Chapter Eighteen

Flight turbulence

SAARANSH

 

“Why are you going to Copenhagen?” The immigration officer scans my passport.

“For a tournament.” Immigration officials anywhere in the world remind me of my math teacher in school. I dreaded Mrs. Mathews’s classes. Even when asking simple questions, her face remained stern.

Once the officer stamps my passport, I wait for Coach Sir’s process to be completed before moving to grab some food. Despite my sunglasses, people stare. The camera’s come up at random as people snap pictures on our long walk to the food court at T3 Delhi International Airport. The boarding is in another two hours, giving me ample time to relax and stretch my legs before the cattle class ride for the next sixteen hours.

“You are becoming popular.” Mr. Parthasarathy beams with pride. “Imagine what will happen once you win the Denmark Open and become the world number one.”

I don’t mind the popularity. For me, one aspect of playing is entertaining the crowd. Win or lose, spectators should get their money’s worth of adrenaline high. But when strangers walk into my personal space, ooh, the creeps. At the food court, we grab a coffee and take a seat near one of the display boards to monitor our flight.

“Oye, hoye!” A group of five men to my right is rambunctious. Must be drunk. They are wearing maroon T-shirts with some company logo. A lanky guy with salt-pepper hair in the group recognizes me. He moves closer to one of his mates and whispers. The round-bellied balding teammate turns toward me and sniggers, raising a middle finger. He pumps the finger into a ring formed with his other hand. The rest of the men guffaw. Heads turn, making me the center of everyone’s attention.

My Olympic coach is no better. Instead of standing up for me, he moves closer and whispers, “Ignore them.”

“Why? Can’t you see what they are doing?”

“Saaransh, calm down.” Mr. Parthasarathy plays cool while my body is burning with rage.

“Calm down. Why? They have no right to mock me.”

“This is what people think of you. I told you before. This gay business can be cured. You should be focused on your game, not on the sexual depravity.”

I am shocked. “No. There are no doctors for such things. My sexual orientation is not a disease to cure with a pill. No surgery to remove a part of my brain will change me. So please, for the love of god, stop this damn nonsense.”

My heart thumps hard in my chest. Head throbs. “I will catch up with you at the entry gate.” I grab my things and scram. I need to get away from Mr. Parthasarathy before I do something I will regret for the rest of my life.

Hoots and laughter follow me down the stairs. I head to the nearest restroom, take a last sip of the bitterness before dumping the coffee, and lock myself inside the vacant toilet stall, resting my head on the door. Breathe, Saar, breathe. The air leaves my pursed lips in low-pitched rasps. Tears trickle down. I clasp my mouth to prevent any sobs from escaping. My mind flails sucked into an emotional black hole—a whirlpool of anger and frustration.

In the last few weeks, I came to terms with my new reality thanks to Karan, Babita, and Dadi. When the din in the news died down, I was hopeful of being accepted. Guess I never counted on bigots. Their mocking shatters my defenses again. I can run away from strangers, but what do I do about hate and ignorance in the people nearest to me?

Life has become an obstacle course to avoid insults. When will society accept people like me? Love has no color, no label. Why does affection between two humans need categories and compartmentalization? And my father. What can I say about him? One three-letter word snapped all connections. When I needed him most, he shunned me.

The subtle nudges to become normal are demeaning. My reporting manager suggested going to a voodoo doctor, handing me a visiting card of a tantric baba to rid me of any negative spells. God, what has this world come to? Tantric babas have websites and visiting cards. One glare and Mr. Sairam shut his mouth.

‘Gay’ has become a slur, colored with hate, an adjective for lesser humans. If dehumanizing someone else for their differences is normal, I reject this normalization. Right through my teenage years, my mind rebelled against every notion this world associates with being gay. I fought to break those paradigms. My interest in boys does not make me less than others in any way.

If I find someone attractive, why should the contour of their underwear matter? Those twiddling sons of cretins mocked me. Damn them. WHACK! My punch rattles the wall. The wooden board vibrates for a bit and stops.

The effort to scale the pinnacle in badminton is a rebellion against labels. So why now? Why am I giving in to the world? Cowered by their mocking. Forced to cry and hide in this toilet stall. Why am I not standing up and fighting? I must find the strength inside. For me, my beliefs, and my Blue.

I open my phone. In the hushed darkness of my world, Brendon is my homing beacon. Any news or pic about him grounds me. With my fake Instagram avatar, I scroll through Brendon’s account, stopping at my favorite photo from his rugby club. I zoom in to his handsome face, running my finger on the thick eyebrows, tracing a line to the broad, crooked nose bridge. When my thumb rubs his lips, my body shudders. I bring the screen to my lips and plant a kiss.

