mana ke hum yaar nahi

1st time: at the net practice

March 2024

The Mumbai evening settled like a warm blanket over the Wankhede Stadium's practice nets. Most players had left hours ago, but two figures remained, their silhouettes moving in practiced synchronization under the floodlights. Ishan Kishan watched as Shubman Gill attempted another reverse sweep, the ball missing his bat entirely.

"At this rate, you'll end up looking like a helicopter blade," Ishan called out, unable to suppress his laughter. The sound echoed across the empty ground, familiar and intimate in the growing darkness.

"Some of us don't have your natural talent, meri jaan," Shubman retorted, but his eyes sparkled with something more than just friendly banter. He'd started calling Ishan 'meri jaan' during their first tour together, and somehow the nickname had stuck, becoming something special between them. Shubman always said that Ishan called everyone by that name but nobody ever returned the favor so, he wanted to be the only one who ever did. 

Ishan walked over, his wicketkeeping gloves tucked into his back pocket. "Your stance is all wrong," he said, moving behind Shubman. His hands found their way to Shubman's shoulders, adjusting his position. The touch sent electricity through both of them, though neither would admit it.

"Here," Ishan murmured, his breath warm against Shubman's neck. "You're too tense. Relax your shoulders." His fingers worked the knots in Shubman's muscles, earning a soft sigh that made his heart skip.

Shubman leaned back slightly, into the touch. For a moment, they stayed like that, suspended in time, neither willing to break the spell. The Mumbai traffic hummed in the distance, but in their bubble, everything was still.

"Remember Ahmedabad?" Shubman asked suddenly, his voice soft. "That first partnership?"

Ishan's hands stilled on Shubman's shoulders. Of course, he remembered. How could he forget? It was the day he realized he was in love with his best friend. They'd put on 150 runs together, reading each other's movements like they'd been batting together all their lives. After every boundary, Shubman would jog down the pitch, touch gloves, and give him that smile - the one that made Ishan's world tilt on its axis.

"You were showing off that day," Ishan replied, trying to keep his voice light. "All those cover drives."

"I wanted to impress you," Shubman admitted, then quickly added, "You know, since you're such a good player of spin." He also wanted to add how he wanted to impress Ishan so Shubman would be the only person Ishan talked about, the center of his universe. Like Ishan was his. 

Ishan's heart thundered in his chest. He wanted to turn Shubman around, to look into those eyes that haunted his dreams, to say the words that lived permanently on the tip of his tongue: 

I love you. I've loved you since that first series. Before I even knew what love was.

Instead, he stepped back, breaking contact. "Try again," he said, his voice slightly hoarse. "Keep your head still this time."

Shubman nodded, taking his stance again. But something had shifted in the air between them, charged with unspoken words and lingering touches.

They practiced until the groundsman came to tell them they needed to shut off the lights. As they packed their gear, their movements were synchronized, years of friendship evident in how they anticipated each other's needs. Ishan handed Shubman his water bottle just as he reached for it; Shubman picked up Ishan's bat along with his own, knowing exactly how his friend liked to pack his kit.

"Dinner?" Shubman asked as he did most evenings after practice

"Can't tonight," Ishan replied, though everything in him screamed to say yes. "Have to video call Mom. She's worried about the upcoming selection meeting."

Shubman's face fell slightly, but he covered it quickly. "Tell Aunty not to worry. They'd be idiots not to pick you."

The concern in his voice made Ishan's chest ache. Shubman had always been his biggest supporter, fighting his corner in selection meetings, and talking him up in press conferences. Sometimes, late at night, Ishan would replay those interviews, listening to how Shubman's voice softened when he spoke about him.

"Walk me to my car?" Ishan asked, not ready to say goodbye just yet.They walked in comfortable silence, their shoulders brushing occasionally. The parking lot was nearly empty, their footsteps echoing on the concrete. When they reached Ishan's car, they both hesitated. 

During the walk to the car, Shubman was working up the courage to say something, anything, so Ishan knows what he felt - consequences be damned.

"Kishu," Shubman started, then stopped. In the dim light, his face was a study in shadows and want. "I..."

Ishan's phone buzzed - his mother's call. The moment shattered like glass.

"You should take that," Shubman said quickly. "Tell Aunty I said hi."

Ishan nodded, unlocking his car. "Text me when you get home?"

"Always do."

They shared one last look, heavy with everything they couldn't say. Then Ishan got into his car, watching in the rearview mirror as Shubman's figure grew smaller, his heart growing heavier with each passing second.

That night, as he lay in bed, Ishan's phone lit up with a message:

Great practice today. You make me better.

Ishan stared at the words until they blurred, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He typed and deleted several responses before settling on:

You're already the best, Gilly boy.

In his apartment across Mumbai, Shubman held his phone to his chest, a smile playing on his lips. Neither of them slept much that night, both replaying moments from practice - the touches, the almost-confessions, the way their bodies gravitated toward each other like planets in orbit. Tomorrow, they would do it all again. They would practice, laugh, touch, and want. They would dance around the truth that lived in their hearts, too afraid to speak it into existence. Because sometimes love isn't about saying the words - sometimes it's about holding them close, letting them warm you from the inside, even as they burn.

And if both of them fell asleep thinking of net practice, of gentle hands and soft smiles, well - that was just another secret to add to their collection.

~

"Nahi bol payi, bas nahi bol payi. Mujhe usse jitna pyaar tha, usse kai zyada use apne khwaabon se tha. Takleef hui lekin is baat ki khushi bhi thi ki main apne saath vapas yaadon ka ek bada sa suitcase le ja rahi thi, jinhe main kabhi nahi bhool paungi, vo din, vo raatein, vo hasi, vo masti, vo dosti..Bunny..vo apne khwaabon ki aur itni tezi se daura ke palak jhapakte hi gayab ho gaya. Aath saal beet gaye hai, usne kabhi mudke nahi dekha aur maine intezaar bhi nahi kiya."

—Naina, Yeh Jawani Hai Dewani