Chapter Twenty-Eight

What if

SAARANSH

 

Will he come? My heart pounds in anticipation. The flicker of hope dies the next minute. Ma steps out of the three-wheeler. Alone. Will Pa ever come? For the past four months, Ma and I meet one Sunday afternoon depending on my tournament schedule. The first few meetings kindled expectations. Every time I enquired, Ma would make an excuse, but her eyes would reflect the stress. Her sorrow colored our meetings, so I stopped asking. Papa’s reluctance to accept me continues to gnaw in my heart. At this stage, I should not care. At least Ma is here.

“Ready for our picnic?” Ma ruffles my hair. I take the basket from her, and we walk to find a tree with enough shade to shield us from direct sunlight. April is heating up fast.

“Mmh.” The aroma of garam masala and fried onion of chickpea curry wafts to my nose. Along with the deep-fried wheat dough puffs, the dish is my comfort food. “Did you bring Chole and poori?” My ma makes them best. We find an Ashok tree with a thick canopy. A gentle breeze flowing across the garden. I help Ma in laying out the mat and the lunch spread. Ma plates the dishes. She insists on eating first. I don’t mind, my mouth watering at the home-cooked spread Ma lays out for us. We eat our food in silence.

“How is the case going?” Ma wipes her hand with a napkin after she finishes.

“The awkwardness has not subsided since the first day at the Supreme Court, but now I am used to the stares and questions.” The experience in the courtroom shook me. Each gaze made me empathize with the animals on display in a zoo. The mental stripping and examination followed by the disappointment of not finding horns on my head. The stripes on my skin were same as theirs. ‘How can he be gay? He is so normal,’ a man sneered. The grilling by the opposing counsel made me cringe. Behind all the legal words he threw at me were hidden arrows of hate.

“Farah does her best and steers the discussion to my employment each time the opposing counsel deviates toward my ‘immoral character’.” I air-quote to show my irritation.

Ma sighs. I can see the anguish on her face. “You are brave to face this world alone.”

“I am not alone. You, Babita, and Karan are with me. Nothing else matters. This world pushed me around. Not any longer.” Enough cowering to pressures for a lifetime. I will fight for what is mine. The way I attack on the badminton courts for each point. The badminton court is not only an oasis of respite from the scorching flames of this world; each win is also my ticket to freedom from the clutches of bigots.

“What about Brendon?”

Ma’s question stops me from taking the next bite. Instead, I open the water bottle lying in the picnic basket and drink, staring at the white marble petals of the Bahai Lotus temple behind Ma.

“Why does he play such a rough game? Thirty bulls locking horns in a wrestling match is not my idea of a thrill. Don’t you worry about Brendon? You should tell him to be careful.”

Subtle. Typical of Ma. Take the tension out and slip the question in. She is fishing to confirm if I have spoken to Brendon. “Someone has been watching rugby matches.” Ma tries to hide her sly smile as she packs the unfinished food, avoiding the answer. I persist. “Where do you watch?”

“YouTube, where else? Babita showed me. The game is too rough for me. I only watch clips of Brendon.” What should I say? “Close your mouth, or a fly will find a new home.” Ma taps my mouth closed. When I keep staring at her, she pats my cheek. “What? A mother always worries about her son and his partner.”

Partner. Boyfriend. Friend. Gosh. Who am I in Brendon’s world? On a hillside near Melbourne, we painted a dream for ourselves. The world poured vitriol over the canvas even before our paint dried. The remaining colors bled under my tears, leaving a smudged canvas in ruins. The cold water does nothing to unclog my throat. I choke on my emotions, fighting the floods threatening the banks of my eyes. “Ma, you are building imaginary castles.”

“A mother’s instincts are never wrong. You should go and meet him.” There, the punch line delivered from between twitching lips.

Desperation cannot describe my longing for Brendon. I close my eyes and still my heart. “The time is not right. I have caused enough damage. First, I have to prove I am worthy of his love.”

Ma studies my face for a while. She places the Besan ladoo on my plate. “How is your coaching? It must be difficult working with Mr. Pederson from so far away.” Thank god she does not press her point. The change in topic is a welcome relief. I do not want her to see the tears I shed in solitude, pining for Brendon.

With half the ladoo in my mouth, I take my sweet time to respond. A week after Aniket’s incident, I got in touch with Mr. Pedersen. He proved to be the turning point for my badminton career. Mr. Pedersen implemented an extensive strength and stamina building program. “Mr. Pedersen has my day planned out. 4 A.M. is time for my morning run. By 6 A.M., I am at the local gym, where I spend an hour. Followed by badminton practice at the RWA court till 9 A.M. After 7 P.M., I return to the court and practice till 8:30 P.M.” Two bags, one for clothes, the other for my kit, is my entire existence.