What would he be doing now? Brendon tweets every day; I scroll through my Twitter feed and search his handle. A news item catches my attention.

‘Australian rugby star, Brendon Marsh, hurt in an accident.’

*

This is it. Doubts threaten to prick the balloon I have been inflating since catching the flight to Melbourne. The last thirty-six hours have been hell. Brendon’s banged-up SUV below the news headline sucked the life out of me. After weeks of silence, Gillu woke up. He pushed me—go to Blue. Prodding me since, standing firm whenever I waiver.

Mr. Parthasarathy blew up when I told him I had to attend to an emergency. He relented only after I promised to be in Copenhagen a day before the tournament. A fuming and irritated Mr. Parthasarathy is now on his way there with my kit and baggage. The reverse journey through immigration took me an hour and lots of hustle. For once, my celebrity status worked. The spot airline ticket cost me a bomb, but the tourist visa proved a godsend, helping me enter Australia today.

I push the glass doors to the hospital and take slow but determined steps to the hospital’s reception desk. "Hi, can you tell me in which room I can meet Mr. Brendon Marsh?"

"Are you a relative?" the man dressed in a sharp grey suit, white shirt, and red tie counters with a question.

"No."

"Are you a friend?"

His question makes me wonder. Who am I to Brendon? A friend, a boyfriend, an acquaintance, or no one? This is my cue to turn and get out of here. I have no business after what I did in London. But I had to come. All through the flight, I fought worst-case scenarios screaming at me. God, please give me one chance to see Brendon. If something were to happen to him, I will never forgive myself. I am ready to fall on my knees and beg the receptionist. "Please, I need to see him."

"No, sir, we cannot give you the details unless you are family."

I plead with the man. He takes pity and directs me to a couple sitting near the vending machine. "Speak to them. They may help."

The man and the woman are both in their late sixties. The man is tall with white hair. The old man has some resemblance to Brendon. Are they his parents? Should I approach them? How will I introduce myself? At this stage, I have limited options. No point standing here debating with only one day at my disposal. I walk to where they are sitting. "Good evening, I am Saaransh. How is Brendon? Can I visit him?"

The man stiffens. "Who are you? Why do you wish to see Brendon?" He straightens and adopts a wide stance. Arms crossed, he glares.

"Er, I met Brendon at the London Olympics." A sinking sensation settles in my stomach.

The man stiffens further. "You are the man who hurt my boy. How dare you come walking in here demanding to see him?" The woman gets up in a hurry and puts her hand on the man’s arm to calm him.

I flinch. "Sir, you have every right to be upset with me. I..."

"Saaransh, what are you doing here?" Sarah stops me mid-sentence. The awkwardness grows in the ensuing silence.

Behind her, Eddy walks in. "Wow, Brendon is one lucky man. His boyfriend from across the seas is here to see him."

Boyfriend? Brendon’s parents and Sarah’s eyes lock on me. This is such a mess. But I cannot leave without apologizing. "I don’t think I qualify as his boyfriend. Sarah, I understand I have no right to be here, but I am worried after reading about the accident. I need to see Brendon. I promise I will leave if he asks me to."

Sarah’s eyebrows rise. "You came from India to check on Brendon?"

"Yes, I found the news on my way to Denmark. My first match is in three days, and I have a flight tomorrow early morning. I need only a few minutes to speak to Brendon."

Brendon’s mom comes to my rescue, "Robert, we should let the boy see Bree."

His father conveys his displeasure. "This is not the right time."

"I am sorry. This is a bad idea on my part. I will leave." I turn, but Eddy stops me. "Hold on. We can’t let you fly all the way here and go without seeing Brendon.” He takes Sarah to the side. They whisper to each other.

Sarah eyes me for a few minutes. “Dad, Brendon has been morose all this time at the hospital. Perhaps meeting Saaransh will help cheer him." She grabs me and leads me on without waiting for her parent’s response.

“Thanks. Sarah. I appreciate this kind gesture."

"Hmm. Thank me later. Before we see Brendon, we need to settle something.”

She guides me to a corner in the hallway, away from the sight of her parents and Eddy. “Why are you here?”

I squeeze the jacket in my hand. “To apologize. Trust me, I will leave after seeing Brendon.”

“Brendon has been through rough relationships. Please don’t mess with him.” In her eyes, I see the same affectionate concern Babita has for me.

“Promise. Can I see him now?” I reassure her.

“Hmm.” She taps her chin. “Come. Brendon needs a smidge of drama to pep up his day."

Oh, boy. What have I walked into?