Chapter 9: The Student Becomes the Teacher
The lamp had dimmed to a faint orange whisper, the bulb tired from hours of service. Somewhere in the apartment, the refrigerator hummed its low, constant note—the only sound besides their breathing, which had synchronized without either of them noticing.
Varun lay beside her, his arm draped across her stomach, his face buried in the crook of her neck. His breath was warm and uneven against her skin. She could feel his heartbeat through his chest, still racing, slowing by degrees like a train pulling into a station.
She ran her fingers through his hair. It was softer than she'd expected—thick and dark and slightly damp at the temples from exertion.
"You're thinking," she said.
"I'm always thinking."
"What about?"
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "Your ceiling has a crack in it. Right there, above the fan. Looks like a river delta."
She tilted her head to look. He was right. The crack had been there for years, spidering out from the center of the ceiling like a map of someplace she'd never been. She'd stared at it during sleepless nights before matches, after losses, after the kind of days that made her question every choice she'd ever made.
"I never noticed," she lied.
"You should get it fixed."
"Maybe."
He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to look at her. His eyes were still dark with something she couldn't name—not quite desire anymore, but related to it. A cousin. A distant relative.
"You're beautiful," he said.
The words landed awkwardly, like a gift wrapped by someone who'd never wrapped a gift before. She could see the instant regret on his face, the way his jaw tightened as if he wanted to take it back.
"Sorry," he muttered. "That was—"
"Nice."
"Stupid."
"I didn't say stupid."
"You didn't have to."
She laughed. It bubbled up from somewhere unexpected, surprising them both. His face relaxed into something close to a smile.
"You're weird," she said.
"I know."
"I like it."
He looked at her like she'd just handed him something precious. Something he didn't know how to hold.
She reached up and touched his face, tracing the line of his cheekbone with her thumb. He closed his eyes. His stubble was rough against her palm, a reminder that he was real, that this was real, that she hadn't imagined the whole thing.
"I meant it," she said. "You're weird. And you're nervous. And you laugh at the wrong moments. And you make terrible chai."
"You're not exactly selling me on myself here."
"I'm not done."
He opened his eyes.
"You're also kind," she said. "And you listen. Like, actually listen. Not the way most people do, where they're just waiting for their turn to talk. You hear things. You remember things."
"Like what?"
"Like the samosa thing. You remembered I said I liked samosas."
"That was in an interview from two years ago."
"Exactly."
He was quiet. She watched him process that, watched the understanding settle into his features like water finding its level.
"I remember everything," he said finally. "About you. I've read every interview, watched every match. I know your batting average against left-arm spinners is lower than against right-arm. I know you prefer chai over coffee but you drink coffee before matches because it's what you've always done. I know your favorite shot is the cover drive but your most effective is the pull. I know you hate the phrase 'female cricketer' because it implies the default is male."
"Now who's not selling themselves?"
He laughed, a real laugh, and the sound of it filled the room. She liked it. She wanted to hear it again.
"That's not—" He shook his head. "That's not what I meant. I'm not trying to impress you with trivia. I'm just saying—I've been paying attention. For a long time."
"I know."
"You know?"
"I figured it out. When you showed up at my door with that printout." She smiled. "Normal fans don't do that. Normal fans send DMs or show up at events. They don't track down your address and stand outside your door for—how long were you standing there?"
"Twenty minutes."
"Twenty minutes."
"I was debating whether to knock."
"For twenty minutes?"
"It's a big decision."
She laughed again, and this time he joined her, their laughter mingling in the dim room like something alive. When it faded, they were left with the silence—not awkward, not heavy, just present. Comfortable.
She reached for the drawer.
The nightstand was old, a wooden thing she'd picked up from a flea market in Bandra years ago. The drawer stuck sometimes, swollen with humidity. She had to wiggle it to get it open.
Inside: a box of tissues, a half-empty bottle of lotion, a book she'd been meaning to read for six months, and a strip of condoms she'd bought on a whim months ago and never used.
She pulled one out and held it up.
Varun's eyes widened. She watched the panic flicker across his face—quick and bright like a match striking—before he swallowed it down.
"You don't have to," she said. "If you're not ready."
"I'm ready."
"You don't look ready."
"I'm ready," he repeated. "I'm just—" He gestured vaguely at himself, at the situation, at the entire impossible evening. "This is a lot."
