Heal the Heart

20.

"What's up?" I asked once Beck was done with one side of the plyo-box step ups. His form had improved considerably, and he didn't even need the wall support anymore. The notepad Dr Nazmi had given me was almost full now, with notes, reminders, suggestions for future exercises, tips for better form and the occasional sketches when Beck wasn't looking. "You seem tense."

"Hmm. Me? No, I'm good."

Yeah, he was good. Better than good. He didn't comment on how I had raised the plyo-box height by six inches from last time. Or he didn't notice. Neither did he notice the way he didn't flinch or complain about any discomfort in his knee now that he was halfway through the set for his other leg.

I made a note: Introduce dumbbells next time??

I shut the pad and dropped it in a corner. When Beck finished his set, I nudged him in the side and plopped down on the plyo box. "You're quieter than usual," I said and patted the empty space next to me. "My ears are tingling. It's weird."

His expression pinched as he sat down. Our shoulders, hips, knees, all touching. I sucked in a breath and waited for my heart to stop racing.

"It's nothing, really. It's... No, it's stupid."

We sat there in silence, watching the other patients complete their workouts. Rebecca raised a hand at us. Anything wrong? I waved my hand in return. Just a short break.

"I was in Mumbai, when I uhm..." I choked on the words. Framing and re-framing sentences in my head to not make it sound so pitiful. How did one put into words describing how their worst nightmares turned into reality? I wrung my hands, rubbing my fingers, squeezing till a thin layer of sweat formed. "My dad and I had flown to Mumbai a couple of weeks after we had won the U19 world cup. The director of the cricketing board in India had called me. He said he wanted to see me play with the A team. Wanted to watch how I fared when I'm with the big guys."

Beck peered at me with big eyes. "What happened?" His voice was gentle.

"I was so nervous. All my life, I wanted this. To play with my heroes. To play for my country. And it was happening. All I ever wanted, all I ever prayed for, all I ever told my mother to pray for, it was happening."

I swallowed. It felt like a dream, like I was disconnected from reality. Like I was telling someone else's story. "The director was there in the stands with the other panellists. I was on strike. I remember the bowler. He had this weird gallop whenever he bowled, like a horse. I remember putting in all my strength for that one shot. My heart was beating so fast, it made me dizzy. I remember running. Praying for every muscle in my body to focus on being fast. Don't fucking screw this. What I don't remember is crashing. I never made it to the crease."

Beck's hand found mine. He threaded our fingers and our joined hands rested on my thigh. I stared at how his hand was the perfect fit in mine. Almost like my hand was made for his.

I pulled my attention from my memories, one molecule at a time, and focused on Beck's hand in mine. "The next day, my dad and I went to the hospital. The trainer on the ground said it was probably due to exhaustion and dehydration. We'd landed just the previous night. Maybe I didn't get enough sleep or something. But my dad didn't want to take any chances." My free hand, on reflex, went to my chest, rubbing the spot so many others had rubbed before. "Aortic Stenosis. That's what the doctor said. So after the hundred and fifty thousand my dad had spent on just tests, that was the diagnosis. My valve was fucked. In a healthy heart, during contraction, blood flows from the left ventricle to the aorta, delivering oxygenated blood to the rest of the body through arteries. In my heart, the aortic valve instead of having three leaflets has two, because two of the motherfuckers wanted to fuse. Thanks to that, the valve doesn't open all the way, and my heart has to work harder to push blood into the aorta. In simple terms, my career in cricket was done and dusted."