what the hell is going on? Why this secret escape? Why are Ma and Pa not here? Is everything all right? Did something happen to them?”

Babita turns and hands me a newspaper. “This happened to them.”

I open the paper, and the pics on the front page scorch my eyes. So do the bold fonts of the headline, ‘Rainbow shine on India’s badminton gold.’ Three pics are lined side by side. The first one is from outside the bar, where my face is not visible, but Brendon’s is clear. In the second, Brendon and I are in a passionate kiss. The angled faces show enough to recognize both of us. This is from the bar after trivia night. The third is from the finals when Brendon jumped the stands. No point in reading the article.

Babita breaks the silence. “He is handsome. Is he the one from the bar?”

“He is only a friend.”

SCREECH. The car swivels from the sudden break. My head bangs against the seat in front. “What the hell, Karan?”

“You tell me what the hell, bro?” Karan pouts his lips, air-kissing, “Puch. Puch.”

“Yuck, stop making those noises. Keep those dirty lips away.” Perfect. My best friend is a prick when I need his support.

Karan laughs after seeing my face. “Friends, my foot. Dude, did you even see those pics? You both are eating each other. More than the heroes in Babita’s mushy chick-lit novels.”

Babita swats him. “Shut up.”

Karan snickers. “Saar, bro, I am never letting you smooch me, and I am your best friend.” He lengthens the friend part in his singsong voice, jiggling his eyebrows, before moving the car out of the parking lot.

“Out with it, Saaransh. Tell us what is going on, so we can help you.” Babita gives me her soft mother-hen eyes.

“It was a one-night stand.”

Babita and Karan give me the stink eye. Confession time. I lower my head and cover my face. “I did not count on finding one hell of a hot guy.” I tell them everything. How things happened and how in the space of a week and four meetings, the connection became more than a fling. In Brendon, I had found someone who lit a spark inside me, bringing me to life. A ray of hope.

Karan whistles. “Bro, it’s a plot for the romance movie I am going to make someday.”

Babita tugs my hair. “Idiot. Why the hell did you push him away?”

Thanks for reminding me of the stone I am carrying in my chest since the finals. Until my meeting with Brendon, I filled my loneliness with fantasies, unaware of the vastness of the vacant space inside my heart. Brendon stretched and expanded my boundaries with his presence, but now without him, I am an empty, dark, ice-cold haunted shell. I pushed away one of the best chances of finding something long-lasting—a chance at a relationship. But more pressing matters await me here. “Why are my trouble sensors blaring? What are you both hiding from me?”

Karan stops the car. We have arrived at my home in Dwarka. I step out and take in the familiar smell of Mogra blooms. The blooms are typical for the monsoon season. The fragrance of the Arabian Jasmine anchors me to my home. My anticipation of finding a surprise celebration with festoons and drumbeats dies at the sight of the desolate parking area. Not a soul is in sight. “Where is everybody?” I ask Babita as I glance to our third-floor apartment in the hope Ma and Pa are waiting for me. I don’t find them on the balcony. My anxiety peaks. I hold Karan’s arm as he goes to pull out my luggage. “You guys are creeping me out. Tell me what is wrong.”

Babita stops me. “It is best if you meet Tau ji.”

I stare at both of them. Karan hands me my luggage, “Go up. I will wait for you here.” This is strange behavior. Karan is always keen to meet my parents. They consider him their second son. So why is he avoiding my place? I grab my suitcase and kit and go to the lift. Babita follows me. When the elevator opens on the third floor, she puts her hand on my shoulder. “We are with you, Saaransh. No matter what happens, we will stand by you.” Way to go, Babita, add the pressure while I am blindsided.

Each step out of the elevator to the door of my home takes an eternity. I ring the doorbell with dread. Papa opens the door. I go to hug him, but he pushes me out of the door. He shoves two suitcases out of the house. “Get out. You don’t belong here. We never had a son.”

