Chapter Twenty-Six

Walking away from my life

SAARANSH

 

Stop him. My heart pounds at the walls in a vain attempt to break free from my chest. When the door closes, my brain wills my feet to move. I peek through the door view and watch my life walk away. The chasm increasing with each step Brendon takes I raise my hand and whisper to the door, “Blue, please come back. Please.” He doesn’t.

Why would he? I chose everything else above him. The will of steel I had forged melts away when the ding of the elevator’s closing rings through the corridor. Emptiness fills the space where Brendon stood. Loneliness shrouds the nooks around me. My knees buckle, and I collapse with my back to the door. The envelope Brendon gave me falls by my side. I pick and open the white envelope with trembling hands. There is a letter. My heart shatters into a million pieces as I read how Brendon described what happened with Scott.

‘Six months before his death, Scott asked for money for the first time. He wanted new cleats. I pooled in some of my savings. When he insisted on playing in the old ones for luck, I should have suspected. But the infatuated and naïve youngster in his first steady gay relationship ignored the signals till the demands became persistent.

One night on a college rugby tour in the dorm room in Sydney, Scott asked for a thousand dollars. I refused. We ended up in a fistfight. One of my shoves sent Scott to the floor. I left. When I returned, the police arrested me as the prime suspect. The personal Investigator Matt hired found out about Scott’s addiction. Matt’s expertise helped extricate me from the murder and drug charges.’

‘Drug.’ The word tears my soul to shreds. Crouched by the door, I bring my knees to my chest, holding them tight with my hands, and wail out loud. What have I done? Hurt the man who flew across an ocean to meet me. To be by my side. To help me sort out this mess. I lie down on the floor and close my eyes, letting the tears fall free. Who is there to stop them? What is the use of blocking them? They have no value in this world. The only one who valued them has gone from my life. Forever.

*

When I wake up, the sun is out. My eyes burn. My body hurts after sleeping the entire night on the floor. Standing takes effort weighed by a broken heart. I drag myself to the bathroom and splash water on my face. I hate the person in the mirror. A quitter. A coward who cannot stand up for himself even when others are ready to stand by him.

The wimp let him walk away. He gave up on Brendon. Gave up on the one chance at happiness. The razor blade catches my eye. In one swift move, I can end this misery. My hand extends to grab the razor, but the fingers still above the blades. Brendon’s words echo in my ears, and I pull my hand away. My last promise to my love. I will carry and bear the burning cross—punishment for losing him for the rest of my existence. I turn the shower in the hope the cold water numbs my brain, dousing the anger simmering inside. The first round match is in two hours.

At breakfast, I find a table in the corner. Hidden away from all eyes and away from the windows. What is there to see outside? A manipulative, hateful prejudiced world. A middle-aged man dressed in a casual grey suit approaches me. His hair color matches the pristine whiteness of his shirt. “Hi, I am Henrik Pederson. Can I join you?” The man speaks in a funny European accent.

“Do I know you?” I brace myself for spite and judgment. He surprises me.

“No. I am from Denmark. I heard you are without a coach.”

I put my fork down and look him in the eyes. “I cannot pay anyone at present. I don’t have any sponsors.”

Henrik is unmoved. “I appreciate your candor. However, please listen to me before you decide. I gather you need to leave in the next fifteen minutes for your first match, so I will be brief. The payment issue can be worked out. You are a talented player. A few podium finishes, and the sponsors will return. Once you win enough money, you can pay me. In the interim, let us work out a percentage of your tournament money to cover any logistics cost I may incur.”

I must be hallucinating. “Are you sure? Aren’t you scared about my reputation?”

“What the press says does not bother me. Your personal life is yours as long as it stays off the courts.”

Why? No one in this world is a saint. “What do you gain from coaching me?”

Mr. Pederson shifts in his seat. “I am riding out a slump in my life. I need a break in my career, and helping you supports me in getting my coaching recognized at a world level. The benefits are mutual, so neither of us is doing the other any favor. I would request you to give me a chance for six months. If my coaching does not work out, we part ways as friends.”

I take my time responding to him, debating on what to say. Even if he is speaking the truth, I don’t see the set up working out. “Give me time to consider your offer.” The only job I have pays for rent and groceries. The odd coaching gigs which I do with kids will not be enough to have a full-time coach.

“Sure.” He takes out a folder from his bag and places the papers near my plate. “Please check my credentials while you consider the offer. I included references for you in case you need them, along with my contact details. I will leave you now. Best of luck and have a fantastic tournament.” His handshake is firm, and the smile is warm, but it brings no comfort to the barren cold in my heart. I gather my things and wait for the bus to take me to the stadium.

For the entire week, I go through the matches on autopilot, unable to keep my focus. Each match is a tussle between my mind and my body. The struggle ends in the quarterfinal. The loss widens the wound in my heart. It bleeds till nothing is left in me, leaving a hollow shell. An earthen lamp with an extinguished flame, all alone, adrift surrounded by darkness tossing on the Ganges’ waters. How long will I stay afloat?

*

Karan: I will pick you up after work.

The ping of Karan’s text breaks my concentration.

Me: No, I can manage.

