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  ‘Charmer!’ she came back. ‘And just so you know, I believe you, Mr Player.’

  Arvind shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘I’ll have you correct that,’ he said.

  Arya crossed her hands across her chest. ‘I won’t hold my breath.’

  2

  IT WAS AFTER 2 A.M. ARVIND was lying on his back and smiling at the ceiling. In less than five hours, he would be on his way to Edgbaston. He could ill-afford to turn up short on sleep or energy for the third Test. After a forgettable first outing, he had recovered well in the second essay at Lord’s, where he helped India level the series.

  Sleep had eluded him since the Wimbledon visit a week ago. It hadn’t affected his performance in the last match, but he was beginning to feel sluggish at the nets the last couple of days. He needed his sleep. His father, Ramakrishnan Iyer, paced his bedroom corridor every time sleep evaded him. The idea was to tire oneself before hitting the sack again. It had worked like magic the one time Arvind had tried it.

  This was different. Arvind was distracted. He needed to wipe out thoughts of Arya, the sweet cadence of her voice, the brush of their hands, the feel of her body… she was eating into his peace.

  After pacing his room for over fifteen minutes, Arvind messaged his paternal uncle, Ravi, who was more of a father figure to him than his own parent. Ramakrishnan Iyer’s mercurial temper and obsessive-compulsive tendencies put everyone around him on the edge. He flew into a rage over the slightest shift of property in the house, newspapers, pillows, pencils. He picked fights with everyone and anyone, including the family dog.

  ‘Are you awake?’ Arvind typed on his phone.

  After a couple of minutes, his uncle Ravi responded, ‘Yes. All ok with you?’

  ‘Yeah. Not getting sleep.’

  There was no response for a while.

  Just when Arvind was getting ready to go back to bed, the green light on his phone flashed.

  ‘What’s playing on your mind?’ his uncle asked.

  Arya Ashok, Arvind mouthed into the night. ‘Nothing,’ he replied.

  The image of a straight-faced Arya, from her match over the weekend, flashed across his mind. She was a striking physical specimen, subtly imposing on court, rarely demonstrative. It was with those hard-to-put-away thoughts of the tennis pro that Arvind finally drifted off to sleep just before 3 a.m., the smile refusing to leave his face.

  Arvind had decided to go to Wimbledon the previous week with the sole intention of meeting Arya. He had told Reena, with whom he had initiated an amicable split a few days earlier, of the team’s plans because he could’ve sworn she had no interest in tennis or Wimbledon. Arvind was so caught up in his own emotions that he had overlooked Reena’s love for the limelight. She was a beauty, a Miss Universe pageant winner, who could never be accused of missing an opportunity to occupy newspaper columns.

  Reena had taken Arvind’s decision to break up well, switching easily to friend mode, even initiating a casual meeting in London. She was in the United Kingdom shooting for a multi-starrer, ‘Pyar in the time of social media’ which didn’t give her much free time. There was also talk that she was signed up for another big-banner production. It was the kind of push her acting career was ripe for.

  ‘I won’t be able to stay long,’ she said when Arvind told her it was fine for her to join the team. ‘The entire cast is going out for dinner and you know I wouldn’t miss that kind of event.’

  ‘Of course,’ he had responded.

  ARYA WAS ARVIND’S FIRST crush. At the corner of Rani Mahal road, where the who’s who of Bengaluru resided, Arvind’s grandfather had constructed a dingy two-storeyed house on a strip site. Arya was the younger daughter of Dr Arun Ashok, Bengaluru’s renowned paediatrician, and Sheela, a homemaker and vocational painter. Their sprawling bungalow enjoyed a vantage position on the street, elevated and with a high-rise compound wall. It was the largest site in the neighbourhood.

  Arvind and Arya had never been introduced. Their budding careers were to blame for that at the time. Arya had to pass up evenings with kids of the neighbourhood because of her tennis, training or tournaments. She rarely went to birthday parties or sleepovers or even to the elite local club, which Arvind visited as a guest of one of the boys who lived on the street.