“Mr. Pedersen is organized. Each day’s session is recorded and sent to him. He sends detailed instructions after the video analysis of my plays and those of my rivals. This is the best we can do for now.” We have met physically only once after we signed the contract. I plan to remedy the situation as my finances are on firmer grounds after the England Open win.

Ma packs the lunch boxes while I gather the mat. We tidy up the place before we walk out of the gardens. “Your traveling schedule is hectic. Do you take care of your diet?”

“Yes, as best as I can. Mr. Pedersen sends diet charts for the days I am on the road based on the local food.” Most of the last two months I spent out of India. The Korean and Malaysian Open tournaments were significant. The tactical changes to my game caught my opponents on the wrong foot. I did not drop a set through the tournament, including the final, but the England event took everything out of me.

Matches against Chinese players ranked in the top five were a steep mountain in the last eight stages. The East Asian players, whether they are Chinese, Koreans, or Malaysians, are aggressive on the court. They are off the blocks from the first serve, attacking to take control of the game. Hard luck for them. I may be a lightweight outside the court, but inside, I am the only bully.

“I am happy you are winning again. The renewed vigor shows in your game.” Ma kisses me on the forehead as I bend down to touch her feet.

“Yes, Ma, I no longer play for myself. Before each match, I remember Aniket and play for the pride of all those watching from the closet.” Hidden from all, I play for the man I love. Each tournament win gets me closer to Brendon. It adds money to my bank account to cross the ocean one final time.

In this journey, Mr. Pedersen is my Obi-Wan, and the badminton racket is my lightsaber to fight the world. I shut out everything and focus on the shuttle. The courts and nets are my friends again. I am no longer alone. The shuttlecock sings, and my racket buzzes with life. My feet float, finding their old rhythm. I am done with a world trying to keep me chained to the closet.

Let them all go to hell. I will find my happiness. I will find you, Brendon, and make you proud by becoming the man you wish me to be. A better, stronger version. Worthy of your love and trust.

*

The best part of being at home: curling up in bed, knees and arms tucked in, and hiding under a duvet. No one can see you, and you don’t need to see anyone. The best part of lying curled up on your bed—ruminate inside your head. June in Delhi is a furnace. Who wants to step outside? Not me.

The worst part of being home: facing Babita. She pulls the duvet from over me.

“Go away. Leave me alone.” I hide my head between my hands.

“Why are you sulking?” Babita pinches my arm, forcing me to face her, “Dude, you won your sixth tournament on the trot. What more do you want? You should be ecstatic about your triumphs.”

Yeah, the winner of six Super Series tournaments in a year is hiding. And moping for the one thing still missing in his life. Brendon. The warmth of his body, the safety of his arms, and the rhythm of his heart. I miss them all. Even ogling on my phone did nothing to fill the Brendon-sized hole in my universe. “This is not the happiness I want.”

“Oh, the heart is lost from morning to evening in someone’s love, but can’t find the courage to write to him.” Babita hums next to my ears, distorting the lyrics at the end. This bumbling botanist does not a tuneful singer make.

“Urgh! B, stop butchering the melody.” The lyrics from a song in the 1970’s Hindi movie, Rampur ka Lakshman, are so lovey-dovey. The wave of longing for my grizzly bear surges higher. “What’s the use of winning if there is no one to celebrate the wins with?” I grumble.

“You hurt me, Mr. Mopey-dopey. If you miss Brendon so much, what are you doing about it?” Babita sits on the bed. She places her hand on my shoulder and ruffles my wavy hair.

“Brendon is not picking up my calls even after I left voice messages.” I pull the duvet up to my nose, so she can only see my eyes.

“So, dumbo, go to him. What is stopping you? You have his address. Saaransh, you should take the first step and many more till you find your way to Brendon.” My pained expression makes her sigh. She fires a volley of stinging questions. “Who slammed the door on him?” She yanks the duvet out of my hands, catching me by surprise, and drops the sheet on the floor away from me. In defiance, I curl into a fetal position. Not for long.

Babita smashes the pillow on my head. One blow after the other. I snatch the cotton-filled cushion from her and toss it behind me. “Who kept ghosting him?” In revenge she flings open the blinds, letting the sun assault my eyes, leaving me temporarily blinded. “So, who is the one who needs to toil?”

“Me.” The word struggles out of my parched throat.

She pulls my cheeks. “Yes. You, Mr. Saaransh, the bigshot badminton star who loves Brendon but is scared to tell him about what’s in here.” Babita thumps on my chest with her fist.

“Ouch, stop assaulting me.” I move her hand away. “Even if I love him, Brendon deserves better than me.”

Babita holds my shoulders, forcing me to face her. “I bet you say this to yourself every single day to justify the trench you keep widening. Try a different tactic. Say this out loud—I am worthy of Brendon. He needs me, and I need him.”

