Will you stand by me?

Chapter 2 - The rain may be heavy, but my heart is heavier.

Chapter 2 - The rain may be heavy, but my heart is heavier.

It has been more than an hour since Virat had lost the battle with his tears and now, the only thing that truly registered with him, was the thrum of utter desolation running through his heart. He was trying his best but the pessimism kept dragging him in and keeping him prisoner in its manacles.

He was a person who took pleasure in life's little moments but nothing much made sense now.

Rohit had forced another steaming mug of coffee into his hands and Ajinkya had wrapped an eiderdown around him but it was Jaddu who remained his abutment, supporting the arch of his emotions. For the moment that slate remained blank and Virat was snatching at what sensation would come to him.

The barrenness was iron-fisted and caused breathlessness more than the harshest of emotions.

Virat pressed his face against Jaddu's shoulder trying to rub off some of the anguish which seemed to have taken on a life of its own. It was sentinel, making up for a gigantic part of Virat Kohli. His copy double, his arch type and yet somewhat different from him. A whole lot like thunderstorm, the one which dragged on for days.

Virat had dozed off for a moment and for once, even his dreams showed no mercy. As he woke up shaking, his eyes snapped open and his heart pounded against his ribcage. 

"What happened Veere?" Jaddu asked and Virat again felt his hands running through his sweaty hair. "Bad dreams?"

Virat tried to hold in his shudder but failed miserably and he felt his face burn with embarrassment. He was feeling oddly apprehensive, not finding the slightest bit of strength to fight back. In the past couple of hours, he had gone from fiercely seeking solitude to grasping at the sense of belongingness he was receiving from his teammates, his friends.

The dark, opaque canvass of his life was being splattered with the thinest spray of white.

"Virat? Talk to us?"

Jinks. Ajinkya was crouched next to the recliner and Virat did not protest when he reached out to hold unto his hand.

"Cheeku? Are you okay?"

Ajinkya has always been a fairly soft spoken person and yet Virat had never heard him sound as diffident as he did now. Was Virat culpable for this, yet again?

"Okay. I am okay." Virat croaked, his voice brusque and frozen. He cleared his throat. "I am good."

There was a moment of intense silence around the room and Virat could clearly hear the sound of raindrops clattering against the windows. The rain had kept up its unforgiving pace and Virat was reminded of rainy days of childhood, spent indoors, listening to stories narrated by his father and munching on fried delicacies made by his mother.

For a sudden moment, he almost ached to feel the crisp heat of a pakora and the superseding flavour burst, felt his mouth water at the remembered taste of spicy chole being scooped with crispy Bhatures. Virat squeezed his eyes painfully as he could almost hear the deep tenor of his father's voice as he narrated the same but well-loved ghost stories. Stories of old Delhi and its hauntings. Stories of people who fought for India's Independence. Stories of his father's childhood. Stories of their great epics of Ramayana and Mahabharata.

Sometimes his mother would come and sit with them and Virat remembered crawling into her lap. That haven of warmth and safety as electrifying lightning would zip across the sky and the thunderstorms would rattle the bare bones of their old house. Somewhere, a window would always remain open, and with a particularly vicious gust of wind, the shattering of glass pieces would echo around.