Chapter Twenty-Four

Counting my losses

SAARANSH

 

“My sympathies, Saaransh,” the snake sniggers over the phone. “I can understand your predicament. But you are another trophy on Brendon’s mantle of men. How did you even consider Brendon wanted you when Bree and I have been together for years?”

The call from a number with +61 followed the links to a video from the same number. The videos shook me to the bones. The words coming out of Mike’s mouth crush me. His tongue slithers on. “You don’t know Brendon, but I do. Did he tell you what happened when he came out?” Without waiting for my response, Mike sighs. “He murdered Scott, his boyfriend. Brendon spent time in prison. He wouldn’t have got out without Matt’s help.”

My head swirls for a moment. “WHAT?” The mobile slips out of my hand.

“Are you okay, mate?” The cab driver checks on me from his rear-view mirror.

“Yes. How much longer to the airport?” I want to run away from this fire as fast as I can. The flames race to engulf me and burn down my world.

“Another thirty minutes?”

Argh! Mike’s words echo in a constant loop in my mind. Mike and Brendon were together for three years. Much longer than me. I cannot ignore what Mike divulged, even though his words are dripping in vendetta. Don’t trust Mike, Ele and Gillu scream in my head. But if Mike spat out even a fraction of the truth, how will I ignore Brendon’s history? Actions of the past inform the present and give a glimpse into the future.

Murder? Brendon is a hulk but not a man who would harm anyone. Or will he? He fought off three men at the graveyard. He fought to save you, Ele howls. And the kind, affectionate family can’t breed a killer. Mike is bluffing.

What about the video with Brendon sprawled on the bed and Mike giving head? Videos don’t lie. Gillu lashes out of his morose silence. Bile creeps up my throat at the images. Is Brendon still involved with Mike? Am I another trophy, as Mike says? The only person who can tell me the truth is Brendon, but he did not share everything with me. He never mentioned Scott. I shudder.

On cue, the ‘Can’t take my eyes off you’ ring tone snaps me out of pits of despair. I pick my phone from the cab floor and stare at Brendon’s number. How do I face him? What will I say? Am I doing the right thing? Running away. Again. Without any explanations. There is so much we need to discuss, but not on the phone. I silence the ringtone and let the buzz run its course.

Once the ringing ends, I log in to my email account to distract myself. The inbox is full of unread emails. I skim over the ones from work, but one catches my eye. The email from the head of Human Resources Department is flagged important. I read the lines twice.

‘Your behavior violated company policy. We require you to meet with your reporting manager.’ The date and time for the meeting are set. The email insists I be present in person. The email has links to YouTube and a news website. I don’t need to click on the links to know what they are. The meeting is before the one with the association. My stomach is squeamish at the gallows awaiting me. My life’s plane is crashing nose-first. I have no idea if I will survive. I switch my mobile off and shove the device inside my backpack.

Easier than turning off the voices inside my head. Waiting for the flight at the airport, new questions poke me. What connects me with Brendon? Is the physical attraction the only link, or do we have something deeper? What is making me take these journeys across an ocean? If sex is only a craving he fulfills, why do I miss his gentleness or the mirth in his eyes? The tug to turn around is strong—a tether of memories pulling me to Brendon.

One moment stands out—an epiphany of belief, in love, and a future. The two of us, cuddled on the sofa wrapped in each other’s arms under a blanket, staring into the setting sun through the window with my face nuzzling his neck. The warmth of Brendon quenching the thirst of my soul. The mirage is shattered. Broken by reality. Three days of Instagram life burnt to ashes.

A storm awaits me in India. And it needs my attention first. Between Brendon and badminton, the choice is obvious. I can’t give up the love of my life. I have to salvage my career. With a firm resolve, I take my seat on the Qantas flight to Delhi.

*

After an hour’s drive from the Delhi International Airport, I arrive at my office. When I enter my boss’s room, and the HR manager follows right behind, I know a shitshow is about to unfold.

“What is all this, Saaransh?” Mr. Sairam’s tone is sharp. His words echo in the boardroom.

“I understand, sir, but someone stalked us and released these videos.”

“So, you accept this despicable behavior. What next? You plan to become a porn star.”

His words and the disdain on his face raise my hackles. The veins in my temples throb. To stop punching my boss, I grip the armrests of the chair. I am gay. Not a slut. “Sir.” Before I can put Mr. Sairam in place, the HR lady intervenes. I am not prepared for what happens in the next hour.

