PART 3 #4
As we drive on the Malviya Nagar flyover, the roar of a motorcycle pierces the air.
Then it starts to race us. Tejal notices it from the corner of her eye, so she floors the pedal.
I watch the motorcycle become tiny in the rear-view mirror.
But in a blink, the monstrous motorcycle with its attention-seeking, ear-splitting rumble is outside our window again.
The driver raises his hand and waves at us and all I can think is that he will lose control of his gigantic, whirring machine—some kind of cruiser—and crash straight into us.
As the driver pulls up his visor, our eyes lock in a moment of recognition.
I can pick those eyes out in a crowd of a million.
‘Daksh,’ I mumble.
Maa–Papa turn to look at him.
‘Why does he have to drive these dangerous motorcycles?’ grumbles Maa.
‘His experience with cars hasn’t been any better,’ says Papa.
The air’s suddenly thick with tension. Everyone knows what’s on Papa’s mind. We wonder if he would say it. After a long pause, Papa tells Maa, ‘Your son tried to kill him in one of them.’
Tejal glares at Papa in the rear-view mirror.
‘Uncle, we will not talk about that today,’ she warns Papa in a stern tone that even I don’t use. ‘The doctors have strictly said he shouldn’t be reminded of his past behaviour.’
Papa sinks back into his seat.
‘It was not Gaurav,’ whispers Maa to herself, eyes pooling with tears. ‘It was the drugs.’
Papa looks out of the window towards Daksh. ‘Whatever it was. Daksh could have died.’
Daksh’s eyes meet mine. And I wonder if it is a smile I see in his eyes. He points ahead. Tejal nods as she gets his sign language.
‘He will meet us when we cross the toll.’
With a roar, Daksh revs his motorcycle and vanishes from sight.
4.
Daksh Dey
Some words cling to you like memories, refusing to let go.
For me, it’s Amruta’s description of my BMW R 1250 GS.
She called it an overpriced, thunderous heap of scrap metal, the kind of ride that screams: ‘I’m compensating for something small.
’ I can’t deny the overpriced part. But she googled the price of a new motorcycle.
My third-hand beauty/beast was a bargain.
Despite Amruta’s morbid warnings and talk of death every time I sit on the motorcycle, nothing makes me feel more alive than the pulse of a 1250 cc engine beneath me, the wind whipping past my face as I merge with the road and everything beyond it.
I don’t expect her to understand. She likes her Toyota SUV, which is like driving sitting on a sofa and taking an entire living room with you.
Controlling this finicky motorcycle that breaks down frequently and unexpectedly serves as a constant reminder to take nothing for granted.
My gaze drifts to the tiny welding joint on the handlebar, holding on for dear life these past six months.
It’s a reminder of all the patched-up bits and pieces that make up my own body.
The bike and I have seen things together now. Even that accident, where Gaurav had rammed his SUV into my motorcycle and damaged both the bike and me.
‘I didn’t want to be found,’ he told me in a letter he wrote to me from the rehabilitation clinic. ‘But I’m glad you found me.’
After his career imploded and everyone knew about his addictions, he had fled from all that he knew—his parents, the one he loved, the ones who loved him, the fans who had turned on him—and also from me.
I knew how to be Teflon, so I knew he was too far gone, the decisions he was making were no longer his, but that of his rotting brain.
I knew I needed to find him. After chasing dead ends and worrying for weeks that I would find him frothing and dying in some gutter, I found him in Noida, scoring his next fix from the dealer.
I followed him into an underpass where he parked but he spotted me.
In a bid to run away from me, he swerved his car into me.
My motorcycle and I went flying into the divider—my body slammed against the pavement and shattered.
Then he backed up and drove away without once pausing to see what had become of me.
During my hospital stay, and even later, a chorus of voices, including Rabbani and Amruta, echoed with the same refrain: ‘You were nearly gone.’ But their words left a bitter taste, for they were truly saying, ‘Gaurav almost killed you.’
I couldn’t bear to hear it. So, I shrugged off their concern, insisting that the accident wasn’t as dangerous as it seemed and that half of it was my fault for losing control of the motorcycle. Because I know Gaurav would rather die himself than have anything happen to me.
Gaurav and I had not come face to face since his car collided with me.
I lay in the hospital, while he was taken away to a rehabilitation centre that barred phone usage.
However, letters were permitted. So I picked up a pen and wrote to him.
