Chapter Thirty

Return Flight

SAARANSH

 

“Gosh, Saaransh. Do you remember, a year ago, we were at this same place in such tense circumstances?” Karan stands, resting his hand on my trolley bag. We are in the parking of Terminal 3 of the international airport in Delhi. I double-check my documents: passport, visa, and Qantas tickets. Yup, everything is set for the trip.

“Let’s go.” He moves with my bags to the entry gates.

“So eager to get rid of me.”

“Shut up, bro. I am happy my stubborn friend is making the right decision after such a long time.”

“Right decision, huh. Not sure if what I am doing is right. The shuttle is still up in the air. Too many variables in play at present. A job being the foremost followed by facing the crucial what if.”

“Saar, no more what ifs. You aced those Skype interviews. This face-to-face meeting with the CEO is a formality. As for the other thing, I am sure once you are in the same room, you will sort out everything. If the magic in the videos is any measure of your relationship?”

Karan’s words make me halt mid-stride. “What? Wait. STOP.” Babita bumps into me. The usual blabbering girl is quiet since we left home.

“What?” She glares at me. She turns sheepish when my eyebrows rise.

“Did you two watch those videos? Why did you not tell me before?”

“I blame him. Karan viewed those videos at full volume. I had to peek.” Babita stabs Karan with her finger. They glance at each other and smirk. Wily foxes.

“Duh. Those videos were everywhere. My whole office buzzed about the clips over lunch and tea breaks. Boy, they were scorching on the heat index. You and Brendon would make fantastic porn stars.”

Not waiting him to drool further, I swing my carry-on bag at Karan. “You perverts.” He flinches and fakes being hurt, grasping the arm where the bag hit him.

Babita goes coy. “Please stop talking about them. I can’t unsee them. And you, Mr. Saaransh Mishra, are going to miss the flight.” She shoves Karan and me to move ahead. We halt at the entry gate to the airport. Babita and Karan gather me in a hug. “You be brave and apologize to your man,” Babita whispers in my ear before we separate.

“Leave your worries here. If things don’t work out, a warm home awaits you here along with two dorks who will always love you.” Karan pats me.

“Thanks for everything you both do for me.” We shake hands, and I move toward the entry line. The security officer checks my passport and tickets. I turn and wave to Karan and Babita, shuddering at what awaits me across the ocean. This is it. I walk inside the airport terminal.

After two years on the international badminton circuits, traveling is my least favorite part. This trip is different, though. A leap of faith across an ocean to mend the bridge to Brendon. I waited for almost a month for Brendon to return my calls and messages. He did not respond. Well, I can’t blame him. I earned the radio silence.

After the Singapore Open, I almost hopped on a plane to get to Melbourne, but Brendon’s team’s qualification for the Super Rugby playoffs put breaks on my plans. I did not want to distract him. Time flew by so fast. A year since we met at the Olympics and eight months to our last meeting. Every day of those months spent in pining for him. Now I can’t hold off any longer.

A girl’s voice alarms me. “Mummy, look.” Before her mother can stop her, she dashes to me with a boarding pass. “Can you please give an autograph, sir?”

“Sure, what is your name?”

“Ayesha.”

“Ayesha, do you play badminton?”

She bobs her head. I hand over her boarding pass after writing a small note. Her parents stand near us and request a photograph. Soon, word spreads, and people snap pictures. Some smile; others whisper. A few people approach for autographs. Now I am accustomed to this. Not comfortable but settled. The occasional hateful comment or snigger serves as a reminder, but I ignore them and keep a safe distance. Things are changing. All thanks to a man I turned away. A man who had more faith in me than I did.

Once we are airborne, I glance at the window to see the sun’s first rays break through the horizon above the clouds. The light transforms from a faint glow in a few minutes to blinding light. As the aircraft hums its way forward, the moment is surreal. The airplane is chasing the light. Similar to my life. Only in my case, the sun is Brendon, and I am the moon glowing in his reflection. No matter what I achieve, my life is a tribute to Brendon. All my shots, each point, and each match are in Brendon’s name. He does not know yet, but soon, I will show him.

This trip is about Brendon. I will grovel, beg, do whatever is required to make my Brendon accept me. He may not forgive me, but I am determined to try, even if wooing him takes an eternity. Brendon is worth everything in this world to me. Will he consider me worthy of him after what I did? The question haunts me. You will find out soon, Saaru boy, the voice inside echoes. Remember Coach Henrik’s mantra. ‘Stay out of your head and live in the present.’ On a sixteen-hour flight, enjoying the present means sleeping. I slide on my seat and cover myself with the blanket.