“Saaransh, you will save us all a lot of time and effort if you resign and leave. You have violated our company policy.” The HR lady pushes a manual in front of me, page open with highlighted text.

“Or we will have to take action,” Mr. Sairam adds.

I resist and argue, but they insist upon my leaving, stuck on the sentence in the policy. The real reason is hidden behind their words. The company is worried about its image in the Indian market. Afraid of my ‘wild ways’ and ‘perverted sexuality.’ I can’t believe the obscene words Mr. Sairam uses to portray me. Oh, the derision in his voice for the ‘likes of me.’ Now the realization dawns on why the human resource head asked me to report before office hours and why the security at the gate barred me from carrying my phone inside the premises. If only I had a recorder.

The same boss who presented me as his trophy to the clients now considers me a liability. No use trying to explain things to these morons; I shut my mouth. Their minds are closed. Guess, I should find a new job. I clear my desk.

*

The foreboding of something terrible about to happen engulfs me as I enter the Badminton Association’s premises in South Delhi. The interval between the meeting at my office and coming here left me no time to process. Only a month ago, these officials facilitated me for my Olympic medal. A sharp contrast to my visit today.

This time they make me wait outside for two hours before landing a sucker punch. They hand me a show-cause notice. To add to the humiliation, a two-member committee is set up to grill me on the videos. At this hour, where will I find anyone to help me? Mr. Parthasarathy has not picked up my phone calls or responded to my messages since yesterday. The wait for the meeting is one of the loneliest hours of my life. The ticks of the wall clock reverberate in the empty waiting room—each second an eternity of anxiety.

When I enter the meeting, I am greeted with frowns. The first member in his dark grey suit has his arms crossed. The only official familiar to me is the secretary, but he avoids my eyes busy tapping the file in front. The second member in a navy-blue jersey does not even acknowledge me.

When I sit down, a one-sided conversation takes place. They list out the number of ways my behavior is unacceptable. A veiled threat to debar me from representing India is cloaked in official jargon. Grey suit hands me a paper with a rule from the Association Code of Conduct.

‘If a player behaves in a manner causing severe damage to the sport, the player will be considered having engaged in conduct contrary to the integrity of the game of badminton.’

I listen to all the bullshit about Indian culture and values. How I degraded my country and stabbed the faith of my compatriots.

“We can provide a solution for you, Mr. Saaransh. You will disassociate yourself from this entire episode claiming you were drugged. You will never meet this man again.” Jersey Man drives the knife in my heart.

His words come as a shock. “I never let my personal life affect my game. Even with injuries, I played at the Olympics and won the medal for India.” My pleas bounce against closed minds.

“Who is to blame for those injuries? If my information is correct, you were with the Australian player when the attack happened.” The secretary glares at me. “You have to choose between badminton and that man, Mr. Saaransh.”

Damn them, the man has a name. Despite all my efforts, they leave me with no choice. Broken, I agree to their terms. They insist I sign an apology and a statement crafted by the association or else lose my right and funding to represent India. They hand me two sets of papers. I read them and sign my sentence of life imprisonment. In desperation, I call a few people in the sports body and players in the circuit. News travels fast. ‘We can’t help you. You should have been careful.’ Like my personal family, my professional one shuns me. Players distance themselves. Officials are wary.

With a shattered heart, I leave for home. On the way, emails from two sponsors bring worse news. The end of my job took away my primary sponsorship, and now the remaining two end their contracts. How will I sustain my playing career? My finances will not survive beyond six months. The chance to participate in the Super Series Masters final is at risk. To qualify, I need to play another four tournaments and maintain my ranking in the top eight. My mind does a quick calculation. What if I play only in one more? The one Premier event still left this year. I can’t skip it. With all the tournaments outside India, I am doomed.

The panic rachets up at the prospect of losing out on badminton. Only Mr. Parthasarathy will be able to find a solution. But a tiny thorn pricks inside my brain. Will Mr. Parthasarathy help me? He has not responded. I check the time. At 3:00 P.M. he must be at the Siri Fort Sports Complex. I hail a three-wheeler. Time to meet Mr. Parthasarathy.

The sight of the courts fans the last gasps of hope flickering in the emptiness of my life. The only place which soothes the pain and helps me fight life’s problems. A place where nothing else matters. As expected, Mr. Parthasarathy is in his room. “So, you have returned to India.” He is not amused.