  Arvind breathed, ate and slept cricket, morning and evening, before and after school. The fiery fast bowler, who tormented batsmen the world over, went to sleep with a bat under his cot as a child. His dream had been to be the best batsman in the world; bowling came later.

  He remembered watching the tall, dusky girl who occasionally strutted up Rani Mahal in the briefest of shorts, which she carried with the grace of a supermodel.

  Sometimes, Arvind saw Arya leave her house in the morning. She climbed into one or the other of her father’s luxury vehicles and was driven away either by her dad or the long-serving family chauffeur, who was a friend of Arvind’s father. He even occasionally watched the goings-on in Arya’s home from his terrace. It was like watching a movie, a scene of domestic bliss. She seemed to have everything he wanted: a lovely home, caring parents, a sibling who was a friend, and all the talent in the world. Watching Arya and falling in love with her happened simultaneously, only Arvind didn’t know it.

  ARVIND MADE NO EFFORT to get in touch with Arya following their Wimbledon meeting. He had taken the first step. He hoped she’d make the next move.

  Three days ago, she had taken to Twitter to congratulate him on his match-winning performance at Lord’s. The press had been quick to pick it up. A television channel gave it a romantic twist. Which wasn’t entirely surprising given the vigorous fashion in which Arvind had cheered for Arya in the presence of his Bollywood girlfriend. The reporter concluded the two-minute capsule saying that Reena was probably in the cricketer’s ‘outbox’ now.

  Arvind was surprised that the private Arya had turned to a public platform to congratulate him. They had exchanged numbers; she could’ve just messaged him? And yet.

  He contemplated whether or not to send her a personal message but eventually decided against it. She was a meticulous competitor and didn’t care much for distractions in the middle of a tournament. Arvind typed a general ‘thank you’ for all the messages he had received, and to Arya he tweeted, ‘keep going @A-A.Arya. Cheering for you, champ. #runningwithu’.

  His tweet had gone viral and Reena called him the following morning. She was unusually chatty and suggested they have dinner whenever he was free.

  ‘I’ll drive down,’ she offered.

  Arvind brushed aside the offer, careful not to upset her. She was getting sticky, surprisingly persistent, but then she was someone he had known a long time. They were together for six months, longer than he had been with any other girl. In a way she was like him, he thought. Reaching, stretching, trying to fill a void, that of meagre beginnings. Wanting to measure up, to fit in. They knew how to play the game, taking their chances and dealing with competition like it needed to be dealt with, quickly, effectively. And boy, did they know competition.

  ‘I’ll see you when we’re back in India,’ Arvind had told her distractedly, his thoughts elsewhere.

  Reena had known at once just who was on Arvind’s mind.

  DESPITE THE PROXIMITY of their growing up days, Arvind didn’t really know Arya, only of her. What he had read about her and watched on television, tracking her matches. She was every bit as striking and graceful in person, but what he learnt on the walk back home that evening was that the tug wasn’t just physical. It was her personality too.

  While ‘Arya’ translated to ‘precious’ or ‘pure’ in Sanskrit, in Buddhist texts it meant ‘spiritual warrior’ or ‘hero’. He saw that both meanings sat well on the tennis ace. Her seemingly distant, untouched aura got him. She was the sort of girl who saw goodness in everything and everyone around her. She was giving, not gullible, and when she reached out she touched your core.

  He had mentioned this to Reena when they were watching television one evening in his hotel room. He was switching channels and had paused at one that was televising her match. He had made the statement casually, without realizing that Reena hadn’t taken kindly to it. Her reaction had been lost on Arvind, who had always idolized Arya.

  In the left drawer of his study table at his penthouse, he had a newspaper cutting of Arya. It was an action shot of the then seventeen-year-old rising star, the year she grabbed international headlines.

  Arvind’s mother had picked it out. The print was grainy. Sharda had cut it out on a whim and had laid it on the table. She had asked her fifteen-year-old son why their neighbour wore such short skirts. ‘She’s a very attractive girl, quiet and nice too. She should play in pants like you do,’ she had said, pointing to his gear. Sharda, who could just about tell bat from ball, added, ‘Maybe it’s what the rich do… you know, dress like that.’