The two-hour layover at the fantastic Changi Airport in Singapore helps me freshen up. Despite the hop across the Indian Ocean, the buzz in my nerves is still intact. I step outside the Melbourne Airport with my bags. The fresh cold air is a promise of new beginnings. I tuck my scarf tighter around my neck and close my jacket. The car rental is waiting for me. I sign off the paperwork and grab the keys.

The first stop is the job interview at the offices of the tech startup developing applications in sports. A man needs to eat and requires more than a tourist visa for Australia to woo the love of his life. If I nail this job, I get the cushion to stay in Australia to win Brendon. The meeting goes better than expected. I am out of their office after signing the contract.

Next up is the stiff climb to Mt. Forgiveness, atop which sits my Blue. I feed the GPS the AAMI Park address where Brendon plays his match in another two hours, giving me an extra hour to change and grab a bite.

*

The stadium is a packed house. The decibel levels are way above the ones at my games. Should be. Rugby crowds are unlike the stoic and controlled environment of badminton tournaments. Not a surprise considering this is a home game. This is the first time the Green Bombardiers from Melbourne are playing the finals of Super Rugby. I adjust my club cap and team jersey, blending into the sea of green. No one should recognize me. I am not a tennis star or a rugby player, and this is not a cricket match, so few Indians will be here.

On purpose, I bought my tickets in advance for the general stands—three rows from the ledge. A sea of green surrounds me, all wearing team jerseys of Green Bombardiers. My dress helps me merge into the crowd as one of them. I settle down and wait for the game to commence.

A loud roar greets the teams as they enter the stadium amidst the fireworks and music. I stand to get a glimpse of Brendon with my binoculars; he is in all green with the number 11 and Marsh embroidered on the back. A glimpse of his face sets off the butterflies. Each time I ogle my man on my phone, these flighty colorful fairies flutter in my stomach. But nothing compares to the real thing. My entire existence is tethered to Brendon. If he says no today, I will die a million deaths. A tear rolls down my cheek. Do I have any right to call him mine? Tiny thorns of dread prick the heart.

The whistle from the referee brings me out of my mental fog. The game begins in earnest. Within minutes, the teams end in a pileup.

The referee calls for a scrum. For the uninitiated me, the sight on the pitch is funny. Two sets of men, one in green and the other in dark-brown shirts, form a circle and lock their heads and shoulders. When the ref calls crouch and bind, the bulls butt their heads in a fight, moving in a circle. When he says set, there is a tussle for the ball. The Greens win the ball and now pass it through a series of players across the pitch.

Whenever the Greens take the ball, the crowd near me rises to their feet. I try to make sense of the game based on the book on rugby I read last week. If I have to make up with Brendon, I need to understand his world. So here I am, watching my first game of rugby.

The game is physical and rough. The teams are not giving one another much space. After about ten minutes, the Kairākau win a penalty. The NZ club put the first points of the game on board. The group in the brown jerseys ahead of me are up on their feet celebrating. Men in green next to them jeer.

When play resumes, Brendon tackles his opponent. A jostle for the ball ensues as players pile up, but the Greens retrieve the ball and score a try.

In the next play, the ball kicked from the half-line by the Kairākau number two lands in the hands of Greens’ fullback after a bump on the ground. He offloads the ball to Brendon. I am on the edge of my seat with my heart pounding away. Brendon weaves his way through the Kairākau line and sprints toward the goal line to score a try.

I jump from my seat with both my arms in the air, joining the surrounding crowd in celebrating.

The NZ team pushes hard against the Greens. Around ten meters from the goal line, the Greens number fifteen intercepts the ball, and there is a mad rush in the opposite direction. Midway through the pitch, the ball ends up in Brendon’s hands, but he is tackled after a short dash. The sight is hilarious.

The NZ club number twelve grabs Brendon’s shorts and almost pulls them off, exposing his butt. There are loud whistles from all around. I hate the catcalls. Jealous of everyone ogling at what is mine. Brendon adjusts his shorts, and the game moves on. The next play brings the Kairākau line close to the Greens’ goal line till their defense tackles them. Again, the players fall on each other trying to grab the ball.

The referee blows his whistle calling for a foul. When the pile breaks, Brendon is still on the ground. I use my binoculars to focus on him. “Nooooo,” I shout when I see his face covered in blood and grime.

“Av-a-go, ya mug.”

“Shut your bleddy pie hole.” Shouts in thick Australian accents draw my attention to the brawl in the row in front. Two men wearing green jerseys hold two men in brown in a headlock. Another green man is punching away at someone on the floor. Dammit, I can’t even watch a match without being surrounded by drama.

