What's Good About Falling Read online

  WHAT’S GOOD

  ABOUT FALLING

  a novel

  PRAJWAL HEGDE

  MOTHER…

  Mom & Dad for giving me wings.

  Sanjay for teaching me to fly.

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  Acknowledgements

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Copyright

  1

  IT WAS A GLORIOUS DAY AT Wimbledon—blue skies and a bright sun. Yet it was Arya Ashok’s presence that stirred the crowd.

  That moment—legs crossed, head bent slightly to her left and face luminous—was captured by an alert wire service photographer. The picture made Page One of a British newspaper, as well as every morning edition in India.

  The World No. 8’s match face was a blank canvas. She rarely emoted on court. Which is why the smile that ‘lit a billion hearts’, as one of the captions read, had tickled fans.

  It was attributed to a flawless stroke, one of Arya’s patented forehands, a mix of power and spin. The ball had whistled through the air, ripping open her opponent’s defence. Only Arya knew that it wasn’t so much a reaction to the shot as to what her eyes had caught in the crowd as it followed the ball’s trajectory.

  The stand opposite to where she now stood rooted had two rows of men in blue blazers and grey slacks. It was the Indian cricket team which was touring England. Arya counted quickly, stopping at sixteen. There were probably twenty of them, she gathered. All of them seated upright, shoulders square and applauding her shot. Everyone except Arvind Ram, India’s left-arm fast bowler—the biggest young name in world cricket. He was on his feet, cheering for her.

  Indian cricketers? Watching her play? Really?

  Arya couldn’t wrap her head around the fact that these fancy gents had travelled halfway across town to catch the match she was part of. Moneyed and celebrated, they were the snobs of India’s sporting fraternity. They turned up at Wimbledon year after year, holidaying in London with girlfriends in tow. They sat in the Royal Box and watched the legends of the men’s game, never bothering to cheer compatriots playing on smaller courts.

  This was the first time they had turned up in such numbers at the temple of tennis, in an official, organized capacity. Arya wondered how that had happened. Or rather, why?

  She jogged her mind through the Centre Court schedule and deduced that her countrymen were there to watch her play. In the last match of the day, Henry Wayne, the British World No. 4, was scheduled to play an American qualifier. That certainly wasn’t a match these God-Almighty cricketers would’ve covered such a distance to watch, as big as Wayne was in this part of the world.

  It was the second successive forehand she had mishit after the sighting, the errors coming in a span of sixty seconds. Arya’s game was slipping. The celebrity presence was playing on her mind. She was overrunning, going for too much, struggling to close out the first set of a routine affair. When, during a changeover, her eyes travelled in Arvind’s direction, she noticed that the gorgeous Bollywood star Reena Gupta was sitting next to him. They were rumoured to be dating. The actor had placed a delicate hand on the crook of her beau’s arm.

  She decided to turn her attention back to the game; she must quickly pull herself together. And so she did, to score a 6–4, 6–1 second-round win over a British wildcard entrant, ranked some 200 places below her.

  IT WAS A LITTLE MORE THAN an hour after her match that Arya emerged in the player restaurant. Her hair was still damp from the shower and her face was shorn of make-up. She was looking to join her parents and coaching team, who were seated at the far end of the fairly filled-out enclosure.

  She wasn’t hungry and briefly contemplated picking up a coffee, but was distracted by a formally dressed man, who was chatting with her folks. He had his back to her. As she walked towards their table which overlooked Court No. 2, also known as the graveyard of seeds, realization, in the form of recognition, dawned on her.

  Arya’s breath caught in her throat and her stride quickened. What was Arvind Ram doing there? What was he talking to her father about? She cast a quick glance around the spacious glass-walled facility but she couldn’t spot his mates, which meant he was there alone. Why?

  Arvind, who had debuted in the world’s 100 richest sportsmen list at twenty-four, was as much sought after by business houses as by stars in the beauty business. In the last couple of years, every move of his was reported in the media—from restaurant visits to business investments. He was on billboards and catwalks and had a watch named after him.

