Work Text:
VIOLET
In the end, it was Gaurav’s kindness that completely undid Aman.
“Sorry, bro, I’m not into guys in that way. But, I’m sure tujhe koi mil jayega- take care, yeah?”
A friendly pat on his shoulder, and Gaurav was gone. They had been alone in one of the myriad conference rooms their office had strewn all over in random corners; Aman was glad that the arctic chill of the corporate air conditioning managed to freeze the tears before they actually fell, flash-froze the lava erupting inside him into hard granite.
He wasn’t exactly sure how a creature of flesh and blood was supposed to draw breath with granite lungs, but he imagined it would be similar to how queer people could exist in this normal world.
How did Gaurav even figure it out anyway? He had been- meticulously careful in his interactions with the man; hadn’t allowed himself any touches, had never before allowed himself to be alone with him. Yet, evidently, he had given himself away somehow.
Aman’s heart was burning in the inferno of shame-panic-grief raging inside his chest; turning into a shrivelled, leaden ball that he knew would drag him down into fearful depths before long.
He tiredly dragged a hand over his face; reminded himself that spiralling whilst gainfully employed would be imminently more comfortable than having a meltdown without a source of income.
He got up from the cushy chair he had been sitting on; as he switched each of the lights off, the room grew darker by degrees until it was pitch-black.
Back at his desk, he ruthlessly beat the randomised datasets he had been working on into submission, choosing not to acknowledge the glances his colleagues traded behind his back.
(He felt each glance open up a smarting welt. Who knew that queer granite could bleed?)
Something deep in Aman’s chest throbbed the moment he saw the young man enter the bus.
Aman’s eyes followed him as he battled his way through the packed bus, and a different sensation blossomed in his gut: this was just desire.
A white shirt tucked into black slacks on a lithe frame, a faux-leather bag slung across his shoulders: there were a thousand others like him in the city; young men trying to eke out a living in a place that kept taking with the promise of giving it all back someday.
This one looked dangerously close to crashing as he somehow hung on for dear life while the bus sped on, a delicate quiver going through a body that was clearly just about ready to pass out at the nearest available surface.
Aman winced with him as the bus suddenly bounced on potholes, and then stood to offer his seat before he was even fully aware of what he was doing.
“Here, sit. You look like you need it”
He was only able to see a flash of five o’ clock shadow and a doe-eyed look of pure gratitude before the press of people closed ranks around him.
Sleep, when it finally came to him that night, brought with it a dull anxiety that bubbled inside his chest and throat denying him actual rest; when his mobile rang the morning after, there was a groggy headache throbbing behind his eyes.
“Hello?” He managed to rasp out.
“Beta, kaise ho? So rahein the kya?” It was his father on the other end.
“Nahi, papa, yoga kar raha tha” That was the traditional answer he was supposed to give, a running gag between father and son, except this time enough of his frustration bled into his tone that it became something of a bark.
He blew out an exhausted breath as he heard his father get flustered and hand the phone to his mother. “Sab theek hai, beta? Abhi utha kya?”
“Namaste, mummy. Haan, bas abhi utha”
He could picture his mother sitting by the tulsi manch in their courtyard, resplendent with a cup of tea this time of the morning. Hearing her voice made him desperately homesick, but even as he imagined coming back home to his family, the thought of dancing around the hetero normativity closed around his chest like a vice.
He hadn’t made a sound out loud, but apparently his mother sitting 800-odd kilometers away heard him anyway.
“Aaj Shivraatri hai, beta. Mandir hoke aa, dil halka ho jayega”
He had been 8 years old when he saw the Dakshayagya play out on-screen for the first time. He had spent the next two days sobbing until the accompanying stress-headache flared into a full-blown fever.
It had become something of a traditional tale in the family: remember that time when Aman was so traumatised by Sati jumping into the fire that he cried himself into a fever?
With the hypervigilance that all queer children use to dive between the lines, Aman had learned the first two lessons in conforming: men aren’t supposed to feel pain, and men definitely aren’t supposed to feel pain for another man in pain.
His tears hadn’t been because of the fire and the violence, they had been for the tears Shiva had shed as he drew breath in a world Sati did not.
The present-day Aman, the adult who had begun to agree with his family’s spin on his childhood traumas; could feel the old, visceral grief surge into being in his chest as he cast his mind back towards the old memory.
He was standing outside one of the oldest Shiv temples in Delhi; the long, serpentine queue of decked-up girls and women keeping him from actually entering the complex. Unmarried girls come to pray for a husband like Shiva, their mothers come to pray for a son-in-law like Chandrashekar.
He closed his eyes in a futile attempt to hold his tears back and folded his hands in prayer. Dil halka ho jayega his mother had advised: so, he offered up the words that unfurled and rose from the sanctum-sanctorum of his heart.
Help me find someone who will make me question the world’s right to turn without them. Help me find someone who sees the secrets of Life, Death and everything in between in me, just like you saw the Mahavidyas in Sati.
The giggles and happy chattering from the women around him ignited a flash of irritation. You made me the way I am, and if they can pray for a husband like you- my prayer had better at least be reaching you, even if you refuse to grant it.
Give me a husband like you. Give my mother a son-in-law like you.
Are you listen-
Without warning, something crashed into him with the momentum of a vehicle, sending him flying to land painfully on his backside.
“Shit, shit, shit, I’m so sorry!”
The stars hadn’t completely cleared from Aman’s eyes, but they snapped up to zero in on the idiotic asshole of a man, simultaneously drew breath to verbally render the cretin down into screaming atoms, and-
Fuck.
The man’s eyes were aglow with a light that seemed to pierce and strip away every layer, façade and mask until they looked at the naked core of him. Flustered in the way they hadn’t been in a very long time, Aman’s eyes broke the gaze, only to find Ardhnareshwar smiling demurely from the man’s muscular forearm.
A forearm that came attached with a hand that was apparently stretched out to him. Aman reached out to grab it.
They ran through the cramped lanes of old Delhi from what seemed to be a mob baying for blood. Luckily for them, said mob seemed to mostly consist of overweight uncles so nobody actually caught up with them.
(It would occur to Aman much later in the day that humans had evolved to hunt game by making the poor animal run until its heart gave out, homo sapiens didn’t have to catch up with their prey)
Ten minutes later, Aman found himself gasping for breath inside a ramshackle tapri. Mr. No-Name was pressed up by his side; very solid, very sweaty and very male.
The Ardhnareshwar tattoo was covered by a sheen of perspiration.
“Kaun hai bey tu?” Aman managed to wheez out amidst trying to keep his heart and lungs safely inside his ribcage.
“Kartik. Kartik Singh”