"It is."
"I never thought—" He stopped. Started again. "I never thought I'd be here. With you. Like this. It's like something I would have dreamed about, except I wouldn't have dreamed it because it would have felt too unrealistic."
"You dreamed about me?"
"Everyone dreams about you."
"That's not an answer."
He looked at her. Really looked. And something in his expression shifted—the nervousness fading, replaced by something steadier. Something that looked almost like courage.
"Yes," he said. "I dreamed about you."
"What did you dream?"
"That's—" He shook his head. "I can't tell you that."
"Why not?"
"Because it's embarrassing."
"More embarrassing than burnt chai and ruined samosas?"
"Different kind of embarrassing."
She propped herself up on her elbow, mirroring his position, so they were face to face. The condom wrapper was still in her hand, crinkling slightly as she moved.
"I'll tell you a secret," she said.
"What?"
"I dreamed about you too."
His eyebrows shot up. "You didn't know I existed until today."
"Exactly." She tapped his chest with her free hand. "That's the secret. I didn't know you, but I dreamed about someone like you. Someone who wasn't—" She searched for the word. "Someone who wasn't part of all this. The cricket stuff. The fame. The noise. Someone who would look at me and see a person, not a brand."
"And I'm that person?"
"You showed up at my door with a printout and a pocket full of glass."
"Marble."
"Whatever. The point is—you're not here because of what I am. You're here because of who I am. That's different."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached out and took the condom from her hand.
"I don't know how to do this," he said. "I mean—I know the mechanics. I've seen—I mean, I know. But I don't know how to do it well. I don't know how to make it good for you."
"It's not a performance."
"It feels like one."
"Then let's change the framing." She sat up, pulling him with her. "It's not a test. It's not an exam. It's just—two people. Figuring things out. Together."
"That sounds nice."
"It does."
He looked at the condom in his hand, then back at her. "Can we—I mean, is it okay if we just—"
"Whatever you want."
"I want to kiss you first."
"Okay."
He kissed her. Soft at first, tentative—a question. She answered it with her lips, with her tongue, with the way she leaned into him and let herself be held. The condom wrapper crinkled between them, a reminder of what was coming, but neither of them rushed.
When he pulled back, his breathing had changed. Deeper. Slower. His eyes were half-closed.
"I think," he said, "I'm ready now."
She smiled. "Then we're ready."
---
What followed wasn't perfect.
It was fumbling and awkward and human. The condom took four tries to put on—his hands were shaking too much, and she had to help, and they both laughed until tears streamed down their faces. When he finally slid into her, it was too slow, then too fast, then too slow again, an arrhythmic uncertainty that made her want to guide him but also made her want to let him find his own way.
She guided him anyway.
"Slower," she whispered, her hands on his hips. "There. Right there."
He found a rhythm. It was tentative at first—a question asked in the language of movement. She answered with her body, arching up to meet him, her breath catching in her throat.
"Good," she breathed. "That's good."
He was trembling. She could feel it in his arms, in his shoulders, in the way his breath hitched every time she clenched around him. His eyes were closed, his face buried in her neck, his mouth open against her skin.
"Look at me," she said.
He opened his eyes.
The eye contact was—a lot. More intimate than the physical act itself. She watched him watch her, watched the wonder flicker across his features, watched the way his rhythm stuttered when she bit her lip.
"You're doing good," she said.
"I'm trying."
"I know."
He kissed her. Desperate now, hungry, past the point of politeness. She kissed him back, her nails raking down his back, and felt him shudder.
"Don't stop," she said.
"I won't."
He didn't.
---
Afterward, they lay tangled in the sheets, breathing hard, not speaking. The lamp had grown even dimmer, the bulb flickering now—a warning, a countdown. Somewhere in the apartment, her phone buzzed with a notification she'd check later. Or never.
"That was—" Varun started.
"Don't say perfect."
"I wasn't going to."
"What were you going to say?"
He was quiet. She felt him turn his head on the pillow, felt his gaze on her face.
"I was going to say thank you."
"For what?"
"For this. For tonight. For—" He gestured vaguely. "For letting me in. For not laughing at me. For not making me feel like an idiot."
"You're not an idiot."
"I know. I know that. But you could have made me feel like one. You could have made me feel like this was some joke, or some charity case, or—"
"Varun."