  Arya may have been India’s ‘darling’ or ‘sweetheart’, as the media never failed to remind her, but in a country where cricket was religion, Arvind was God.

  Arya, however, didn’t place too much importance on the adulation. She appreciated it, but it was what it was and she was aware that it could all turn quickly. She wasn’t some long-lost daughter or a stuffed toy; she was a pioneering athlete, a role model who was in charge of the rollercoaster that was her career.

  Moreover, she realized that it was pointless to weigh their achievements against each other. Apples and oranges. He played a team sport and she pursued an individual discipline. Arvind may have established an order for fast bowling in the country, but she had broken a door for Indians in a global game, competing at an elite level. She would always be the first, the champion of that impossible dream. And yet, Arvind’s bowling in the death, in limited-over affairs, had captured the imagination like no athletic feature ever had. Chants of ‘Arrrrvvvviiiinnnndddd’, as he raced in to bowl in the business end of matches, echoed through the grounds like a prayer. He kept it straight. He knew how to sting. Arvind wasn’t a spinner in the great Indian tradition, nor a magician with the ball who out-thought rival batsmen. Even though he often did that, it was lost in the hustle of his pace. He simply ran with the wind and blew out the opposition, or so it seemed.

  Arya greeted her parents in her customary post-match fashion with a hug before turning to Arvind.

  ‘Arya,’ she said, stretching out her hand.

  ‘Arvind,’ he replied, shifting easily on his feet. ‘I finally get to meet the remarkable Arya Ashok,’ he said, trapping her hand between his palms. He was a good head taller than her and his shoulders were barrel wide.

  Arya’s smile reached her eyes.

  A little after they settled in at the table, her support team excused themselves, after fixing practice for noon the following day. ‘Get a good night’s sleep,’ her coach told her as he made his way out.

  Her father, Dr Ashok, a practising paediatrician and a sports junkie, was busy grilling Arvind on the fortunes of the Indian cricket team. Arya chatted with her mother, Sheela, about the match and the grim weather predictions of the next few days before deciding to get herself that coffee.

  ‘Why don’t you eat something?’ asked Sheela.

  ‘Not hungry,’ she said.

  Arvind was on his feet grinning when she returned to the table with her takeaway cup. ‘Can I get you something?’ he asked, thinking how tiny she looked in her fitted gear. How, for a tall girl, she was surprisingly slight.

  Arya laughed and turned right around, joining him on the trek back to the coffee counter.

  ‘Manners,’ he mocked, dipping his head, looking straight at her. His eyes were warm.
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  Arya felt a little flutter in her stomach. ‘I was distracted,’ she blurted out before she could stop herself.

  ‘That happens a lot around me!’

  ‘Modest, I see,’ she said, quickly summoning her match face.

  ‘Guilty as charged.’

  ‘Are you here alone?’ she asked, suggesting she had no idea he or his team were at the All England Club. They were a part of the crowd, just like fifteen thousand others in the stands. Why should she know?

  ‘The whole Indian team is here. They’re watching Wayne now,’ he said of the World No. 4 in action on Centre Court.

  ‘Oh nice!’ she remarked, turning her attention on her friend’s game. Henry desperately needed some wins. ‘I wanted to watch too… at least for a bit.’

  Arvind’s nod was perfunctory. Arya and Wayne had been photographed together on numerous occasions—at restaurants, movie premieres, watching other sports. The pictures were sterile, leaving little room for gossip, though every now and then there was talk of a budding romance between the World No.4 and the Indian superstar.

  ‘I have zero interest in that match,’ Arvind said flatly.

  If she didn’t know better, Arya would have thought he was jealous. But he was Arvind Ram and he had a girlfriend. Or several. She took a deep breath, drawing on her experiences of twenty-six years on the planet to wear a bland expression or what she thought was a look that gave nothing away. The man, she reminded herself, was a player. He’d probably known more women than he had taken wickets and God knows he had taken a few.

