mana ke hum yaar nahi

2nd time: the night at the hospital

September 2024

Cricket was a dangerous sport. Every player knew this, accepted it as part of their life. But knowing didn't make it any easier when Shubman watched Ishan collapse during practice, the ball striking his temple with a sickening thud that would haunt Shubman's nightmares for months to come.

Time seemed to move in strange fragments after that. Shubman remembered running, his feet barely touching the ground. He remembered cradling Ishan's head, his fingers coming away red. He remembered the ambulance ride, clutching Ishan's limp hand, whispering prayers in Punjabi that his Biji had taught him.

Now, six hours later, Shubman paced the sterile hospital corridor like a caged tiger. His phone buzzed constantly - teammates, coaches, journalists - but he couldn't bring himself to answer any of them. How could he explain that every breath felt like glass in his lungs until he knew Ishan was okay?

"Gill," Rahul Dravid's voice cut through his spiral. The coach had arrived an hour ago, his presence a steady anchor in the chaos. "Sit down, beta. You'll wear yourself out."

Shubman collapsed into a chair, his head in his hands. "I should have been faster," he muttered. "Should have called out a warning."

"It wasn't your fault," Dravid said gently. "These things happen in cricket."

But not to him, Shubman wanted to scream. Not to my Kishu.

The thought brought him up short. When had he started thinking of Ishan as his? Perhaps it was during their first tour together, when Ishan's laugh became his favorite sound. Or maybe during those endless practice sessions, where every touch lingered a moment too long. Or was it during those late-night conversations in hotel rooms, when Ishan would talk about his dreams, his fears, his hopes, and Shubman would watch his lips move and think about how perfectly they would fit against his own.

"Family of Ishan Kishan?"

Shubman was on his feet before the doctor finished speaking. "I'm his..." he paused, the word 'friend' feeling inadequate, almost insulting for what Ishan meant to him. "I'm here for him."

The doctor nodded. "He's stable. The CT scan shows no internal bleeding, but we'll keep him under observation for the next twenty-four hours. He's asking for someone named Gilly?"

Shubman's heart lurched. Even unconscious, even in pain, Ishan had asked for him. He followed the doctor down the corridor, his legs feeling like lead. Outside Ishan's room, he paused, trying to compose himself. He couldn't break down. Ishan needed him to be strong.

The room was dim, the only sound the steady beeping of monitors. Ishan looked small in the hospital bed, his usually vibrant face pale against the white sheets. A bandage wrapped around his head, and an IV drip snaked from his arm.

"Gilly?" Ishan's voice was barely a whisper, but it was the most beautiful sound Shubman had ever heard.

"I'm here," Shubman crossed the room in three strides, taking Ishan's hand in both of his. "I'm right here, meri jaan."

Ishan's fingers tightened weakly around his. "Did anyone get the number of the truck that hit me?"

A laugh bubbled up through Shubman's tears. Trust Ishan to joke at a time like this. "You scared me," he admitted, his voice cracking. "I thought... God, Kishu, I thought..."

"Hey," Ishan tugged at his hand. "Look at me."

Shubman raised his eyes to meet Ishan's. Even now, slightly unfocused from medication, they were the most captivating eyes he'd ever seen. Brown with flecks of gold, like sunlight through whiskey.

"I'm okay," Ishan said softly. "Still here."

I love you, Shubman thought desperately. I love you so much it terrifies me. I love you in a way that makes everything else seem insignificant. I love you, and today I almost lost you without ever telling you.

But he couldn't say it. Not here, not now, not when Ishan was vulnerable and hurt. Not when saying it might change everything between them.

"Stay?" Ishan asked, his eyelids growing heavy.

"Wild horses couldn't drag me away," Shubman promised, settling into the uncomfortable hospital chair without letting go of Ishan's hand.

Through the night, Shubman kept his vigil. Nurses came and went, checking vitals, adjusting medications. Ishan drifted in and out of consciousness, but each time he woke, his first action was to squeeze Shubman's hand, as if making sure he was still there.

Around dawn, Ishan woke more fully. The first rays of sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting stripes across his face. "You really stayed," he murmured, wonder in his voice.

"Of course I did," Shubman replied. How could he explain that leaving wasn't an option? That the thought of being anywhere else while Ishan was here was physically painful?

"Your neck must be killing you from that chair."

"Worth it."

They looked at each other in the growing light, the air heavy with unspoken words. Shubman's thumb traced patterns on Ishan's palm, each touch a confession he couldn't voice.

"Gilly," Ishan started, his voice different somehow. "I need to tell you something." Say it Ishan! Say it you idiot - you almost died.

Shubman's heart stopped, then started racing. "What is it?"

But before Ishan could continue, the door opened, bringing in a flood of people - doctors, nurses, teammates who had waited all night. The moment shattered, the words left unsaid joining all the others that lived in the space between them.

Later, when Ishan was discharged, they didn't talk about that night. They didn't mention how Shubman had cried, or how Ishan had asked for him first, or how their hands had remained clasped through the darkness. They went back to practice, to their easy friendship, to pretending that their hearts didn't beat in sync.

But sometimes, late at night, Shubman would wake from nightmares of that sickening thud, of blood on his hands, of words left unspoken. On those nights, he would reach for his phone, thumb hovering over Ishan's number, wanting to call, to finally say what lived in his heart.

Instead, he would send a simple text: You awake?

And Ishan, who somehow always was, would reply: For you? Always.

It wasn't a confession, but it was enough. For now, it had to be enough.

~

"Aise Na Jao Piya Aise Na Jao Piya
Judi Hai Rahein Saari Tujhse Meri"

- Ranjhan, Do Patti