He stopped.
She turned on her side to face him. The sheets whispered between them, silk sliding against skin. His face was half-shadowed, half-gold, and she could see the vulnerability in his eyes—raw and open and terrifying.
"I invited you here," she said, "because I wanted you here. Not because of charity. Not because of a joke. Because I was bored and lonely and you made me feel something. Something real. Something that wasn't part of the act."
"The act?"
"The performance. The smile for the cameras. The 'yes, I'm so excited about the next match' and the 'no, I don't let the pressure get to me' and all the other bullshit I say because it's what people want to hear."
He was quiet. She watched him process it, watched the understanding dawn.
"I thought you loved cricket," he said.
"I do."
"But?"
"But sometimes I don't love what cricket has made me into." She looked at the ceiling, at the crack that looked like a river delta. "Sometimes I miss being a person. Just a person. Not a role model or a brand or a symbol. Just—someone who burns chai and laughs at bad jokes and has sex with a guy she just met."
"Was it bad sex?"
She laughed. "No. No, it wasn't bad sex."
"Good."
"It was awkward sex. Which is different."
"Different how?"
"Different in that it was real." She turned back to him. "The other stuff—the performances, the appearances—that's all fake. But this. Tonight. The burnt chai and the marble in your pocket and the four tries to put on a condom. That's real. That's the most real thing I've felt in years."
He reached out and touched her face. His fingers were gentle against her cheek, grazing the corner of her eye.
"I'm glad it was you," he said. "I mean—I'm glad my first time was with you."
"Even though I'm a cricketer?"
"Because you're a cricketer. Because you're everything I've watched and admired and—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Because you're Smriti. Not just Smriti Mandhana, the cricketer. Smriti. The person. The one who burns chai and has cracks in her ceiling and laughs at bad jokes."
"So I'm wrong. You're not weird. You're perfect. Perfectly weird."
"That doesn't make sense."
"Neither does anything else tonight." She leaned in and kissed him—soft, lazy, unhurried. When she pulled back, his eyes were still closed.
"I have a question," she said.
"Mm."
"What happens now?"
He opened his eyes. "What do you mean?"
"I mean—tomorrow. Next week. Next month. What happens?"
He thought about it. She watched him think, watched the gears turn behind his eyes. He was, she realized, taking the question seriously. He was considering her, considering the implications, considering all the possible answers and which one would be true.
"I don't know," he said finally. "What do you want to happen?"
"I want—" She paused. Considered. "I want to see you again."
"Even though I made terrible chai?"
"Even though."
"Even though I can't cook samosas?"
"Even though."
"Even though I'm a fanboy who showed up at your door with a stupid printout?"
"Because you showed up at my door with a stupid printout."
He smiled. It was a real smile, unguarded, the kind that reached his eyes and made him look younger.
"Okay," he said. "Then I want to see you again too."
"Good."
"Good."
The lamp flickered once, twice, and then went dark. They lay in the darkness, breathing, not sleeping, not quite awake.
"Varun."
"Mm."
"Your samosas next time. We'll make them together."
"Together?"
"Together. I'll teach you. I'm not a bad cook, actually. Just—distracted."
"That sounds good."
"It does."
She reached for him in the dark, found his hand, and held it. His fingers were warm and rough and real. The crack in her ceiling was invisible now, but she knew it was there. A map of someplace she'd never been.
Soon, she thought. Maybe she'd go there.
Maybe they'd go there together.
His hand tightened around hers. Outside, the city shimmered on, indifferent and eternal. The trophies caught the moonlight, silver and cold. And somewhere in the apartment, her phone buzzed again—one more notification, one more demand, one more piece of the life she'd built.
She let it buzz.
For now, this was enough.
For now, this was enough.
The words hung in the dark like smoke, dissipating slowly, leaving only the weight of them behind. Smriti felt Varun's hand in hers—warm, calloused, still trembling slightly. She traced her thumb across his knuckles, felt the ridges of his fingers.
"You're still shaking," she said.
"Adrenaline."
"From what?"
"Everything." He laughed, low and breathless. "You. This. The fact that I'm lying in Smriti Mandhana's bed and she's holding my hand."
"The fact that I burned chai and you still stayed."
"The fact that I ruined samosas and you still let me in."