I brace for the admonishment, but Mr. Parthasarathy stays silent. I have my work cut out. “Sir, you have to help me. The sponsors…”

Mr. Parthasarathy stops me. “Sit down, Saaransh.” He closes the door to the room and takes his seat. “Saaransh, I am disappointed. The videos and pictures are all over the internet. This is too much. If I had known you were rushing to Australia to meet the Australian, I would’ve stopped you at any cost.”

I open my mouth to explain, but Coach Sir continues. “No need for any explanations. You are an adult and should act as a responsible person. You leave me with no choice but to end our contract.”

Not him also. “Sir, please don’t abandon me.”

“You leave me no choice. Many players have expressed their reservations about your presence here. The management is not pleased and ended your membership. They don’t want your life to tarnish their reputation.”

“Without giving me a chance. What about my track record until now? Have I ever given anyone a reason to complain?” My voice breaks down as I plead my case, hoping Mr. Parthasarathy will at least support me. “What I do in my bedroom is no one’s business? I am still the same player.”

“You are mistaken. The day you won the Olympic gold, you lost your right to privacy. Media, the association, the fans, everyone will be in your business,” Mr. Parthasarathy counters. He shakes his head. “I had warned you. Now things are beyond me. Decisions have been made.”

My hands clasp around my kit bag. Anger surges, but I seal my lips. Mr. Parthasarathy is a father figure for me. If my biological father cannot accept me, why should anyone else? Mr. Parthasarathy stands up and opens the door. My cue to get out. With a heart weighed down by his rejection, I trudge to the door, alone and abandoned with nowhere to go for support.

“Saaransh, you have a bright future, but you let your wild lifestyle wash the golden opportunity down the drain. I can’t help you till you mend your ways.” Mr. Parthasarathy’s eyes reflect his disgust.

On my way out of the academy, I stop at the court to spend a few silent moments gathering my nerves. The empty court is eerie. A solitary lamp lights the vast arena. The stillness and the dark shadows reflect my life at the moment. I run my hand on the net, “Please, don’t desert me. You are my first love.”

In the cab ride to the apartment, I pick up my phone to call Karan. Should I disturb him in the office? He would rush home, but disturbing him at work would be selfish of me. Babita must be in her evening classes. Should I text her? My fingers stall over the message inbox; a series of messages flash against Brendon’s name.

‘Shy, please pick up the phone.’

‘Shy, I will come to the airport, and we can speak.’

‘Shy, Mike messed up our lives.’

The remaining messages from Brendon stare at me. My fingers tremble as I swipe to open and read them one by one. My heart aches. Each message ends with a request to call him. What can I do now? My hands are tied. Steeling myself, I swipe them away and shut the phone.

*

The room is suffocating, and the walls are too close for comfort. The three-by-four-foot poster of me smashing the shuttle put up by Karan on the blue wall stares at me. To escape, I go to the roof. Night shrouds the landscape. I gaze at the stars. They always fascinated me. Inspired me, but today they remind me of the fallen angels’ story my grandma narrated when tucking me to sleep as a child. The memory brings tears. I cover my face in my hands and cry.

What is left in my life? No family. No coach. A sword holding my badminton racket ransom. Extracting a hefty price—my Brendon. How will I cross this ocean on a tattered, sinking dinghy? I need to let him go, or else we both drown. Is this life’s cruel joke? A punishment for wanting Brendon. The prospect of facing the sun tomorrow scares me. What other monsters are waiting to grab me? Papa’s words echo in my mind: ‘you can’t fight the world.’

I stand and watch the world pass by over the flyover across the road. Cars racing away to their destinations. People heading home to their loved ones. All around, colored lights twinkle; Diwali is in four days. Families will be together, praying and celebrating. Here, I sit all alone, no Ma, no Pa, and no Blue. Coming out should have freed me; instead, I am left standing in the middle of the ruins of my life. Exiled from the relationships most important to me, no comforting arms, unprotected from the elements of the world. Stripped naked of my rights and my dignity.

What is the use of such a life? Why is happiness fleeting and sadness all-engulfing? Only one thing left to rid me, Ele, and Gillu of this miserable existence. Two steps will put an end to the suffering, the bickering, and hatred. I stand on the parapet and close my eyes.

Forgive me, Ma. Forgive me, Blue.