Chapter Twenty-Seven

What a child can teach

SAARANSH

 

“What the heck is happening?” I crash on the chair in my apartment. Home at last. An oasis in the desert of my life. The room is dark. Why bother with the lights when there is nothing pleasant to see? Another loss, the third tournament in a row without a win. The all-important one. The Super Series masters in China. Flushed out 21-7, 21-9 in the semi-final. The absence of a coach and lack of international level sparring partners are affecting my game. The only recourse is watching and self-analyzing videos of old matches. How far will this self-training help me?

The latest loss in the semi-final is a firm kick on my ass, too many forced errors, inability to kill the shuttle, and topped by my failure to keep pace with the Chinese player’s speed. At this level, a nanosecond or a few millimeters is the difference between connecting the shot or watching shuttle drop to the floor. Out of your grasp. When one’s mind is not in the game, the difference shows.

The press is having a field day at my expense. What did the sucker say in the article? Ah, yes. ‘There is no power in the shots. He is spending energy somewhere else.’ The idiot.

I don’t cuss, but the frustration is boiling over. “Fuck the world.” My words resonate in the silent room.

“Is it you, Saar?” Karan walks in.

“Why? Are you expecting someone else?” I stand to hug him, but he turns and walks away. I follow him to the kitchen. “Missed you, bud. How come you are home? I did not see your car outside.” He flinches and goes to the refrigerator, not responding to my question. Karan pours himself a glass of water and gulps down the contents in one go. His silence worries me. “What’s wrong? What happened to the car?”

“Oh, nothing. Some clutch trouble.” Karan stands facing away from me, gripping the countertop staring at the night lights through the small window. “How are you doing?”

“What do you expect? No trainer. No physio. From warmups to cools downs and taping to stretches, I am a one-man army. But enough about me. You are creeping me out, Karan. What are you hiding from me?” I walk and stand near him to move past his avoidance strategy. Karan faces me, eyes downcast, shoulders drooping. “Someone trashed the car.”

His words don’t register. My eyes lock on the black eye. “What happened?” My fingers move to touch the bruise, but Karan withdraws his face.

“This is nothing. An accident.” Karan waves me off.

“What do you mean this is nothing? I have been in enough fights to know this is not an accident. Who hit you?”

Karan shakes his head and stares at his hands. “Someone used spraypaint to write ‘faggots’ on the driver’s side of my car. I caught him doing it. When I confronted him, he insulted you. I broke his jaw, but the fucker’s left hook escaped my defense.”

Shit, I turn him to face me. “When? How? Did you call the property owner? What did the police say?” I hope Karan is not in trouble. He stays silent and moves to the small eating area. He picks up a paper and hands it to me. I read the eviction notice. “What the fuck? How are we at fault?”

Karan sits down on the chair and braces his head on his hands. He rubs his eyes. “We need to vacate in two weeks.”

“Two weeks. How are we going to find a place so fast?” Last time, finding a rental took us two months. We spent three weeks in a shitty dormitory before this property owner agreed to rent out this place. Everywhere, owners denied a rental. Some were overtly homophobic; others refused, afraid of the media vans at their doorsteps. Things are getting out of hand. Not finding a rental is one thing, but physical violence on people who stand by me, I can’t allow this to happen again. “Karan, this time, search for a room for yourself.”

“What will you do? Along with me, at least you have a chance. Without me?” He leaves the rest unsaid. Finding a place for myself will be doubly hard, if not impossible. “I am not leaving you alone, Saar. Not after you tried to pull the gymnastics stunt from the roof. We will find something. I spoke to some people. We will go house hunting this weekend.”

I close my eyes, hoping this nightmare will go away. I cannot drag Karan along with me. “You should not suffer along with me. Your folks are getting itchy about me tagging along. Trust me, you need the family, Karan. I will not let you be disowned by them.”

“You do not have to worry. I will deal with my parents. Living with you is my decision and not yours. You are stuck with me. Go to bed. We will talk again tomorrow.”

I change and slip under the quilt on my bed, but sleep is the last thing on my mind. What are we going to do? After tossing and turning, I give up and go to the balcony. The three-by-three feet space opens out to the vast plains left by the drying Yamuna. Small farmers have taken over, growing seasonal vegetables. In the hours before dawn, all is quiet. The horizon is lit by lights from the other side of Delhi.

I fiddle with my phone and end up on Brendon’s Insta account. There is a new pic of him in the gym at the rugby club he plays for. He is smiling as he rubs his head with a towel to wipe the sweat from his forehead. The teal tank top leaves a mouthwatering view of thick arms for me to drool over. The world stopped me from being with him. In the confines of my privacy, I run my fingers on his pic and be close to him.