She turned her head on the pillow. His profile was barely visible in the darkness—just the outline of his nose, the curve of his jaw, the slight bump where he'd broken it as a kid. He'd told her about that earlier, in the kitchen, while the kettle was screaming. A bicycle accident. His brother's fault. He'd been eight.
"I want to know more," she said.
"More about what?"
"Everything. Your brother. Your childhood. Why you became an engineer. Why you never—" She paused. "Why you never dated anyone before."
He was quiet. She felt him tense beside her, felt the slight withdrawal in his hand.
"That's a lot of questions."
"You don't have to answer."
"I want to." He shifted, turning to face her. "I just—I don't know where to start."
"The truth usually works."
"The truth." He exhaled. "The truth is I was scared. Always scared. Of rejection, of embarrassment, of being bad at something. It was easier to just—not try."
"That sounds lonely."
"It was." He paused. "It is."
She squeezed his hand. The gesture felt inadequate, but it was what she had.
"When I was a kid," she said, "I was terrified of failure. Of not being good enough. Of disappointing everyone. So I worked. I practiced. I became the best. And then I kept going because stopping meant facing all the things I'd sacrificed."
"Like what?"
"Friends. Relationships. A normal life." She looked at the ceiling, at the invisible crack. "I missed my cousin's wedding last year because of a match. She still hasn't forgiven me."
"Did you win?"
"Does it matter?"
"To her, probably not. To you—" He turned his head. "To you, it probably does."
"It does. That's the problem." She pulled her hand away, tucking it under her cheek. "I won. Scored fifty-eight. Player of the match. And I felt nothing. Just—empty. Because the person I wanted to celebrate with wasn't there."
"Who did you want to celebrate with?"
"I don't know. Someone who cared about me, not the score. Someone who would have looked at me and said 'great job' and meant it."
Varun was quiet. Then: "I would have said that."
"I know."
"I would have meant it."
"I know."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy. It was the kind of silence that settles like dust after a storm—the air still, the world waiting, everything holding its breath.
"Smriti."
"Mm."
"I want to do that. Be that person. The one who cares about you, not the score."
She closed her eyes. The words pressed against something soft inside her chest, something she'd walled off years ago.
"Varun?"
"Yeah."
"Remember when you said you dreamed about me?"
"I remember."
"What did you dream?"
He didn't answer immediately. She heard him swallow, heard the rustle of sheets as he shifted.
"It wasn't—it wasn't explicit," he said. "You'd think it would be, given the circumstances. But it wasn't."
"What was it?"
"You were at a party. One of those fancy ones with people in suits and women in dresses. And you looked—tired. Not physically tired. Something deeper. Like you'd been smiling so long your face hurt and you forgot what your real smile looked like."
She felt a knot form in her throat. The description was accurate—more accurate than he could possibly know.
"I walked up to you," he continued. "And I said something stupid. I don't remember what. Something about cricket, probably. Some stat I'd memorized."
"And then?"
"And you laughed. A real laugh. Not the one you use for interviews. The one that comes from here." He tapped his own chest. "And you said 'you're the first person who hasn't asked me for anything.'"
"That's it?"
"That's it. We just talked. For hours. About nothing. About music and movies and the way the city looks at 4 AM. And when the party ended, you hugged me. And I woke up."
She opened her eyes. The darkness had softened, the edges of the room bleeding into gray. Dawn was coming, slow and inevitable.
"I wish I remembered that," she said.
"It didn't happen."
"It felt like it did. In the dream." He paused. "It felt real."
"That's the thing about dreams," she said. "They're better than real. No consequences. No complications. No press conferences."
"No burnt chai."
"No samosas."
They both laughed. The sound bounced off the walls, off the trophies, off the crack in the ceiling that only one of them could see. When it faded, something had shifted. The air felt different. Charged.
"Varun."
"Yeah."
"Would you—" She stopped. Started again. "Would you want to do it again? Not tonight. That's not—that's not what I'm asking. I mean—"
"Yes."
"You didn't let me finish."
"I didn't need to." He turned to face her fully now, his body a warm presence in the cool sheets. "Whatever you're asking. Whatever you want. The answer is yes."
"You don't even know what I'm going to say."
"I know you. Or I feel like I do. Which is—" He paused. "Which is probably stupid. We've known each other for what, six hours?"