  The photo—a full-length shot of Arya striking a forehand—was from a match in Stanford. Arya had received a wildcard into the women’s draw, where she’d beaten a seeded player. Her A-line fuchsia skirt had ridden up as she executed the stroke. While in his teens, Arvind looked at the print every other day. He devoured it for inspiration—she was a path-breaker, an Indian athlete coming good in the smouldering cauldrons of international sport. Arvind also gazed at it for eye candy. But mostly, it was to remind himself of where he wanted to be.

  Arvind’s childhood was fraught, growing up in a tension-filled house. His father’s temper left scars on the other members of the household. He had a problem that his son was a lefty, which he called ‘inauspicious’. Besides, Arvind wasn’t academically inclined, unlike Tamil Brahmin traditions. Ramakrishnan or ‘Ram’ as he was known among friends, the shortened form of which became his son’s surname, didn’t want his only chil
d to play ‘the bat and ball’ game. He feared that Arvind wasn’t good enough to play at the international level. Where would that leave his boy? No job, no money, and nothing to fall back on.

  He went ballistic each time he spotted his son in mud-stained whites. Arvind used the back door, going to and returning from nets. His mother helped him escape the confines of their house each morning. In the evenings, he jumped the compound wall and squeezed in through a broken kitchen window.

  When Arvind was twelve, his father quit his bank job to start a business that didn’t quite take off. A couple of years later, he tried to go back to his poorly paying but secure job. His old employers, however, were unwilling to take him back. This meant he spent almost all his time in the house, making it impossible for his wife and mother, whom he raged at through the day and most of the night. Arvind then moved to his uncle’s house, not far from where his parents lived.

  When he was in Class VIII, Arvind shifted from a Kannada-medium school to an old Bengaluru institution, courtesy his uncle. He struggled with English, speaking very little of it. He attempted it from time to time, but was so conscious of its broken quality that he quickly slipped back to Kannada or Hindi. It was only after he made the Indian team that he made a determined effort to improve his language skills.

  Arvind got selected for the junior India World Cup team at seventeen. It was a turnaround year for him. His father finally saw that his son could make a living by playing cricket. Arvind returned to his parental home shortly after the World Cup. He broke into the Test team at nineteen, powering the side to victory in his debut series against the West Indies. His rise to fame was as dramatic as his blockbuster entry into international cricket, the ‘hows’ and ‘whys’ quickly replaced by ‘wows’ and ‘hurrahs’.

  Within a couple of years of breaking into the national team, Arvind bought a penthouse in a posh construction, a stone’s throw from his father’s house. His parents moved in with him for a while, but shifted back soon after he renovated their old place. Whenever he was in town, Arvind shuttled between the two houses. His success was a soothing balm on what had once been a simmering domestic situation; his father was easier to live with, with money in his pocket, and his mother, finally, had some peace.

  Arvind made a good decision early in his career when he signed up with the Bengaluru based Roger Thomas, a leading player agent. Thomas ensured Arvind focussed on his cricket, but allowed his young signee a touch of rogue. The kid was a classic, he could tell from the moment he first spotted him. In no time at all, the speedster had top business houses chasing him, from cornflakes to cigarettes and corrupt builders, but Thomas was picky. He went with select rather than plenty, working to create a banner that was intrinsically Arvind.

  Thomas didn’t interfere with Arvind’s personal life. It was going exactly in the direction he wanted it to go. Arvind’s playboy reputation kept pace with his growing status of world beater. Arvind hadn’t consciously kept his romances casual, but that’s how they had played out; the break-ups had been quick and easy.

  The agent had been particularly pleased when Arvind asked to be picked up from Arya Ashok’s rented quarters in the Church Road area, following their Wimbledon meeting. The tennis star was just the kind of long-term match he wished for the boy. She had an air of equanimity that measured well with Arvind’s attitude. They were a likely, yet unlikely match, a striking pair. He was a little unsure of the timing though. In a couple of years it would’ve worked fine; but was ‘now’ a tad early?

