1.
Aaditha
There’s a Boy!
fireworks are live in my head. not the scar-you-softlysparkler variety, but rockets that whoosh and crash against the cranium.
I can’t remember when I dozed off last night, but I woke up early this morning, determined to work off the ire. At least some of it.
The music in my AirPods fades under the air conditioner’s drone. Even at max volume, I can hear my own breathing.
I pause momentarily, something I rarely do when I work out.
Marriage. Royal, seriously?
I open my palm, flex my fingers and hold for a second or two before balling it tightly again. It’s involuntary, a release almost.
I pat my leg once, twice, before getting back into position. One limb pushed back, the other lunged forward, my spine is parallel to my thigh. I slap the floor with my palms and reach with my lower extremity, cutting through the air like a flash of lightning. I am burning – my body and mind in sync.
I have been at my Kalari routine for almost forty minutes. That’s when my right foot makes contact with bones. A jaw. My foot is firm as I attempt a full rotation, but before I land on my feet, I’m picked up and placed on the display riser that is my contribution to the gym.
It’s where I like to hang out after a workout, my feet on different levels, sipping a double-shot bone-dry cappuccino with Raju, my friend and trainer, in that order. (post workout, of course!).
I’m staring at a pair of curious eyes and a forced smile. I’m tasting sweat.
I open my palm before balling it tightly. My nails sink into my palm.Breathe,I tell myself.Repeat.My anxiety is off the charts.
‘I…’
I try to open my mouth, form a sentence, but even I, who can rattle off 250 words a minute when I’m nervous, most of them incoherent, can’t manage more than one.
The last thing I expect is for my foot to find Raju’s jaw.
Kalari is about reaction. The body is conditioned to be sensitive to stimuli. A still draught, a silent shuffle – nothing misses the ninja’s radar.
Raju had taught me to read moves early in this journey. He is a master. Why didn’t he duck?
New strains of panic kick in. I want to laugh. I want to cry. I’m bordering on hysteria.
I make my way down the rack, eyes on Raju, hands folded in apology. His perfectly ripped 6’2” body looks up at my 5’3” frame.
‘Why didn’t you move?’ I ask finally.
‘I stopped the round,’ he says. ‘There was a knock; I thought someone was at the door. You didn’t hear the sound?’
Stopped? What sound? Have I been that out of it?‘Are you hurt?’ I reach for him.
He snorts.
‘What is up with you?’ he asks, gesturing with his right hand. The southern roll in all its glory.
I shake my head, get on my toes and dust his left cheek before settling on the floor next to him.
My classes with Raju are at my home gym, an hour in the mornings, thrice a week – Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays.
Today is Monday. I had sent him a late-night text, pleading my case to move my Tuesday class to this morning. At five minutes to six, I heard his bike and after that, the rattle of iron gates.
One of the walls of this room with an annexe is made of glass bricks. We are facing it. The other three are red stone. Except for an antique case clock, the plastered walls are bare.