I press the phone close to my chest. Crimson streaks light the sky, announcing the arrival of the sun. The serenity is broken by the chirping of birds waking from their slumber. My body shudders. Will my life find its dawn, or am I doomed to one endless night? How long will the people who care for me suffer? Ma, Brendon, and now Karan. All are walking on the smoldering coals of my reality.

*

“Well, this is it. Congratulations, Saaransh. We should celebrate. Invite Babita and a few friends.” Karan puts the last box in the small drawing-room.

After being turned away countless times, I put my foot down and bought this two-room apartment on the Greater Noida Expressway, on loan. Nothing fancy. Plastered walls without paint, no woodwork. These luxuries can wait. We will put the amenities together one thing at a time.

Karan vehemently opposed investing more money. Despite my efforts to hide things from him, he is aware of the precarious financial condition. He agreed only after I gave in to him footing the monthly bills and grocery. At present, we bought two folding beds, and Karan got hold of a small table and chair to serve as the dining table. The bare minimum kitchen supplies will tide us over. Now no one can throw us out. This is our home.

“Yes, let’s plan a gathering once we settle down.”

Karan gives a thumbs up and goes to his room to unpack. I relish the whistling as he walks away a spring in his steps. For once I did the right thing. The monthly instalments will push my plans behind, but Karan does not need to know about them. My savings have a volcano-sized crater. What I need are a few big wins. If I waited so long, a few extra months is nothing.

In these uncertain moments, I consider giving up badminton. The prospect terrifies me. If I give up on badminton and Brendon has moved on, where will I go? The storms rage unabated, smashing against the doors, hoping to break open the closet. They are unsuccessful; the walls are strong. They rattle in the constant onslaught but don’t give way.

And me? I am now used to the suffocation and helplessness of life—a living carcass. I plant my bum on the bed in my room and open my phone for my day’s dose of the rugby player. Karan rushes into my room, “Did you see this Twitter post?” He sits beside me and shoves the phone in my hand.

“Oh no, another shitstorm is about to wreck my life?” I scroll through the anonymous post from @workersinjustice. There is a screenshot of an email between HR and my ex-boss. The entire thread outlines how a company forced a famous badminton player to resign due to their sexual orientation. The Twitter thread does not reveal my name. However, the logo of the company is clear. The tweets and retweets are already in the thousands. Is my life about to get another public washing?

“Hey, don’t worry. This is the ray of light we were hoping for.” Karan squeezes my shoulder. His words offer no comfort.

“I should skip my practice for the day.”

“How long will you hide? This is going to blow up sooner or later. Someone will put things together.”

Karan’s words come true. By afternoon someone tags me on the post, and the notifications on my phone hit the roof. I turn them off, but my phone goes bonkers. The ringing from the same unknown number is persistent, so I don’t pick up, desperate to avoid any journalist. They all want to snag a scoop and twist my words to screw my life once again. I will bide my time and ride out the storm. Once another story breaks on social media, people will forget me. My mistake. At 8:00 P.M., the doorbell chimes. I am in the kitchen prepping dinner. Karan answers the door.

“There is someone to see you.”

“Who? At this hour?” I stare at him, puzzled.

“You should meet her.” Karan points to the door.

A lady in her late forties is sitting on the plastic chairs which adorn our sparsely furnished drawing-room. Dressed in an immaculate beige cotton saree with a dark red border. She sits with a file in front of her. “Hi, I am Advocate Farah. Nice to meet you, Mr. Saaransh.”

My eyebrows head toward the sky. An advocate and me. Why? “What have I done now?”

A subtle grin graces her face. “Don’t worry. You have done nothing wrong.” She hands me her visiting card.

“I still don’t get it. Why do you want to meet me?”

She takes out papers from her bag and hands them to me. Sweat beads appear on my forehead as I read through the pages. “I will not fight this case. What is the point? I have a new job.”

“Yes, but many in a similar position as yours may not be so lucky. We cannot allow employers to discriminate on these grounds.”

“What about Article 377? Will a court accept my contention? I can’t prove my sexual orientation led to the termination.”

“The employment issue and Article 377 are not linked. Trust me, I can help you fight this injustice.”

I flip the visiting card in my hand. “How do I believe you are here to help me and not to bring more trouble on my door? Walking out of my house is already a tough task.”

Karan steps in with coffee. He offers one to her and me before setting down on a chair by my side. I hand him the papers Farah gave me.

