Chapter 7: Tanvi

Tuesday. Vikram sir. The Kasauli Sports Academy.

I woke at 5 AM, which was: unnecessary, because the meeting was at 10, and the academy was a fifteen-minute walk from the flat, and I had been ready since: Sunday. The training plans were printed. The match records were tabulated. The coaching philosophy statement — the one Mohit had helped me write at 1 AM on a verandah, the document that contained: me — was in a clear plastic folder, the kind of folder that said "I am a professional who organises documents in: folders."

The stomach was: cooperative. Not good — the stomach was never: good, the way a ceasefire was never: peace — but cooperative. Manageable. A 2 on the scale. The kind of 2 that allowed: function. I had eaten rice and dal for dinner last night, the safest meal in my repertoire, the meal that my body accepted with the grudging tolerance of a customs officer who couldn't find anything: illegal.

I dressed. Navy salwar kameez — the interview outfit, the one that said "I am serious about coaching your kabaddi programme" without saying "I spent forty-five minutes deciding what to wear." Hair pulled back. The pearl studs that Maa had given me for my twenty-first birthday, the pearls she'd bought from a jeweller in Chandigarh on a trip that was supposed to be for my gastroenterologist appointment but that she'd turned into a: celebration, because my mother believed that medical appointments should always be followed by: shopping. "Beta, we've given the doctor money. Now we give the jeweller money. This is: balance."

Mohit was in the kitchen when I came out. 6:15 AM. He was not supposed to be awake until 6:30 — the bathroom schedule dictated it, the schedule that was on the fridge and that I had typed in 14-point font because I believed that domestic agreements should be: legible.

"Why are you awake?"

"Making you breakfast."

He was making: idlis. The rice-and-urad batter that he'd fermented overnight — I hadn't noticed, which meant he'd started it yesterday morning when I was at the café, which meant he had: planned. The idli stand was steaming on the stove, the round moulds filling the kitchen with the specific aroma of fermented batter meeting: steam. Beside the stand, a small pot of coconut chutney — fresh coconut, green chillies, curry leaves, a squeeze of lime. All: safe. Every ingredient on my: green list.

"You made idli batter," I said.

"I called your mum. She gave me the recipe."

"You called my: mother?"

"She was very helpful. She also told me to tell you to wear the navy salwar kameez, which I see you're already wearing, so I'll tell her: mission accomplished."

"You are — you are calling my mother about my: outfit?"

"I'm calling your mother about rice-to-urad ratios. The outfit came up: organically."

I sat at the table. The table that was too small for two people, the table that I'd bought from a furniture shop in Solan when I'd moved in, the table that was: sufficient for one person eating alone and insufficient for two people eating: together. Our knees were close under the table. Not touching. Almost. The: almost was a specific distance, the distance between proximity and: contact, the distance that I was suddenly: aware of.

The idlis were: perfect. Soft, fluffy, the edges slightly crisp from the steaming, the way Maa made them, the way that only someone who had called my mother and listened to her instructions with the attention of a: student would have been able to replicate. The coconut chutney was: sharp. The lime. The green chilli. The curry leaves that Mohit had bought from — where? Kasauli didn't have fresh curry leaves. The nearest source was Solan, twenty minutes down the mountain.

"Where did you get curry leaves?"

"Solan."

"You drove to: Solan? For curry leaves?"

"I drove to Solan for: you. The curry leaves were the: vehicle."

The sentence. The: sentence. I ate the sentence with the idli, chewing it, tasting it, unable to decide if it was: flirtatious or: sincere, and deciding it was: both, and deciding that both was: dangerous.

*

The Kasauli Sports Academy was on the ridge road, past the Monkey Point turn, a cluster of buildings that the Himachal Pradesh government had built in the 1990s and that the mountain weather had been: ageing since. The main training hall was concrete and corrugated roofing, functional, unbeautiful. The kabaddi mat — the standard 13x10 metres, blue with white lines, the mat that I had spent more hours on than any other surface in my life — occupied the centre. Around it, the bleachers that held two hundred spectators for district matches and twelve spectators for practice sessions, the twelve being: parents who were committed and kids who were bored.

Vikram sir was at the mat edge. Tall. Grey-haired. The posture of a man who had been a raider in his youth and whose body still remembered: attacking. He wore a tracksuit — the Indian team blue, the colour that meant: authority, the colour that meant someone in this room had been to nationals.

"Tanvi Kapoor," he said.

"Yes, sir."

"Mohit's father speaks highly of you. Mohit speaks highly of you. I'd like to hear: you speak of yourself."

I presented. Twenty minutes. The training plans — the progressive system I'd designed for the junior team, starting with basic holds and raids, building to team strategy, to match reading, to the mental conditioning that separated a good kabaddi player from a: great one. The match records — the district championship win, the specific matches where my adjustments had turned losses into: wins. And the coaching philosophy. The document. The: real one.

Vikram sir listened. He did not interrupt. He did not nod or frown or give any of the: signals that people gave when they were processing. He was: still. The stillness of a man who had heard a thousand coaching pitches and was listening for the: one that was: different.

When I finished, he said: "The girl. Komal. The one you mentioned in your philosophy. The one who executed her first successful raid. Where is she now?"

"She's on the junior team. She's — she's the best raider I've seen at that age level, sir. Her instinct is: natural. She reads the court the way — she doesn't think about where to move. She: knows."

"Like you did."

"I — yes. Like I did."

"And you can't: play."

"No, sir."

"But you can: teach."

"Yes, sir."

"That's rarer. Playing is talent. Teaching is: talent plus understanding. Most players can't explain what they do. They just: do. You can explain. That document—" He tapped the plastic folder. "That document tells me you understand: why. Not just how. Why. Why kabaddi works. Why a raid succeeds. Why a young girl from Kasauli runs into a circle of defenders and comes out: alive."

"Because she's not: afraid, sir. Because someone taught her that the fear is: information, not a: command. The fear tells you where the defenders are. It doesn't tell you to: stop."

Vikram sir smiled. The first expression he had shown in twenty minutes.

"I'll recommend you for the position," he said. "The board will make the final decision. But they will have: my recommendation."

I walked home on the ridge road, the Shivalik hills spread below like a quilt — green and gold and the specific grey of October cloud cover, the clouds that sat on the hills like caps, the clouds that would become fog by evening and make driving on the Kasauli-Solan road: an act of faith. I called Mohit.

"He said yes."

"I know."

"How do you know?"

"Vikram sir called my father. My father called me. You were still: walking."

"Indian communication networks."

"Faster than Jio. Congratulations, Tanvi."

"It's a recommendation. Not the position yet."

"It's Vikram Rathore's recommendation. That's — that's the position, Tanvi. The board won't override: him."

I stopped walking. The ridge road was empty — just me and the pine trees and the cold air and the specific silence of a Kasauli afternoon, the silence that wasn't silent but was: composed of small sounds, the wind, the distant school bell from the Convent, the: breathing of a woman who had just taken the largest step of her professional life.

"Thank you," I said. For the second time in a week. To: Mohit.

"Stop thanking me. I just made a phone call."

"You made: idlis."

"The idlis were: separate."

"Nothing with you is: separate, Mohit."

Silence. The specific silence of a sentence landing on a person who hadn't expected: it. On the other end of the phone, Mohit Bhardwaj — the mascot, the prankster, the man who had an answer for everything — had: no answer.

"I'll see you at the flat," I said. And hung up. And stood on the ridge road. And: breathed.