  3

  ARYA CRADLED THE MUG in her hands, comforted by the warmth of the beverage. The late afternoon breeze that kissed her flushed cheeks was light, but her heart was heavy. She stared into the distance at the flora and fauna in the backyard of her south-west London home. It felt like her head. Crowded.

  She needed room, she wanted to get away.

  Arya had come up short in her third successive quarter-final at the All England Club. The keenly fought first set, where her court coverage was sharp, saw her come from behind to clinch the tie-break 13–11. The effort, however, had left her breathless.

  Arya had lost half-a-step in the latter part of the second set in which she had taken a 3–1 lead. Her play came apart in the eighth game, after she had broken the top-seeded American Mary James-Jose again to take what appeared to be a winning 4–3 lead. When serving to go ahead 5–3, Arya missed three successive forehands, all of which she needed to cover good ground to make. The running forehand, not the easiest of shots to execute, was her go-to stroke. She could hit it in her sleep, hammer it out of sight. But when low on energy, her timing went off and the result was a lame ball.

  Mary played her like a yoyo, making her run for every shot. She broke at love. Arya won just two of the last eleven games as the top-seed powered into the semi-finals with a 6–7, 6–4, 6–2 win.

  It was her eighth successive loss at this stage of a major, and again to an opponent she had beaten in the previous tournament. This time, ten days ago, en route to the title at Eastbourne.

  Arya’s answer to the oft-asked question of why she didn’t pursue a high-performance physical regimen that would help her take the next step, break into the top five of the women’s ranking, put herself in contention for a Slam, was that she was asthmatic.

  When push came to shove in her training, Arya was out of the door. She was quick around the court, had amazing reflexes and her 100m timing was 11.2 seconds. Her game, built around pace, unusual for a player from a culture that had produced great artists but very few athletes, was all about timing. Speed was Arya’s ally but staying power had always been a little out of reach for her.

  She had unconsciously set the bar low and refused to challenge it. Consequently, when a match stretched, as it was likely to in the latter stages of a major when there was more at stake and not much to choose between players, Arya would cave. She had long stopped playing doubles and only indulged in the odd mixed-doubles campaign so that she would have enough in the tank for singles. But those choices, as big as they appeared, were only cosmetic, given that what she needed was more fuel in the tank.

  She was replaying the match in her head when her phone rang. It was her sister. Pooja must be calling to talk about the match, to dwell on it, to console her, tell her there would be another tournament. Arya didn’t want to discuss it.

  Arya’s forehand had let her down badly, she had missed it on all pivotal points of the match. She put it down to a technicality, she wasn’t getting down low enough or staying through the shot… which was all true only in part. She started erring late in the second set when she started to tire. After a near flawless set-and-a-half, her energy levels dropped and her technique slagged. Arya couldn’t fully embrace fitness. Speed was one thing, stamina quite another. At least, that’s how she saw it, not as something she ‘wouldn’t do’. It was more like and dislike.

  Her phone rang again. This time, she didn’t even glance in that direction.

  Arya heard her mother call out to her from a distance. Sheela hollered again but Arya didn’t answer.

  Her family never pressured her. The focus was on her growth as a player rather than on results, rankings and the trophy cabinet. She was first a daughter, a beloved sister and now a much adored aunt.

  As she sipped her coffee, her mind played and replayed the press conference she had addressed almost two hours ago.

  While the bulk of the Indian media soft-pedalled, playing the ‘fought hard, but just fell short’ tune, a couple of her more prolific countrymen raised the fitness angle, not for the first time. She had tried to distance herself from the line of questioning and give evasive answers, but one senior British journalist got under her skin.

  Q: Was it your asthma? And when exactly did it start bothering you?

  Arya: I was struggling with my breathing from early in the second set, but you know that’s not an excuse. Mary played great towards the end of the second set and continued from there in the third. So full credit to her.