*

In the car with Karan and Babita, my head spins. Crouched on the rear seat, both of them have their arms wrapped around me. Babita is mumbling something, but nothing makes sense. I can’t stop my tears. In one sentence, I am disowned by my pa. He doesn’t even let me see Ma.

“Please take me to a nearby hotel,” I plead with Karan.

“No way, bro. Not leaving you alone anywhere.” He rubs my back, holding me straight while my head rests on his shoulder. He gives me solace. “We will go to my place and work this out. Uncle is in shock. He belongs to a generation for whom such things are taboo. Once he settles, you can talk to him again.”

“Talk to Pa. Ha.” I flap my hands in exasperation. “Once he decides, there is no reneging.” He is my father, and I know nothing will change his mind. I have seen all this before. Eight years ago, when I told him about my desire to pursue a career playing badminton. He scoffed at me and forced me to take my engineering exams. Pa burnt my racket in front of me. I had borne the hurt for the four years in college, never picking up a racket again.

“Shh. Lie down. You need some rest.” Karan moves to the driver’s seat. Babita settles beside me. “Listen to Karan. Lay your head on my lap.”

Will Karan help untie the knot again? Two years ago, Karan had shown me the advertisement for a competition at the Hyderabad Badminton Academy. When I refused, he hoodwinked me and drove me to the stadium, weaving a story about wishing to date a girl who played at the academy. I walked into the badminton court, trusting his words. He completed all my forms, paid the fees, and spoke to the tournament organizers, leaving me no choice but to participate.

You can take Saaransh out of badminton, but you can’t take the badminton out of me. I nailed the tournament, beating some state-level champions. Word spread about an untrained novice. Mr. Parthasarathy attended the finals. The coach spoke to the head of the academy. They latched on to me, calling every day till I agreed to join.

After college, I took up a low-paying job at Hyderabad. The schedule allowed me spare time. This gave me the freedom to play and stay away from Pa’s eyes. Not returning to Delhi after my graduation took a herculean effort with tons of pleading to convince Pa. He relented only after I showed him the job listings for engineers in Hyderabad.

Once I qualified for the nationals, I broke the news to my parents. Due to the steady job, Pa did not have much leverage. His rage settled only when I promised to leave the sport if I did not win the nationals and return to Delhi. The sword over playing badminton pushed me to give my best. The win at the nationals got me the chance to represent India in the Asian and Commonwealth games. Two golds, several tournament wins, and the money rode over Pa’s objections.

Babita pats my face. “Saaransh, we are at Karan’s place.”

My head hurts, and my eyes are sore. “This is not a good idea, Karan. Your landlord will throw you out of your flat. They may object to my presence.”

Karan turns to me. “If they have a problem, we will find another place to live. In the worst case, I know a badminton Olympic star who can pay for a decent three-star hotel room for a few days.” He stops smiling when I don’t react.

I follow them both with heavy feet and crash on the bed in Karan’s two-room apartment. “I need to sleep.” Karan and Babita don’t budge. They will not leave me alone, aware of my mental breakdowns in the past. They keep standing beside the bed. “Hey, I need to clear the jet lag.” This gets them out of the room. I close my eyes and try to sleep away my troubles. I am left alone only for a few minutes.

Babita barges in, “Gobi parathas, thanks to the culinary exploits of your sister. Now sit and eat.”

The smell of melted butter on the parathas doesn’t excite me. I don’t move. Babita sets the plate on the side table and pulls me up. “No brooding on an empty stomach. If you don’t eat, I will feed you with my hands.” She holds the rolled paratha and waits for me to take a bite.

“What’s the use? None of this matters. Life is not worth living anymore.”

Babita sits down by my side and takes my hand in hers. “You matter, Saaransh. What you did at the Olympics is now a part of Indian sporting history. Your win will inspire many more to make the journey, take up sport and compete at the world level.”

I shake my head. “What about me? In the space of forty-eight hours, I lost my parents and the man I... the loss hurts.” Tears trickle down my cheeks.

“One thing at a time. Eat, rest, and talk.” Babita puts the first bite of paratha in my mouth.