Karan: Come on, Bhai, it’s been months since you went out anywhere. A cool Afghani food joint has opened near my office: cozy ambiance, yummy food, and live music.

Me: No, I will go home. You enjoy yourself with your friends.

Karan: Not without my best friend. Please, Saaransh.

Closing hour is still an hour away. I want to rush home and hide in my room, but how many more times will I refuse Karan? We live in a shared apartment, so he is aware of my entire routine. Karan helped me get the job as a tech executive three weeks ago. My new office is near Karan’s in Greater NOIDA. Most of the time, we commute together unless work keeps one of us in the office.

He is desperate to break me out of my hermit life. I don’t wish to shun people, but what do I do with the fear inside? There is a swinging sword of people’s reactions. The videos set off a string of fresh abuses hurled at me. Nothing matters to the trolls and the haters. Their derision multiplied after my first-round loss at the Chinese Open. Whatever I do, whatever I achieve is not enough to wipe away the disdain.

Socializing comes at a cost. At this time, every rupee saved is essential. Where I can take a rickshaw, I run. In places which need a car, I take a bus or the Metro. The money saved is not much but accumulated over a month; the extra rupees are the difference between buying enough competition-grade shuttles for practice or a protein shake to maintain athlete-level muscle mass.

Karan is desperate and not ready to accept no as an answer. He calls me. “This is it. I am not going if you are not. Come on, bro. Please join me.”

He is my only support, apart from Babita. I can’t refuse Karan. “Who all will be there?”

“Me, you, Sanjana, and Manoj.” Karan and Sanjana are going steady for the past few months. I am happy for him. However, this is the first time Karan has mentioned Manoj. “Are you sure Manoj won’t mind my presence?”

“He won’t. In fact, he is in awe of you. Gold medalist. World champion and all.”

“Bro, I hope you are not setting me up again.”

“What? No. I value my bones more than anything. Besides, you are already taken. Please, Saaransh. This one time.”

With reluctance, I say yes. My mind fixes on the word ‘taken.’ Each day is a reminder of what I cannot have, of what I threw away. Seconds merge into minutes, minutes into days. And days turn into weeks. My solitude and shadow the only two companions I keep.

The day after Karan pulled me from the parapet wall, I let go of Ele and Gillu. Stopped listening to them. Why should they suffer? The world mocked Gillu and killed Ele’s spirit. The dichotomous existence became unbearable. How would I carry two additional carcasses in the emptiness of my soul? Ele died trying to find a way out. Burned to ashes in seething rage. The pacifist Gillu broke under the burden of living this duality.

In the end, they left me with one realization. Gillu, in his silence, and Ele, through his exuberance, wanted the same thing. An unhindered, unlabeled life in the comfort of Brendon’s arms and serenity in lullabies of his heartbeats. I did not have the means to provide for them or the leverage to ask life for these luxuries. Hope and wishes for Brendon were unaffordable.

The rest of the office hour passes without me doing any work. Karan pings me once he arrives at my office. I pick up my bag and rush down. “Hi, bro. Thank you for coming with me.” Karan pats my shoulder when I sit on the passenger seat next to him.

I place my bag on the rear seat and ask him about the others. “Where are Sanjana and Manoj?”

“They will walk down to the restaurant. The restaurant is only a block away from my office.” Karan starts the car and moves out of the parking lot. We discuss our day’s work on the ride. The roads are chockablock with traffic—everyone in a rush to go home. What should take ten minutes takes us more than an hour. The honking gives me a headache. Karan stops at a roadside vendor. “You want something, bro? I need a smoke.”

“Karan, you should stop smoking.” My warning falls flat against the closing door of the car. Karan is already out. I slam the red Autobot insignia on the dashboard. What is the use? His smoking addiction is a thorn between us. He will never listen, and I will never stop reminding him. At least now we don’t fight when I throw his cigarettes into the trash. I step out for some fresh air. Two other men are standing at the kiosk.

“Oi, isn’t he the fag? The badminton player whose sex tapes went viral.” The man in the brown jacket nudges his friend. My body freezes.

However, there is an instant reaction from Karan. “Mind your bloody business.”

“What will you do if we don’t mind our business?” The brown jacket stands his ground. He is a lean guy, no match for Karan.

This will become ugly. I move to deescalate the situation. Before I can intervene, a few more chaste words are exchanged. Karan lunges and pulls the man by his collar. Murder in his eyes. A scuffle breaks out. The shopkeeper protests and asks them to leave, but neither of them is ready to disengage. I push myself between them and break their hold on each other.

“Karan, let us go. The fight is not worth our time.” Karan calms down. We move to his car.

But the idiot at the shop is not done. “Are you his new gay friend? How do you two go about it?” He makes a lewd gesture and humps his hips. I squeeze Karan’s arm and stop him from moving toward them.

He stays but speaks his mind. “No, I am not gay, but I am human. So is he, and we all deserve a chance at life.”

We get in the car and move on. Karan is furious. “What do those fuckers know? I should have smashed his face.”

“How many faces will you smash?” I put my hand on his. “Leave it. Let’s not spoil the mood. Sanjana is waiting.” Leave it—two simple words to say, but what all will I leave before nothing is left in me?