“Saaransh, trust me, this is a strong case.” She keeps the file down on the table and picks her coffee.

“How can you say? I don’t have any record of what happened. There is no proof. They asked me to write a one-line resignation.”

She keeps her coffee mug down and opens the file. “Here, read these. Do you recognize any of this?”

I take the papers from her. They are transcripts of the email exchanges between my ex-boss and HR manager. “How did you get a hold of these? Won’t they question the means of getting access to their email account?”

“You don’t worry. I will deal with those questions.” She takes the papers from me. “So, are you ready to fight for your rights?”

I rub my face, still unsure. I am not interested in returning to their office. So why go under the media lens?

“What have you to lose?” Karan places his hand on my forearm and hands the papers to Farah.

“Karan, is fighting my ex-employers worth all the trouble and publicity?”

“Saaransh, the case is not about you or the job. We want to fight the discrimination. Your case will bring to light the turmoil of so many people in the community. People who are afraid to lose their livelihood. When we take this company to court, the next HR person or boss who plans to fire someone on these grounds will consider their decision several times.”

Farah has a point, but why would a lawyer invest so much time in my case? I have my doubts. “Why are you doing it? I can’t afford your fees. Heck, I can’t afford any fees at the moment.”

She stares at me for a while before responding—a measured but frank response. “Each year, I do certain cases on a pro-bono basis. Some for people with a real need and a few for a bigger cause.”

I absorb her words—bigger cause. My body is cold.

*

I get down from the three-wheeler and walk to the badminton court of the Resident welfare grounds for my coaching gig. The court is new with an international-level turf. Training the kids on weekends allows me to access the facility to practice all seven days.

The work with kids helps me realize one of my life’s missions. The loops of the shuttle in flight watching my first match at age nine fascinated me. My school physical trainer caught me gawking. He asked me to come over and thrust the racket in my hand. I fell head over heels in love with badminton. One day I hope to do the same for some kids in my life.

One kid in particular. Aniket is the eldest in the group of twelve kids between ages seven to sixteen at the coaching camp. In Aniket, I see so much of myself. The struggle between conforming to society’s paradigm. A square peg trying to fit into a circle. The guard greets me. “Sahib, Aniket, and his mom are waiting for you.”

“Since when? The class is after half an hour.” We shake hands.

“Only a few minutes.”

“Okay. Here is a gift for you.”

A wide grin graces the weather-beaten face of the man in his fifties when I hand him one of my India T-shirts. He flips the blue-and-white shirt to run his fingers on the emblazoned letters with reverence. Gopal Das is a high school dropout. I admire him for working hard to raise his three kids. The first day at the academy after the inauguration, he approached me to thank me for bringing laurels for the country. Now he wants to hear about all my travels.

I rush in, eager to meet the shy, lanky kid. On the first day, Aniket stood at the door watching the other kids. After three days of lingering, Aniket gathered the courage to speak to me about coaching. I gave him the details and asked him to bring his parents. He enrolled a week later. Within a week, Aniket picked up the basics, though he still avoids conversations with other kids unless I prod him into group activities.

Aniket is a reflection of me ten years ago. Invisible and inconsequential, I breezed through my school years. Badminton matches were the only time anyone uttered my name in school. Those tiny moments of delight ended in my twelfth standard when Pa put his foot down. No more playing. Studies are more important. What will badminton buy you? A shuttle, he mocked me. The irony. I struggle to buy even those for my practice. Sheesh, I can’t let down my first love the way I dumped Brendon. Failure is not an option in badminton. Aniket is sitting on the bench with his mother. She is holding him and whispering into his ear.

“Hi, buddy. How are you?” When they look up, I am horrified to see bruises on Aniket’s face. The left eye is swollen and black. “What happened? Who did this to you?” Aniket hides his face and sobs. His mom is devastated. I crouch down and pull him into a hug, “Hey, buddy, don’t worry, things will be all right. Tell me who did this, and we will speak to the person.”

Aniket turns to his mother. Mrs. Saxena gulps and clears her throat. “His papa hit him.”

I am shocked. Hit is a mild word for the injuries on the child. Mauled would be more appropriate. “Why? Why would he beat Aniket?”

Her next words floor me. “Aniket is like you.”

“What do you mean Aniket is like me?”

“His father found him reading magazines with naked male models. Aniket told him he is gay.” She hesitates. “Aniket will not continue the coaching. His father says your influence on Aniket is sinful.”

My throat goes dry. Aniket’s sobs break the clog in my brain. “I want to play badminton, but Papa will not pay. He says if I come near you, he will complain to the officials here. He warned the society will ban you from coaching here. Sorry, sir, I am a loser.”

