Title: "Two on Two"
Author: monimala
Fandom: Bollywood - Kuch Kuch Hota Hai
Rating/Classification: PG-13 for a couple of dirty words, Aman/Anjali, angst, romance.
Disclaimer: I do not own Aman or Anjali. Kalpana and Rishap are my own creations, though.
Summary: 1775 words, follows Nothing But Net and The Art of Compromise. Most of the Hindi dialogue is translated at the end. When Anjali is nineteen, she finds the perfect way to get Aman back on her turf.
When Anjali is nineteen, she finds the perfect way to get Aman back on her turf, onto the playing field… and it's just not fair that she has to resort to football terms to describe it.
It's Kalp's idea. Rather excellent, really, and not just because it's an echo of a brilliant idea *she'd* had at very much the same age (they are, after all, related and the Khanna genes are nothing if not consistent). "Shabbash!" she marvels, as they bend together over Nani's computer and carefully compose the message.
"Aab woh zaroor aayega, nahin, Didi?" Kalpana asks, her eyes all round with mischief. She's been watching too many serials with both Nani and Daadi and thinks this whole plan is terribly romantic. If it worked for Mummy-Daddy, surely it will work for them, na? "Aman Uncle ka London se aana hi parega!"
"Pakka," she affirms with an admiring grin as she glances over the e-mail one last time.
It's only after she sends it, and it's too late to undo the damage, that she thinks about how *angry* Aman is going to be when he gets to Delhi. And blaming it all on an eight-year-old is certainly not going to work.
Shabbash, Anju, she thinks, glumly. Shabbash.
**
He drops his bag, fingers going numb, when he sees Mother in Law looking perfectly healthy as she prunes the rose bushes that line the front of the bungalow. She's dressed in white, a straw hat perched atop her head, and she peers up at him, greeting, "Arre, Aman, tu?!" with delight as he continues to stand there like an idiot with his mouth hanging open.
He hopped the first flight out of Heathrow. He didn't even stop to think. He threw some things in a case, grabbed his passport, canceled a week's worth of meetings and hailed a cab straight to the airport. Sidha chale aaya. Still nursing a wicked hangover from last night's typical excursion with Sinjun, too. But shit, man, Mother in Law confined to bed for two months? That's serious.
Except not that serious really.
MIL hugs him, clucking over him like a mother hen, and he obligingly hugs her back with genuine relief, murmuring something about wanting to surprise her for her birthday… and, haan, he knows it is not really her birthday. That's when he sees the flash of someone behind the window grate. It's been three years, but he knows her even in shadow. Rahul has taken to uploading her games onto YouTube and Aman pretends that the 6,000 views of flawless three pointers aren't all his doing.
Anju. Anjali. Every molecule in his body says her name so his tongue can keep wagging about his flight and how he's fine and yes he broke up with Rupa even though she was a nice Bengali cum memsahib.
And then he's being herded inside, bag and all, which is fine because he's not entirely certain that his legs will propel themselves of their own accord. They're still shaking. He's forty, for God's sake, and in prime range for a heart attack.
And he knows just the person who wanted to give him one.
The person who always has.
**
She hides from the inevitable on the makeshift court in the back garden. It's only big enough for two-on-two and practicing her slam-dunks, but she loves it.... even when Nani lets the grass grow too long because she's been away all year at college. The sound of the ball going through the hoop --swoosh-- is comforting, almost drowns out the squeals and shrieks from Rishap and Kalp inside. Kalp who is, by now, spilling every sordid detail of the Bring Aman Uncle Home plot… minus the Aman aur Anju Di ki jodi part, she hopes.
Not that it won't be completely obvious to Aman anyway. She's never had much finesse at hiding things from him. She saves all her style for the game.
It takes fifteen minutes, an endless round of swooshes, but he finally storms out to the court. She doesn't turn. She doesn't have to since she already looked when he walked up the path to the house. She knows he's still fit, still handsome even if his hair is a little thinner, and that she loves him just as much as she ever did.
"Kyu?" he asks, softly, as she sinks the ball one last time. She shoots, she scores. "Why?"
"Kalpana tumhara bahut yaad ki thi. She missed you, na? Is kiliye." Her voice doesn't even waver, or her posture, as she turns and fixes the brightest possible smile on her face.
"Aur tu? Tu mujhe nahin miss karpayi?" Aman is not smiling. His mouth is a grim, thin line, with a dozen tinier lines spider webbing out from it. He has lines around his eyes, too, but that doesn't matter because they're so dark and his eyelashes are long. Even Mom admits they're his best feature-- though not when Papa is listening.
"Me? Miss you? Main kafi busy hu, na? I don't have time to miss you, Aman-ji," she lies, noticing that he hasn't moved any closer than two meters. As if she's going to commit a personal foul the moment he does. Maybe this time he'll run even more far away from her. "But welcome home," she adds, unable to keep a tiny bit of hurt out of her voice.
He closes his eyes, sucks in a quiet breath, and she knows he heard it. He didn't want to, but he did. Just like how he hurt her… he didn't mean to, but he did. "Anju," he whispers, eyes bright with misery when they're open again. "Anju, this is not home."
"Kyu?" She mimics his tone. "Why?"