  ‘How come all of you decided to come to Wimbledon on a day the top men weren’t on schedule?’ she asked, inhaling the fresh smell of his fragrance.

  ‘I wanted to watch you. I told some of the boys that and before I knew it, it was a team outing.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Arya said slowly. ‘Nice of you guys to come.’

  ‘Pleasure.’

  Arvind was poised, his English sufficiently polished, while his accent was improving every day. Learning the ropes of such gallantry had, in fact, been quick for him, as he moved from being an underprivileged kid to the smooth man about town.

  Almost as soon as they returned to the table, Arya’s parents excused themselves. They were heading back to their home for the fortnight, a five-minute drive from the club.

  ‘Please take my kit, Papa,’ Arya told her father, ‘I’ll walk back when I’m done. I still have to do Press.’

  Sheela fussed about the walk, telling her daughter to eat something if she wanted to walk.

  ‘Amma!’

  ‘I’ll walk you back,’ Arvind offered, before turning to her parents who gave in reluctantly.

  Arya was gone for the next half hour. She completed her media engagements, telephoned her coach and helped one of the players organize passes for extended family. Half an hour later she found Arvind, immersed in his phone, at the very table she had left him.

  Where was the girlfriend, she wondered as she walked over. Not that it concerned her. He was obviously dating Reena and it wasn’t like Arya was crushing on him. He was hot, handsome and doing great, but… his reputation filled gossip glossies and she had steered clear of his kind all her life.

  ‘You didn’t go back to the courts?’ she asked, looking around her.

  The women’s tour’s newest entrant in the glamour game, Serbia’s Rose Krakovic, was flaunting her supermodel body at the opposite table.

  Arvind looked up and smiled, momentarily distracted by what he saw.

  ‘Enjoying the view, eh?’ Arya asked, whistling softly.

  ‘I couldn’t go back to the courts,’ he said, blaming it on the strictures of the facility. ‘I was watching a recording of yours, the few points I managed to capture on my phone,’ he said, looking up at her and smiling.

  Arya leaned over and watched along with him. Her pulse quickened. Why would he shoot a video of her playing when all he had to do was tap social media for it? The word ‘player’ was turning over and over in her mind, like a broken record.

  ‘I can lead you to Centre Court,’ she offered. ‘You can join the rest of them.’

  ‘No,’ he said, noticing she had pulled on a thick jacket, ‘I’m good in the company I am in.’

  What about the girlfriend, Arya thought. ‘Did you come alone,’ she asked, ‘just you and the boys?’

  ‘A friend of mine, Reena,’ Arvind said smoothly, ‘had also joined us.’

  Arya decided she wasn’t going to ask, Reena who? She wasn’t interested in his ‘friend’. And hello! Friend? Instead, she said, ‘Why don’t you ask her to join us?’

  ‘Reena left early. She had a dinner engagement.’

  Arya nodded, careful not to look in his direction.

  ‘I’m free. I’ll walk you back.’

  Arya was uncomfortable but her heart was singing. There was a girlfriend, even if he was pretending otherwise, but God, he was beautiful. Surely there was no harm in just looking, enjoying the moment. Fortunately for Arya, her face reflected none of the chaos Arvind inflicted on her senses. She told herself he was walking her back only because he was ‘free’, and she was allowing him to do so only because… well, it didn’t matter why.

  It was almost eight in the evening by the time they left the All England Club, avoiding autograph-hunting fans by exiting the gates in an official vehicle which they got out of once they’d made their way past the prying media.

  ‘How will you go back to your hotel?’

  ‘There’s a car waiting for me at your house,’ Arvind explained, adding, ‘My agent tracked down your address.’

  ‘Agent? Who are the people who know you’re with me?’

  ‘My agent and your parents.’

  Arya smiled. She liked the way he had levelled scores, his agent and her parents … but, she thought to herself, what about Reena? Didn’t she need to know?

  ‘You don’t want to be seen with me?’ Arvind asked, studying the lines on her forehead.

  Arya whistled. ‘Too risky.’