“No, he does not need me. Who are we trying to fool? He is better off without a person who runs away at the first sign of trouble. Brendon should be with someone strong enough to stand by him. Bold enough to love him openly. I am a coward.”

“You are not going to listen. Where is the stubborn ten-year-old brother who used to insist on everyone in the family to give him money instead of toys or gifts? The fiery brother who bought his racket from the money he saved.”

Babita’s words are a sad reminder. When Pa refused to give me money to join a badminton summer camp at the DDA Badminton Stadium, I devised my plan. Passing a written note to every member of the extended Mishra family. ‘Only cash will be accepted as gifts.’ The whole of next year, I saved the money anyone gave me on any festival or occasion. I refused to accept any gift in kind on my birthday, insisting on cash. I studied hard to bolster my savings. Every time I scored above 90 percent in any subject, Dadi gave me 100 rupees.

Every twenty and fifty-rupee currency note went into a clay piggy bank from which you cannot take out money unless you break it. My first new racket, a Yonex, cost me over a thousand rupees. The cash came out of my piggy bank in crumpled currency notes. I funded my summer camp rebellion every year through similar piggy bank investments.

“You fought for badminton. Why are you not fighting for Brendon?”

Gah. God, please get this prickly botanist off my case. “Badminton is my first love. Brendon and I can’t be lovers. There is nothing I can give him except hurt and pain.”

“Such a crybaby.” Babita shakes her head. “You don’t love him, but he loves you.” She pouts.

“And what makes you believe Brendon loves me?”

“Who do you reckon sent Farah?” Babita covers her face as soon as the words leave her mouth.

“What are you hiding from me?” Babita tries to walk away, but I grab her wrist. “Now spill the secrets, you wily fox.”

“Ow, you are hurting me.” She swats my hand hard. “I will tell you everything if you promise me you will go to Melbourne and meet Brendon face to face.” She extends her pinkie finger for me to shake.

Argh. “Done. I will call Brendon after you tell me the entire scheme you concocted without my knowledge.” I tug her pinkie finger with mine. Over the next one hour, Babita blurts out all the behind-the-scenes maneuvers she and Brendon concocted. He did all this for me. My Brendon fought for me even after I pushed him away. Does this mean he still wants me? What if I am one more case in his long list of queer rights advocacy? Babita’s jab on my chest hurts but stops me from tossing on the waves of hope and despair. What hurts more is the fear. One question weighs a ton in my heart. “What if he says no?”

Babita clutches my shoulders and shakes me hard. “Argh! Stupid. What if he says yes?”

*

“Mr. Pedersen, can I ask you a personal question?” I turn to my coach after gulping down the water. Even at 6 A.M., June is scorching. Our t-shirts are drenched with sweat. The Gulmohar- and Neem-tree-lined boulevard offers no respite. I am used to the scorching sun, but Mr. Pedersen is a steamy red tomato, sweating buckets from his pale skin after our run. By the time he returns, Mr. Pedersen will have a permanent tan. The poor soul is in Delhi helping me prepare for the BWF Championship in August. Thanks to a major sponsorship deal with an international shoe brand, he comes to stay around tournaments.

“Only if you call me Henrik.” Mr. Pedersen wipes the sweat from his flaming red face and neck. We have been arguing for the past ten minutes. He won’t take the money I got as compensation in my court case.

“Only if you answer my questions.” I counter with my condition. Mr. Pedersen has been bugging me to use his first name, but years of the Guru-shishya culture is difficult to break. Trading his first name for the information is not a bad deal.

“Playing unfair. You want to ask more than one question.” Henrik gives me a stink eye. Over the past six months, we have developed a bond over our professional relationship.

“Hmm, depends on your answers.”

“Let’s first get inside the court before the sun becomes hotter. I sense this is going to be a long conversation.”

The first thing I do on entering the court is turn on the air-conditioner, a welcome relief from the humidity outside. “Don’t cool off. Start your stretches.” Henrik orders as he sets up the net for practice. His voice echoes, and shoes squeak on the court’s polished wooden flooring. At this hour, we are the only two here, until seven A.M., when the crowd comes in. “So, what is troubling your mind, Saaransh?” Henrik asks.

“Hmm, let’s see. First—why did you make the offer in Hong Kong when no one wanted to touch me?” I start with my pre-practice stretches.

“You are an exceptional player, Saaransh. Which right-minded coach would ignore a protégé like you?”

“Mr. Parthasarathy did.” The frown slips through on my face at the mention of my erstwhile coach. The respect I had in my heart evaporated at the disdain with which he stared at me when I beat his new ward in the quarterfinal on my way to winning the India Open in April.

“You are a gem. His loss and my gain.” Henrik gives a slight bow with his head as he secures the net to the poles.

