My Lover's The Sunlight...

Choo Lo

Shubman remembered feeling what it used to be like to be on the top of the world - those were the very moments he had spent with his "best friend". Laughing at Instagram reels which shipped them together with Arijit Singh's beautiful voice in the background? That was it. He remembered Ishan's call, how he broke down and confessed that he couldn't go on any longer being benched, how the lad blamed himself for the team's loss in most cases. He remembered the promise, "I'll call you tomorrow." But that tomorrow did not come, not in the following week, not the following month, not the five years to come. He remembered flashes of heartache, of pain through his addled mind. 

Denial could only hold his self-destructive tendencies at bay for little more than half a year till the ICT met once more for the IPL and Shubman realised that Ishan wasn't playing. It was in a game of two truths and a lie when the fact was revealed that Ishan would not play cricket ever again. He remembered brainstorming to decipher the reason behind such a decision but came up empty every single time. He had started drinking to forget everything he remembered, even if temporarily, but the hangovers weren't great. His form had declined at an exponential rate until Surya bhai had found him passed out in his hotel room. It was then he had been sent in rehab, before he came out three months later - with the doctor's advice in mind. 

FOCUS ON A HEALTHY COPING METHOD. 

So he did. But his healthiest method was overworking himself till his brain nearly stopped functioning because of anoxia. This method had a lot of downs like the frequent cramps he got. What he did not expect was this being the reason for him not being able to play. That afternoon, before the match with Bangladesh, Vi bhaiya and Ro bhaiya met up with the Indian team to give them a pep talk. Shubman, as usual, had shut it out as background noise till Virat bhai's last statement punched the hell of his brain, "Let's win this match for Ishan, guys." He got this sense of foreboding - Ishan had to be watching this match, somewhere, somehow. His idol wouldn't have said it otherwise. Ishan was an unsung hero, according to him and to see the younger players question his capabilities, ignited the dying embers of an unfathomable fire in Shubman.

"Rahul bhai, apse thodi baat karni hai." "Bol." Rahul abruptly stopped his stretching at the next sentence, "Aaj mujhe open karna hai." "Shubi, aaj ka match bohot important hai." Haan, bhaiya. Yeh shayaad meri zindagi ka sabse important match hai,  kyunki mujhe yeh match Ishu ke liye jitna hai. Virat bhai ne bola na?" The younger's voice broke at the last, but the moment he had taken Ishan's name, KL knew that it was futile to try and stop him. He helped him with the stretches and watched how Shubman beat the balls black and blue. On the other hand, Shubi himself knew only one thing - he was doing it for Ishan. Maybe he was disappointed with how bad a player Shubman was and would surely come back if he did better? Maybe he was delusional, but that speck of a person in the VIP seats looked like his long lost "best friend"? 

He remembered the whispers of an upcoming cramp spreading throughout his abdomen, remembered the cramp setting in when he hit the sixer to complete his century, the stark throbbing in his abdominal muscles that made it difficult to breath when he opened the helmet and tugged on his left earlobe thrice - dedicating his century to someone special, all the while looking at the seemingly familiar speck. He remembered running for a doubles with Virat bhai, despite being unable to breath - Bangladesh had always had poor fielding skills like that. His brain had started shutting down from then on. The sudden all consuming pain after one more over forced him to double over as his vision blurred. Memories went hazy after that. 

The wicket keeper, Litter, Lemon, whatever was by his side in a flash while the medics raced across the field. He remembered flashes of being force fed medicines, glucose and some not so breezy injections. After that he was out like a broken tube-light for who knows how long. He remembered seeing Ishan - those frown lines were still the same, or was it his delirious mind that Ishan looked somehow even more beautiful? Was it a fever-afflicted dream? If so, he never wanted to wake up again. He would sleep forever if it meant he got Ishan by his side. His little dynamite looked so cute when he asked him to stay with him. Dream Ishan even agreed to feed him from his own hands, his own Ishan would probably have slapped him, though in a friendly way. 

The bitter medicines sliding down his esophagus tasted too bad to be a dream, though promise of macaronies had to be one. He had begged to be held by dream Ishan before he fell into a fitful slumber. It had been his most comfortable one despite the nauseous feeling of fever in his whole body. The next morning he woke up to the sun shining brightly on his face. Who had opened the blinds this early!? Then he realised he was in his own room! Who the actual fuck had opened the blinds of HIS ROOM? He was alone on the bed, what did he expect? To see dream Ishan after he woke up? He slapped himself lightly, chastising, "It was just a dream!" But the other side of the bed, the one closer to the door, seemed rumpled. It was still warm - someone had SLEPT there. With his heart in his throat, Shubman looked around the room, neend jaye bhaad mein. Sure enough the nightstand had two phones, instead of one. He didn't even recognise the other one. That was when he heard the clicking of the bathroom's door, just to look up into the eyes of the person he had been praying to God to reunite with for the past five years - the man of his dreams, ISHAN KISHAN!!!!!!!!!

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Nao, dhoro tomader update. Bolechilam eta ektu filler kind er hobe. Kal exam achhe, tai abar kal rate update debo, jodi possible hoi. Noile monday diner bela. My doctor's appointment went well enough, but my marks were not at all up to the mark. 

Pure rambling warning ahead:

Generally, I score the highest in English Literature, but I made so many silly mistakes in there and even in English grammar too....😭😭😭😭

But I was so worried about the composition, like I wrote the world cup one where we had to imagine a world cup, how we got the tickets and went there and enjoyed. So, I literally came out as a transman, cussed at my brother - the line being, "Are you high or something?", made India win the world cup against New Zealand (I wrote about the semi-finals at Wankede, guys) and included a "pride" gallery in there. I didn't know about Shubish or #Ishman-forever at that time, otherwise I would have included them too in the essay and got a fucking 18!!! 18 out of 20!!! and an "Excellent!" to top it off. I was like how the fuck did I get an 18. Never has anyone got above 17 in composition, like it had been the highest mark since ages before I broke it this time. We have two english teachers, and the good student's copies are checked twice. I have already come out to one of them beforehand, and she said that my essay was so good! I could cry at that time. 

Also in the last exam, the Half-Yearly ones, I wrote about my struggle with my family for being a transman and the aforementioned teacher said that if it was not against the school's rules, she would have taken a pic of my essay, same goes for the project I did on the web series 'Class'. And watch it guys, if you haven't. It is available as pirated on dailymotion. Though I still got 17 in that essay. 

Enjoy the update, Adiraj.