His jaw clenches and he glances over his shoulder at the bungalow before looking back at her. He stares for a long time. Until she wishes she'd worn something besides her trainers and a jogging suit today. Maybe a dress or a salwar, something more grown up. "You know why," he says, finally. "Tum jaanthi ho."
"Am I that bad?" He asked her that same question once. Only, he wasn't trying not to cry. "Main kya itne buri hu?"
He steps forward, hand reaching out, but not to touch her. Never that. "Anjali, mujhe galat maat samjho…"
"What galat?" she interrupts, dashing the tears from her cheeks with the backs of her hands. "Jaanthe ho ke college main kitne ladka mukjko chatha hain? Maine kitne saarey boyfriends reject karli? But you? Tum mujse kabhi nahin pyar karega, kabhi nahin chahega. Tum meri saath ek desh main bhi nahin ji saktha ho. You. Don't. Want. Me. I understand," she assures him. "Loud and clear."
And no amount of swooshes will drown it out.
**
He knows it's not possible, but she looks more and more like Bari Anjali every day. Wohi chaal, wohi baat, wohi aadat. But her jalva… that is all her own. Even now, when he wants to shake her for her stupid stunt and her mouth is curved with anger and pain --pain he put there-- he can't deny her spark. She is so passionate, so intense… for him. Always for him.
"Sab kuch tumhara liye, SIL," Mother in Law had told him inside, too amused by Kalpana's attempt at making a match to be truly angry at how it had terrified him. "Raat, din, subah, shaam. Anjali tera naam ooski dil ki andhar rakhi hai, Aman. Is main koi sharam, koi bura, nahin hai. Anju ki pyar sachi hai, beta."
Yes, Anju's love is true. It's pure. And he shouldn't have it. He doesn't deserve it. He is too damn old for it.
"Main chalees saal ho, Anjali. I'm 40," he reminds, balling his fists so he doesn't give in to the temptation to wipe the one stray tear she missed, hanging precariously off her still wobbling chin.
"So? Two years ago, you were 38. Aur do saal baad, you'll be 42. Maths ke baat nahin hai, Aman. Dil ki baat hai. But that's okay. Baas. Enjoy your trip home. So sorry for worrying you," she adds, in that fake sugary voice that he would sodding hate except that she learned it from him. She turns away then, going after her basketball and returning to shooting it. He watched her make six in a row before he walked up. Now, her perfect hands tremble and the ball bounces off the rim.
He catches the rebound.
"Anju."
"Ball dedo."
"Nahin."
"Please give me my ball."
"No." He holds onto it, remembering how, once, he'd joked about marrying a basketball if his fiancée didn't stop dragging her feet. "Look at me, Anju."
She doesn't. Stubborn, ziddi Anju. She crosses her arms over her chest, stares at the net. Her hair has slipped loose from the childish horsetail and it hides her face. "Go back to London, Aman-ji. Just go."
He should. But his legs won't quite move. Second time today and he's seriously thinking he needs to go to the doctor. His palms are sweaty and his chest feels tight and his head is throbbing, too, but he's fairly sure that's just from too many pints last night. "Anjali…"
"Jao." This time, it's not her hands that tremble. It's her voice. "Please."
He hasn't seen her in three years. He hasn't touched her in three years. But it still feels like yesterday that she kissed him.
So why, when his legs finally start listening to him, do they move him towards her instead of away? He's fucking mad, that's what he is. For her. Always for her.
Anju. Anjali. Every molecule in his body says her name. So he can let go of her stupid basketball and wrap his arms around her from behind. So he can whisper, "I'm sorry," against her cheek and "shh" away her surprised gasp of his own name. So he can gently kiss away the freshest of her tears. Before he kisses her lips.
He can't deny her spark. That's always been his problem.
**
When Anjali is nineteen, she finds the perfect way to get Aman back on her turf, onto the playing field.
And he finds the perfect way to win.
He whispers, "Main tumse pyar kartha hu. Aaj. Isi waqt. Main tumse chatha hu. Is desh main, London main, mera sapna main." He takes her face in his hands, kisses her one more time. It's hard and fast and amazing and everything it is in the serials Kalp watches with Daadi and Nani. "I. Do. Want. You. Understand?"
He shoots, and he scores.
Then he walks off the court.
--end--
December 30, 2007
Some of the Hindi words and phrases:
Shabbash - Congrats!
Aab woh zaroor aayega, nahin, Didi? Aman Uncle ka London se aana hi parega! - Now he'll definitely come won't he, Big Sister? Aman Uncle will *have* to come from London.
Pakka - Absolutely! or It's sealed!
Mujhe galat maat samjho - Don't get me wrong
Jaanthe ho ke college main kitne ladka mukjko chatha hain? Maine kitne saarey boyfriends reject karli? But you? Tum mujse kabhi nahin pyar karega, kabhi nahin chahega. Tum meri saath ek desh main bhi nahin ji saktha ho. - Do you know how many guys at college want me? How many boyfriends I've rejected? But you, you'll never love me, never want me. You don't even want to live in the same country as me.
Anjali tera naam ooski dil ki andhar rakhi hai, Aman. Is main koi sharam, koi bura, nahin hai. - Anjali has kept your name inside her heart. There is no shame, no evil, in this.
Main tumse pyar kartha hu. Aaj. Isi waqt. Main tumse chatha hu. Is desh main, London main, mera sapna main. - I love you. Today. This very minute. I want you. In this country, in London, in my dreams.