I wade in and join the man on my left to try to break the scuffle. A hand swings toward me. I duck, but my cap is knocked off. When I rise, I see security personnel arrive. They break up the fight and take the group of men out of the stands. When things settle down, someone from behind points to the big screen in the stadium. In the center of the screen is my face. An announcement comes on the audio system.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are pleased to welcome the reigning Olympic and World Champion, the Badminton Men’s World number one, to our stadium.” Everyone around turns their eyes on me. Holy crap, I am no longer incognito.

Chants of ‘kiss, kiss’ rent the air; I look around perplexed. A woman nearby points me to the screen where a banner with the words Kiss cam is scrolling below my face. The woman explains what I need to do, and my cheeks become hot. “Kiss me. Kiss me,” she screams. Before I can process her words, the woman’s eyes bug out. She points behind me.

My neck tickles, and I turn to see where she is pointing. In a flash, a giant blob of green slams into me and crushes my lips. My hands flail, trying to balance. I gasp. Instead of air, a familiar tongue invades my mouth. My body is engulfed in thick sweaty musk. Brendon holds me tight around my waist. The hoots and whistles alarm me. I push Brendon to stand straight. He breaks the kiss and growls at everyone.

“This one is mine.”

*

BRENDON

 

I grab Saaransh’s hand and drag him to the pitch, shouting at everyone, “Clear the way, this is a boyfriend emergency.” He follows me. We jump over the ledge and cross the billboards on the ledge.

“Will you stop dragging me? You are causing a scene.” Saaransh tries to extricate his hand, but I know the protest is all bluster. His laughter follows me.

I tighten my grip, “Oh, no. Babe, you are not running away. Not this time. You will stay here so I can keep an eye on you.”

Saaransh’s face on the giant screen stumped me. His presence at the game meant only one thing. Saaransh stood dazed in our team colors, talking to a woman next to him. When the Kiss Cam sign flashed before his image, the possessive bear in me broke its shackles. No random person is allowed to kiss my man.

Of course, I intend to make him pay for keeping me waiting. He needs to make up for the months of longing. I have some ideas on how I want him to do it. None are for public viewing unless we want to get arrested for public indecency. I skip, hop, and run to the benches on the touchline, dragging Saaransh behind me. My coach walks up and bursts. Red, hot, and fuming. “Brendon, what the hell are you doing?”

“It’s his fault.” Saaransh points with both his hands. “Your number eleven is a wanted man in many countries. Book this ledge hopper.”

“Oi. You’re the one who instigates me.” I glare at the tattler.

James slams his hand on my back and high-fives Saaransh. “What a spectacle, mate.” My teammates surround us, smiling at the show I put up for them.

“Best tackle I have seen for a while,” someone chips in from the crowd surrounding us. The coach is not amused.

I pull Saaransh in front of me. “Sorry, Coach, I had to lay my claim on my boyfriend. Guys, meet Saaransh.”

Saaransh squirms, his eyes moist. My heart sinks. Did I go too far? He surprises me. Saaransh grabs my t-shirt and pulls up to lock me in a kiss. The claps and whistles from my teammates force us to break away.

“You two better get settled before the next half.” Coach squeezes my shoulder as the entire team jogs toward the tunnel.

Saaransh stops me. “I am sorry, Blue. Can you forgive me?” The pain is visible on his face. “I don’t deserve it, but I love you, Blue.” Saaransh takes my hand. “Blue, give me another chance. Please.” He squeezes my hand tight.

In response, I tuck the hair falling over his teary eyes and plant a kiss on his head. “You are here. For me.” His citrus fragrance rekindles the craving, but before I open my heart, I need one last assurance. “Never ghost me again.”

Saaransh’s head drops. I lift his chin and find eyes about to brim. My thumb caresses the droplet on his cheek. Saaransh clasps my wrists. This time instead of pushing my hand away, he presses the palm against his lips. Kissing before stepping away. He fiddles with the travel bag slung around his shoulder. He takes out medals and places them around my neck. The thick, round metal pieces jingle around my neck. Saaransh rubs his nose to hide the sniffle. Time to lighten the mood. We have shed enough tears for each other.

“Whoa! Wow. Are these for me?” I stare at the medals from the six tournaments he has won this year, weighing them in my palm.

“Mhm, yeah. These are all because of you, Blue. They are all for you.”

“We need the one from the Masters.” Yup, I am a greedy fella. I hated to watch Saaransh lose last year. Three tournament losses in a row were heart breaking.

Saaransh stares before fluttering his eyelashes. “Hmm, winning a tournament against competition of such high calibre may need some special practice. Would you happen to know a bloke with certain ball-grabbing skills? The one with a dragon tattoo.”

“Dammit, Shy, these rugby shorts are already tight.” I squeeze his waist.

Saaransh taps my chin, “I will give you an out. Win this cup for me, and you can have the medal from the Masters.”

Oh, boy. Talk about pressure now.