  They laughed together, Arvind at himself and Arya going along with the mood.

  For Arvind, who had long harboured a crush on the dusky beauty walking in step with him, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. But when their hands brushed and Arya pulled away, Arvind understood. Reena Gupta. He was pretty sure now that she had noticed Reena in the stands, by his side. He wanted her to ask the question, ‘Is Reena Gupta your girlfriend?’

  They walked slowly, pausing now and then, talking softly. It was an uphill walk through a tree-lined avenue.

  Arya was a big-city girl who lived life in the fast lane. That’s how she played her tennis too. She was quick and wasted no time once the umpire called play. She always had to be active, on her toes; that was her nature. But for two weeks each year, she took her foot off the pedal. She loved this suburb with its old-world air and new energy. She cherished these walks, the wind blowing through her hair, caressing her cheeks. She spent most evenings sipping tea in the garden of her rented quarters.

  ‘Free tomorrow night?’ Arvind asked, upping the ante.

  Arya took a deep breath. It was like a short ball on her forehand side, begging to be put away, but she didn’t know what to do with it. She hadn’t seen it coming and wasn’t sure which way to go.

  Was it a mishit?’

  ‘I’m still in the draw, you know,’ she said finally, laughing.

  ‘Hey! I’m playing matches too. India’s touring England.’

  ‘Now, that’s news!’

  ‘I figured I’d drop that in. And while we’re at it, let me remind you that I’m in the business of taking wickets.’

  ‘Nice! What’s the count?’

  Arvind laughed. His playboy reputation! Just this once he wished that it hadn’t been the case. ‘So, tomorrow?’

  ‘Somehow,’ she said, arching her eyebrows, her pulse racing, but determined to ignore the question, ‘it’s not the same—eleven grown men doing one measly job. Tch…’

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; ‘My math isn’t good, but I’d say a cricket ground could hold eleven tennis courts, maybe even a dozen.’

  They were both laughing. ‘Some of you fellows are so out of shape,’ Arya said, toying with a bloom. She had leaned over a red-brick compound. Arvind whipped out his cellphone and caught the moment on camera.

  ‘I can only speak for myself,’ he said easily. ‘Most girls say I’m pretty fit.’

  He laughed. She didn’t.

  ‘That would be Reena Gupta,’ Arya said slowly, then ticked herself off for slipping in this mental tug-of-war, bringing his girlfriend into the conversation.

  Arvind had floated the ball up all evening, teasing and testing, forcing her to ask the question. ‘We’re over,’ Arvind said, his eyes holding hers.

  It didn’t look like that from where I was, Arya thought.

  ‘Honest,’ Arvind said, reading her mind.

  Arya looked away.

  ‘What about you?’ he asked, standing too close for comfort. ‘Is there a man in your life?’

  Arya smiled and when the words came out they were cool and clear. ‘That’s for you to find out.’

  Arvind nodded, he didn’t expect any less from this unforgiving stroke-maker. The gaps had been quickly covered and the defence was tight and tidy.

  ‘Race you to the top,’ she said suddenly, running up the hill, her long black hair blowing in the wind.

  Arvind was hot on her chase, up the hill and down again. As they neared her house, he grabbed her at the waist and Arya fell back into his arms, laughing.

  ‘I beat you,’ she said.

  ‘Take it,’ he said. ‘The win is yours, if it wins me a date.’

  His chin was on her shoulder and her head was buried in his chest.

  Slowly, Arya pushed him away. This is ridiculous, she told herself. She had barely met the man! ‘Not smart!’

  ‘Who, me?’ he asked, stroking her cheek.

  Arya was trying not to smile. ‘No,’ she said slowly, breathlessly, ‘I wouldn’t accuse you of that!’

  Arvind was looking into her eyes, smiling.

  ‘Too soon,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve waited a long time, Arya,’ he said, holding her gaze. Then, slowly, he released his hold on her and hummed Smokie’s ‘for twenty-four years I’ve been living next door to…’ replacing Alice with Arya.