“Don’t divert. Tell me the real reason. I am not a player for whom someone will travel halfway across the world without any guarantee of payments.” I repeat the stretch for my left arm.

“Young man. I am not someone.”

“Please, Henrik. It’s been on my mind since the day we met.” More so after Babita’s babble. I wouldn’t be surprised if Brendon scoped out Henrik.

“Calm down.” Henrik takes out the shuttlecocks from his bag and lays them out on the bench. “I had a son. He was an upcoming football player. In the last year of college, he came out to his team. His team and club never accepted him.”

Henrik pauses, testing the tautness of the racket strings. “Liam spent most of his year without friends. I tried to help him, but he refused.” The discomfort and sadness on Henrik’s face increases.

“What happened?” I stop midway from my sideways twist.

“After one of his games, Liam did not return.” Henrik shuts his eyes and pinches his nose. “Two days later, they found his body bruised and battered near a canal.” Henrik’s voice breaks.

I rush to him and take his shaking hands in mine. His fingers dig into my palms. “I am sorry to bring up such a painful memory for you.” I hand him a water bottle.

Henrik sips the water. “Have I shown you Liam’s photo?” Henrik pulls out his purse from the gym bag and takes out a photograph. He hands the picture to me.

I stare at the photo. Henrik and a young blond-haired man my age are on a boat, grinning at their catch with pride. Henrik’s hand is on Liam’s shoulder as he looks on his son with fondness.

“When I read the news about you, I had to come. I must thank you for helping me overcome my grief.” Henrik places his hand on my shoulder.

“Can I hug you?” The lump in my throat makes speaking difficult. Henrik shakes in my arms as we hug each other. “I am so sorry. Henrik. Is this why you run the LGBTQ youth charity?”

“Yes,” Henrik whispers. I hand the photograph to him. He stares at it with longing and grief.

“Henrik, you must take the money.” He shakes his head, but I grab his hand. “Listen, this would help so many people. Please, I beg you. Please let me donate the money to the work you do.” He continues to protest, but I am not backing down now. “Help me. Open a center here in Delhi.”

“How can I take your money? You are saving to go to Australia.”

I narrow my eyes, “Did you happen to speak to a botanist?” The bumbling B has been sneaking and conniving with everyone. After her blitzkrieg, I told her and Karan about my plans. The leafy tattler. She can’t keep a wisp of air inside. Now even Henrik has joined hands with them. What next? The national press.

“Well, I may have overheard.” Henrik points to my legs, reminding me to continue my stretches.

With my hand, I grab the right ankle and flex the knee to press the heel on my bum, stretching my quads. “I cannot use the money for my personal use. The reason behind the case is bigger than me.”

“Ah yes, the court verdict. You never showed me the order.”

The case attracted media attention—a constant item on primetime. One fine day, the judge took suo-moto cognizance of a news report about the association’s threats to debar me from playing. The association became a reluctant party to the case. They fought tooth and nail, but my tournament wins shifted the public opinion in my favor. The sports world gathered around me, increasing the pressure on the world badminton body to intervene. The court gave its verdict. My hands trembled when Farah handed me the court orders. She highlighted the critical text for me.

‘An important aspect of the right to life is the right to livelihood. No person can live without the means of living, that is, the means of livelihood. In discriminating and denying the plaintiff, opportunities to livelihood, the defendants violated Article 21 of India’s Constitution. The court hereby...’

Farah wrapped me in her arms as I cried. The verdict swept away the sword over my head. My ex-employer apologized. The Badminton Association relented and negated the clause they coerced me to sign, taking away Brendon from my life.

“I will send the court order across to you, but I am donating the money to your charity work.”

Henrik relents. “You are stubborn like Liam. But I have my condition.”

Oh, no. “I will die if you increase my exercises.” On purpose, I let out an exaggerated gasp as I extend my right arm to grab the toes of my leg extended on the wall, stretching the spine and the hamstrings.

Henrik shakes his head at my antics. “My condition is not about exercise or badminton. It is about you. What are you doing about Brendon?”

Brendon. What about him? I stare at the canopy of trees from the windows. A few pigeons fly in a circular pattern, from one set of trees to another. Free from the bondage of society.

“What is stopping you, Saaransh?”

“Going to Brendon is not easy, Henrik. I end up hurting Brendon every time we are together.”

“But you love him.”

I repeat the hamstring stretch on the other leg. “Mhm.”

“Tell him.”

“He does not answer my messages or calls.” My standard evasive response on this topic. Henrik raises his eyebrow.

“Argh.” Ma, Babita, and Karan are giving me hell. Karan mocks me when I try to use this as a defense to ward off their insistence. Three fingers point to you when you point one toward Brendon. How do I undo the tangled knots?”

“An apology is a first serve.”

“How? I have apologized on messages.” With no response from Brendon.

“Only smashes don’t win matches.” Henrik pats my shoulder.