Chapter 9: Tanvi

Veer Malhotra arrived in Kasauli on a Wednesday, and by Thursday every woman in the town between the ages of eighteen and sixty had: an opinion.

He was the Wildcats' new signing — a raider from Jalandhar, twenty-four, transferred from the Punjab state team after a disagreement with his coach that nobody would specify but everyone: discussed. Six feet. Shoulders like a wardrobe. Jaw like something a sculptor had: finished and then decided to: improve. He had the specific confidence of a man who had been handsome since birth and had never been given: a reason to doubt it.

He walked into The Chai Loft on his second day in town, during my morning shift, and ordered: a turmeric latte.

"You have turmeric lattes?" he said, reading the chalkboard menu that Kavita Aunty updated with the enthusiasm of a woman who believed that: presentation was everything.

"It's Kasauli. We have everything with haldi," I said.

He smiled. The smile was: effective. The kind of smile that operated on a person the way sunlight operated on ice — slow, warm, inevitable. I was: immune. Not because the smile wasn't good — it was very good — but because I had been immunised, over eighteen years, against the specific virus of: male charm. Living with Mohit Bhardwaj had given me: antibodies.

"I'm Veer," he said. "Just joined the Wildcats."

"I know. My sister's husband plays cricket for Himachal. The sports community in this town is: small."

"Then you must be Tanvi. The junior team coach."

"You've done your homework."

"Raju told me. He says you fixed their defence at halftime last Saturday and won them the: match."

I looked at the espresso machine. The espresso machine looked back with the blank indifference of an appliance that did not: gossip. Raju had told Veer. Raju had, presumably, told: everyone. The halftime intervention that was supposed to be: quiet, invisible, the kind of coaching adjustment that happened in the margins and stayed in the: margins, had become: a story.

"Raju talks too much," I said.

"Raju says you see the game differently. He says you called the ankle hold timing from the bench. Half a second. He says nobody's ever told him: that."

"It's basic biomechanics. The hip drop precedes the weight shift. If you wait for the weight shift, you're: late."

Veer leaned forward. The lean was: different from Mohit's lean. Mohit leaned with the casual presumption of a man who had been leaning into my space for eighteen years and considered it: his territory. Veer's lean was: studied. Intentional. The lean of a man who was: interested and wanted you to: know.

"Can you coach me?" he asked. "Individually. My raiding — I know I'm fast, but I'm: predictable. My old coach never fixed it. He just said 'be faster.' That's not: coaching."

"I'm the junior team coach. I don't coach seniors."

"Sharma sir isn't going to fix my raiding. Sharma sir told me to 'play with heart.' That's not a: strategy."

"It's not."

"So: help me?"

The request was: reasonable. A new player asking for coaching from someone who understood the game at a level that the current head coach did: not. A request that, if I accepted, would give me access to a senior player, would let me test my coaching theories on an elite raider, would: build my case for the head coaching position. A request that made: professional sense.

Priti appeared at the counter, materialising from the back room with the timing of a sister who had: radar.

"You should," Priti said, as if she'd been listening to the entire conversation, which she: had. "You should definitely coach him. It would be great for your: portfolio."

"Priti."

"I'm just saying. Professionally: excellent. Also—" She looked at Veer with the appraising expression of a woman who was happily married but not: blind. "Also: just generally excellent."

"Priti."

"I'll set up the sessions," Veer said, either not noticing or deliberately ignoring the sister-commentary. "Mornings? Before the team practice?"

"6 AM," I said. "At the academy. Bring your: court shoes, not the ones you wore to practice yesterday. I watched. Your lateral grip is: wrong."

Veer grinned. The grin said: you watched me practice. You were: paying attention.

I had been paying attention. I paid attention to: everyone on the kabaddi mat. It was my: job. The fact that Veer Malhotra happened to be the person I was paying attention to was: coincidental. Professional. Entirely: professional.

*

Mohit found out about the coaching sessions the way everyone in Kasauli found out about everything: Kavita Aunty told the pharmacist, who told Gupta ji, who told the plumber, who told Mohit when he went to check on the flat repairs.

He was sitting on the verandah when I got home. 7 PM. The Shivalik hills were disappearing into the October dark, the last light catching the ridge line before the: night. He had two cups of chai — one regular, one made with oat milk, separate pot, separate cup, the: protocol.

"You're coaching Veer Malhotra," he said.

"I'm coaching his raiding. Individually. It's: professional development."

"Professional development."

"For my coaching portfolio."

"Right."

The monosyllable contained: worlds. "Right" was not agreement. "Right" was the word a person used when they had: opinions but were choosing not to: share them, which in Mohit's case was approximately as natural as a fish choosing not to: swim.

"Say what you're thinking," I said.

"I'm not thinking anything."

"You're thinking: something. Your jaw is doing the thing."

"What thing?"

"The clenching thing. The thing it does when you're — when you have: opinions."

"I don't clench my jaw."

"You've been clenching your jaw since you were twelve. You clenched it when Mrs. Sharma gave me the science prize over you. You clenched it when I beat you in the colony cricket match. You're clenching it: now."

He unclenched. Deliberately. The deliberateness was: funny. And also: revealing, because Mohit Bhardwaj, who performed backflips in a tiger suit in front of two hundred people without: self-consciousness, was: self-conscious about his jaw.

"Veer Malhotra is: new," he said. "Nobody knows him. He left Punjab under — circumstances. Nobody knows: what circumstances."

"Are you warning me about a: player? Or about a: person?"

"I'm—" He stopped. The stopping was: significant. Mohit did not stop mid-sentence. Mohit's sentences were complete and usually: excessive. The stopping meant the sentence he'd almost said was: dangerous.

"I'm just saying: be careful," he finished. The substitute sentence. The safe: version.

"I'm always careful, Mohit. Careful is my: default setting. Careful is the reason I'm alive."

He flinched. The flinch was: small. Almost invisible. But I saw it because I had been watching Mohit Bhardwaj for eighteen years, and I knew his face the way I knew the kabaddi mat — every line, every angle, every micro-expression that betrayed what his words were: hiding.

The flinch said: I know you're careful. I know careful is how you survive. I'm not worried about your: survival. I'm worried about: something else.

I took the oat milk chai. He took the regular. We sat on the verandah in the October cold and drank in: silence. The silence was: different from last week's silence. Last week's silence was the silence of two people adjusting to: proximity. This silence was the silence of two people who had: something to say and were: not saying it.

The chai tasted like: cardamom and distance.