I didn’t feel anger towards him. Instead, I felt like a failure.
I was supposed to be responsible for him, and yet he had managed to hide his addiction from me for over a year.
I had brushed away all the warning signs.
I knew he had started drinking often—mostly after winning tournaments.
I didn’t stop him because I was getting lazy with him.
My family had expanded. With Amruta in the picture, I didn’t have the mental bandwidth to babysit him.
And then there was the podcast that had gathered steam.
And I left Tejal too much to deal with. I let him slip.
How could I miss the redness of the eyes, the frequent trips he made to smaller conventions, the highs and lows of his performance, the anger, the crashes?
Entirely my fault.
I had been blind to his struggle, too wrapped up in my own life to notice the warning signs. Even when others had started to suspect, I brushed off their concerns as mere jealousy from haters.
But it was all true.
I got to know of his addiction when the rest of the world did—on a live game stream.
He had lines of cocaine hidden only slightly away from view on his gaming set-up in a hotel in Surat.
He didn’t know that if one looked closely, what he was doing was being reflected in the mirror behind him.
The second he bent over, picked up that rolled piece of paper and took a long sniff, it was all over.
The fans turned into a mob.
All the respect he had earned went up in smoke. All his past titles were tainted. The gamers he had beaten over the years all came baying for his blood. He was banned for life from participating in any gaming tournament. Then came the arrest which the YouTubers kept talking about for a month.
‘DOWNFALL OF THE FAMED GAMER!’
‘SHAME OF THE GAMING WORLD!’
‘THE PHOENIX BURNS!’
‘OVERRATED GAMER TAINTS THE INDUSTRY!’
Gaurav’s social media turned into a cesspool of hate.
He spent a weekend in jail, shaking from withdrawal. We had to pay the police and the judge a major chunk of money to get him out. Within twelve hours, he lost all brand collaborations, he was kicked out of all the competitions, his teammates found new teams.
Then he went on a self-destructive run.
He would talk to no one.
I chased him across cities, tracking his credit card usage, but he was elusive. The police refused to help—why would they? This was a grown man making his decisions. I didn’t feel anger as much as I felt betrayed, a failure, and worried about where he would end up. I was—supposedly—his best friend.
Finally, I found him in Noida. If anything came out of me laying splat, my motorcycle lying broken on me, my bones shattered, it’s that Gaurav decided to enrol into a rehab centre.
But fuck it.
Today’s a good day. He’s getting out. The doctors are optimistic. And who knows? He might even want to get back into gaming. People love a redemption story.
At the dhaba, I order for everyone. It would take them another twenty minutes to reach. Aanchal’s the last one to get out of the car.
‘That motorcycle is stupid,’ says Tejal as she hugs me. ‘Don’t bring that in front of Gaurav. Park a little away.’
‘I will run him over with that thing.’
Tejal flinches like she always does. She lacks a sense of humour when it comes to Gaurav. I can’t really blame her. She has been through a lot. I touch Uncle–Aunty’s feet and they lightly hug me.
I turn towards Aanchal. ‘Hey.’
‘Hi Daksh,’ she says in the softest tone I have ever heard her use. Or maybe it’s been too long since I heard her.
‘I need to go to the washroom,’ Aunty says.
‘I will take you,’ Tejal says immediately.
‘We are sitting there,’ I point at the table as Tejal holds Aunty’s hand and leads her to the washroom.
Papa walks over to the table and waves at the man sitting at the counter. Aanchal’s still standing there looking at me.
‘Do you want to wash your hands?’ I ask her to break the awkwardness in the air.
She breaks out of it. ‘You’ve grown older.’
‘So have you,’ I answer her. ‘It’s good to see you haven’t developed an accent.’
‘It’s good to see you have grown stupider,’ she remarks with a quick glance towards the machine, followed by a lingering look in my direction. ‘It looks hot on you.’
5.
Aanchal Madan
Daksh carefully sets his riding gloves down on the basin counter and reaches for the soap dispenser, pumping out a generous amount into his rough, weathered hands.
The years etched into his skin are plain to see: the coarseness, the harsh lines.
Far from the first time I had felt those hands, smooth as a baby’s.
He washes his face. The water turns light brown from all the dirt.
When he turns to look at me, there are deep crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes.
He was just a boy when he met me and I was a little girl, but I feel like I’m still that girl, while he has grown into something more meaningful, something bigger.