"Seven."
"Seven hours. And I feel like I've known you for years."
"That's not stupid."
"It's not?"
"It's terrifying." She sat up, pulling the sheet with her, tucking it under her arms. The air was cool against her bare shoulders. "Because I feel the same way. And I don't—I don't do this. I don't let people in. I don't do feelings. I don't do—" She gestured at the space between them. "This."
"So why me?"
"I don't know." She looked at him. His face was clearer now, the dawn light catching the planes of his cheeks, the softness around his eyes. "You showed up at my door with a printout and a pocket full of marble. You looked terrified. And I thought—if I can make this boy less scared, maybe I can make myself less scared too."
"Am I less scared?"
"I don't know. Are you?"
He thought about it. "Maybe. A little. The edge is gone."
"The edge?"
"The panic. The voice in my head that says I'm going to mess this up. It's still there, but it's quieter."
"That's good."
"Is it?"
"It's better than loud."
He reached for her hand, found it beneath the sheet. His fingers were cold now, but she didn't pull away.
"I want to tell you something," he said. "And I need you to not laugh."
"I make no promises."
"Fair." He took a breath. "I've had a crush on you since I was seventeen. When you scored that century against England. The one where you were sick and still went out there and just—destroyed them."
She remembered that match. The fever had been 101. She'd thrown up in the bathroom between overs. It was one of her proudest moments.
"I remember."
"I watched every ball. I called in sick to work. I stayed up all night. And when you hit the winning runs, I cried."
"You cried?"
"It was a good century."
"It was."
"I'm not lying."
"I know you're not." She squeezed his hand. "That's the thing. I know. You don't feel like a liar."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's the best one I've got right now."
He laughed. She was starting to love that sound—the way it cracked at the edges, the way it came from somewhere deep.
"I have a question," she said.
"Another one?"
"Last one. For now."
"What?"
"This—" She gestured at the bed, the room, the two of them tangled in sheets. "What is this? What do you want it to be?"
He didn't answer right away. She watched him think, watched his brow furrow in the dim light. He was taking her seriously. He was considering the question like it was a problem to solve—not a performance, not a deflection.
"I want it to be real," he said finally. "Whatever that means. I want to see you again. I want to learn things about you that no one else knows. I want to be the person you call when you've had a bad day. I want—"
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay." She leaned over and kissed him. It was soft, unhurried, a promise more than a question. When she pulled back, his eyes were still closed.
"That was—"
"Don't say perfect."
"I wasn't going to."
"What were you going to say?"
"It was like the first rain on hot ground."
She stared at him. "What?"
"It smells like that. You. When you kiss me. Like rain on hot pavement."
"That's because I'm sweaty."
"Maybe. Or maybe it's just you."
She shook her head. "You're weird."
"You've mentioned that."
"Because it bears repeating."
He opened his eyes. The first real light had come, pale and tentative, painting the room in shades of silver. The trophies caught it, throwing glints of light onto the walls. She looked at them—all those symbols of her achievement, all those hours of practice and pain and sacrifice.
"This was different," she said.
"What was?"
"Tonight. This. It was different from everything else. It wasn't about winning or losing. It was just—being. With you."
"Is that bad?"
"It's terrifying."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it is." She lay back down, pulling him with her. His body was warm against hers, solid and real. "But I think I might want to be terrified. Just for a little while."
"Me too."
"Really?"
"Really." He pressed his face into her hair. "I think being terrified with you is better than being safe without you."
"That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."
"Your standards are low."
"My standards are exactly right." She yawned. The exhaustion was hitting her now, all the adrenaline finally wearing off. "I have training at seven."
"Seven?"
"Seven AM. It's—" She squinted at the clock. "It's four now."
"You should sleep."
"So should you."
"I will. In a minute." He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her closer. "I want to remember this. Exactly like this. The light, the smell, the way you feel."
"You're making it weird again."
"I know."
"But I like weird."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it bears repeating."
They fell into silence. Smriti felt sleep tugging at her, felt her body surrender to gravity, to warmth, to the unexpected comfort of another person. The last thing she heard before drifting off was Varun's breathing—slow and even, like waves washing up on a shore.
The last thing she thought was: this is real. This is actually real.
And for the first time in a long time, she didn't want to wake up.