Chapter 17: Tanvi

Three days after the wedding, the board's decision arrived.

I was at The Chai Loft. Monday morning. The espresso machine was doing its: thing. The retired colonel was doing his: crossword. Gauri was in the loft, arranging the post-wedding aftermath of her life — she had married Nikhil on Saturday and was back at work on Monday because Gauri did not believe in: honeymoons. "A honeymoon is a holiday," she said. "I don't need a holiday from: Nikhil. I need a holiday from: customers."

The email.

Subject: Kasauli Sports Academy — Head Coach (Kabaddi) — Selection Decision

Dear Ms. Kapoor,

After careful deliberation, the selection committee is pleased to offer you the position of Head Coach, Kabaddi Programme, Kasauli Sports Academy, effective November 1st. Your presentation, coaching record, and vision for the programme were unanimously endorsed by the committee. We look forward to your leadership.

Unanimously. The word. The word that meant: Thakur. Thakur had: voted yes. The Brigadier who thought women shouldn't coach men's sports had: voted yes. Because the evidence — the data, the results, the coaching philosophy that was: me — had been: stronger than the: prejudice.

I did not scream. Gauri had screamed when I was shortlisted; the escalation required by the actual: appointment would have been: supersonic and the retired colonel did not deserve: that. Instead I stood behind the counter and I: breathed. Deep. The kind of breath that the physiotherapist in Chandigarh had taught me for managing flare-ups, the breath that started in the diaphragm and expanded the ribs and filled the lungs with: air, and the air was not just air — it was: relief and terror and joy and the specific overwhelm of a person who had: wanted something for so long that getting it felt like: vertigo.

I called Maa. Maa cried. Papa took the phone and said: "I knew it, beta. I always knew." Papa had not always known — Papa had been the one who said "coaching is not a: stable career" and "have you considered: government exams?" — but fathers were: allowed to revise their: history.

I called Priti. Priti screamed. Karan took the phone and said: "Congratulations, bhabhi." He called me bhabhi because Priti was his wife and I was Priti's sister and in the specific mathematics of Indian family terminology, this was: correct. But it always made me feel: old.

I did not call Mohit.

The not-calling was: deliberate. Since Saturday night — since the mandap, the confession, the "I need time" that I had: given and that he had: received with the specific stillness of a man who had offered: everything and been told: wait — we had been: coexisting. Not fighting. Not cold. The specific state between acknowledgement and: resolution, the state where two people lived in the same flat and maintained the bathroom schedule and ate the safe meals and: did not discuss the thing that was: between them.

The thing that was: between us was: love.

I knew this. I had known this before: he said it. Known it the way you know the weather is changing — the barometric shift, the clouds, the specific feeling in the air that meant: something is coming. I had known since the bathroom floor. Since the ORS. Since "I remember everything." Since the twenty-third diya. I had known, and I had: not named it, because naming it meant: dealing with it, and dealing with it meant: risking it, and risking it meant: the possibility of loss.

Loss was: my expertise. I had lost: my health, at fifteen. I had lost: competitive kabaddi, at twenty. I had lost the ability to eat: normally, to attend festivals: freely, to exist in the world without: calculating. Loss was the background radiation of my life, the constant hum that accompanied: everything. And the thought of adding: Mohit to the list of things that could be: lost was: unbearable.

Because if Mohit was mine — truly mine, not the flatmate, not the childhood rival, but: mine — then losing him would be losing: the wall. The structural wall. The wall that the building: needed. And I had spent eleven years learning to build buildings that could stand: alone.

But the mandap. The stars. "I've been in love with you since we were ten." The sentence that lived in my chest now, occupying space that I had: reserved for other things — for coaching plans and food calculations and the daily management of: survival — the sentence that had moved in without: permission, like Mohit himself, with a duffel bag and a grin, and had: refused to leave.

*

Mohit found out from: Kavita Aunty. Who had found out from: me, because I had told Kavita Aunty immediately, because Kavita Aunty was: Kavita Aunty, and telling her was: non-negotiable.

He came to the café at noon. I was behind the counter. He walked in and he: smiled. Not the grin — the grin was: performance, the grin was: armour. The smile was: real. The smile of a person who was: happy for another person, purely, without agenda, without: expectation.

"Head Coach Tanvi Kapoor," he said.

"Don't."

"Head Coach of the Kasauli Sports Academy Kabaddi Programme."

"Stop."

"Should I call you: ma'am? Sir? Coach? Your Honour?"

"You should call me: the person who will make your life miserable if you don't stop."

"You've been making my life miserable since we were: eight. It's my: comfort zone."

He ordered a coffee. Sat at the bar. The same bar where Veer had sat on his first day. But Mohit at the bar was: different. Mohit at the bar was: familiar. The way the espresso machine was familiar. The way the sal wood counter was familiar. The way The Chai Loft itself was familiar — not because he worked there, but because he: belonged there. In the way that certain people belonged in certain spaces, not by: right but by: accumulation. By eighteen years of: showing up.

"I didn't call you," I said.

"I noticed."

"I should have called you."

"You should have called me: first."

"I know."

"Why didn't you?"

The question. The: question. Not the same as the mandap question — that question was about: love. This question was about: trust. About whether I trusted Mohit Bhardwaj enough to share the: biggest moment of my professional life with him: first. Before Maa. Before Priti. Before: anyone.

"Because calling you first means: something," I said.

"It means: I'm first."

"Yes."

"And I'm: not first?"

"You're — Mohit, you said you've loved me since we were ten. And I said I needed: time. And the time hasn't — I haven't decided. And calling you first would have been: deciding. Before I was: ready."

He looked at me. The smile: remained. Not diminished. Not: hurt. The smile of a man who had: waited sixteen years and could: wait more.

"Take your time," he said. "I'll be: here. On the: bottom shelf."

He drank his coffee. Left. The café was: quiet. The retired colonel said: "Twelve across is 'devotion.'"

I wrote it: down.