“You are not a loser, Aniket. You are brave. Stronger than me. I did not come out to my parents even at my age, and you are only sixteen. You are a fighter. There is only one loser in this room. Me. I never stood up and fought against all those people who hated me for being gay. I gave in and gave up.” My voice breaks. “But now I will be strong like you. We will find a way out. I will speak to your father.”

I turn to Mrs. Saxena. She shakes her head. “I am sorry, sir. If you speak to his father, things will become worse.” She stands. “Come, Aniket, we should leave.”

Aniket stands, but I hold his hand. “What about him, Mrs. Saxena? What if your husband hurts Aniket again? Taking him out of the coaching program will not solve the issue. The way Aniket feels about men will not change. No one can beat out those emotions from a person.”

She shakes her head. “You don’t understand, sir. I need to keep him safe.”

“How will you keep him safe from his dad? Denying Aniket’s reality will destroy him. Did you notice the change from when he joined? He is opening up to people, making friends, and speaking out.”

Mrs. Saxena stays silent for a while. “Aniket respects you. He admires you for your achievements. But, tell me, what future exists for a gay man in this country? You are a celebrity. Are you able to fight the prejudice? Did your family accept you?” She continues after a moment’s pause. “When you with all the gold medals and trophies cannot face this society, what chance does my son have? I will keep him safe until he becomes independent.”

I let go of Aniket’s hand. “At least get him medical aid.” She nods. They leave. Aniket by her side, head low, tucked into her arm. My heart aches for the child. What piece-of-shit father would do this to his child? Mrs. Saxena stops at the exit and turns to me.

“Saaransh, sir, you have the power to lead the change for Aniket. If you wish to help, set an example. Be your best. The most important war you can wage against this hate is to show the world how gay people are not less than anyone and they can lead a normal life.” After a pause, she adds, “If you can’t do it, what hope do kids like Aniket have?”

*

“Remembering someone?” Farah draws my attention away from the couple sitting across us enjoying each other’s company over a steaming cup of coffee and cake. Lost in themselves in the ambiance and Hindi film melodies playing in the background. Oblivious of the people around them in the coffee shop. No public scrutiny or sneers.

I rub my eyes to clear the tears and sip my black coffee. Bitter is the flavor of my life now. “Will we ever have the freedom to be us? To live as humans.”

“LGBTQ rights are a work in progress, Saaransh. One brick at a time. Some added by people before you. Many will be needed after you.”

Bigger cause. The words have haunted me since the past week. Why does wanting these simple moments have to be a big cause? Aniket’s face flashes before me. The pain and fear. The hurt and suffering. “Why does loving and accepting your own child have to come down to being a social cause?”

Farah sighs, “How is Aniket?”

“He received medical aid.” At least for his physical wounds. The emotional scars will never heal. “Will I be able to make a difference in his life?” I have no notions of greatness or desire to lead a movement. Only a wish. No child should ever be bashed up by their parent for being what they are.

“Maybe, maybe not. The movement would benefit a lot with a face. You will become a light of hope for the thousands suffering in the darkness behind closed doors.”

“Am I capable of carrying the weight of those expectations?” If only I had shown even ten percent of the fight I put up on the badminton courts. Why did I not stand up to my employers? Why did I not resist the Association? Why did I let Brendon walk away? Why am I such a spineless fool? Not anymore. If Ma, Karan, and Babita can fight my battle, I need to rise above my cowardice. I rub my sweaty palms on my jeans as I sit across from. Farah. Still uncertain if the world is even prepared to hear me when they don’t accept my reality. My existence.

“You are a fighter, Saaransh.” Farah places her hand over mine in reassurance.

Am I? Do resilient people require pep talks to fight for themselves and the people who care about them? I brace myself against the chair, digging my heels into the wooden floor of the restaurant. “What do I have to do?”

She closes her eyes and puffs out air. When she opens them again, the determination is clear. She hands me another set of papers. “These are the power of attorney documents allowing me to act on your behalf. Sign these, and we will work on the paperwork to file the case. I will try to keep you away from the hearings, but we may require your presence in court at some point. The day we file the case, there will be a media briefing to ensure the media are involved.”

I shift in my chair, uncomfortable at the prospect of attracting attention. But I need to show some spine and fight. If not for me, for some anonymous Aniket sitting at home and wondering if life is worth living. I sign the papers and hand them to Farah. She reviews them and keeps them in the file. “One more thing. How do you feel taking the association to court?”

“What?” I almost fall off my chair. “No. Not the Badminton Association. They will destroy me.”