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From childhood, Amar was always taught to stand up for himself.
When he was in grade one, a boy in his class had tried to take his lunch money and he had refused to give it up. Even when the boy had punched him hard enough that he that he, in his six-year-old’s worth of knowing pain, had thought his all teeth had been knocked loose.
When he came home and told papaji, papaji slapped him on the back and called him his good son.
When he was seven and a boy of ten had pushed him on the playground, he had pushed back even though it didn’t do much other than make the bigger boy push him again, harder.
When he came home and told papaji, papaji slapped him on the back and called him his good son.
A few months later, another boy pushed him to the ground. He didn’t push back even though his skinned knees stung tears into his eyes.
When he came home and told papaji, papaji frowned and reminded him he should always stand up for himself. He told him quietly the boy was autistic. Papaji slapped him on the back and called him his good son.
From his childhood, Amar was taught to be kind, to see through the other person’s eye before he took an eye for an eye. Maybe there was something already blinding them?
So when another boy took his lunch money in third grade, he let him have it and stayed hungry. Because the boy’s clean shirt was a slight yellow that said his parents couldn’t afford the indigo the rest of the school applied to their uniforms and Amar knew his meticulously kept books had torn pages unlikely to have been from his hand. Amar figured he was hungrier.
When he came home and told papaji, papaji slapped him on the back and called him his good son. He asked him for double lunch money for the rest of his year because Amar had never been taught to starve himself to let another eat. He knew papaji would say yes, he loved him and always taught him to be good. And he did, with a kiss to his forehead.
Amar was a bit of an adrenaline junky and he had many teeth come loose since the far miss at six but those never hurt as much. He never let them. He could smile through a mouthful of blood and spit it out later.
When he had collided with the man he now knew to be Shekhar he hadn’t even felt it.
But he couldn’t stem the pain bleeding from his heart when Taran had told him he wasn’t the only one in her life.
Even though it hadn’t come as a surprise in any way. He had noticed the hesitation, the lingering, guilty looks, aimed at both him and Shekhar. He had been waiting for her to speak up, to tell him. The only reason he hadn’t brought it up himself is because; coming from him, it can be construed as an accusation. There was no accusation he felt towards her of course. You can’t cheat on a dead man. But if Sita had to go through the agni pariksha then it was natural all women would expect one.
But he couldn’t let it show either, not when it hurt her so much more to see his pain. And Waheguru knew he has hurt her enough. First by dying and then by living. And he wasn’t in the business of hurting people.
He tried to love her like a friend. And it had been very easy. And the love of friendship was far more generous, able to be divided amongst many without diminishing the dividends. It didn’t take him long to see Shekhar as a friend after. Shekhar was as good a person as Taran, as fun, as easy to love and he wanted them both to stay in his life in whatever way he could have them.
But it felt like the sentiment wasn’t quite returned. Shekhar laughed with Taran, accepted affection from papaji, teased Gurpreet, was relaxed with Manpreet, shared activities with Navjot paji. He did all of that with Amar too, but there was always a hesitation.
Amar felt like a kid who didn’t get picked by any team and was watching everyone else play from the outside. Not a feeling he’d ever experienced himself as a kid but was getting increasingly familiar with as an adult. He wanted to ask Shekhar to love him, take all the time he needs but try. But he couldn’t ask that of him. So he asked for time to love him as if he didn’t already. And hoped this time around they’d get there at the same time.
It hurt when Shekhar got upset with Taran for picking him up from his appointment. Because he had reassured him he’ll never do something to hurt him and apparently Shekhar didn’t believe him at all. And he had to remind himself sternly that Shekhar didn’t owe his girlfriend’s ex any trust. And focus on Taran who wasn’t under suspicion from an unrequited friend but her actual boyfriend.
Then the accident happened.
Amar had always found boys as pretty as girls in his teen years and papaji had let him know there’s nothing wrong with that when he told him. But then he had fallen in love Taran and hadn’t quite explored that side of him but he was aware of it.
The realizations that he had not stopped loving Taran or that he loved Shekhar that might have hit him like a truck otherwise was engulfed by the raw terror of losing Shekhar and sympathy for Taran. He might love him too but Taran was the one who actually knew him. It didn’t occur to him that his different feelings for the couple mattered at all. Neither did papaji’s revelation (that had been a relief actually because it hadn’t been hatred but guilt). Only thing that mattered was stopping Shekhar.
And he couldn’t. As he held Taran in his arms, Amar thought how absolutely wrong Shekhar had been. Taran might have known him longer but theirs was a puppy love, Shekhar had seen Taran through grief and dreams.
Fortunately, life wasn’t a movie, it didn’t end until death. And there were these convenient little things called airplanes that could take him anywhere in the world.
Amar only waited until he was medically cleared for travel, not fully recovered, before tracking down Shekhar in a bar in Brazil.
And this time when he started his “no one needs to sacrifice out of duty” drivel, Amar exploded.
“Shut the fuck up! Stop making Taran out be a dumbass like you. No one is making a sacrifice play other than you. She just loves you. Everyone back home loves you. And you’re refusing to see it because you want to be the great guy who accidentally hit a guy but then took care of his girlfriend and family and disappeared even though you loved her. And you are hurting my friend in your bullshit.”
His outburst seemed to have shocked Shekhar. And then his expression turned opaque.
“What about you, Amar?”
That was an unexpected line of questioning.
“Wha- I want you back too. Or else I wouldn’t cross the Atlantic to come here.”
“Are you not making a sacrifice play? Don’t tell me you don’t love Taran anymore, I know you do.”
Amar felt like there was a huge morsel caught in his throat.
“I love you too.” He replied simply, he didn’t expect it to be interpreted as anything other than platonic.
But Shekhar considered the reply long enough that he feared it might be.
“More than Taran?”
“Just as much.”
Shekhar’s expression turned unreadable again.
After a while, he said, “I will come back but on one condition.”
“Whatever you want. I could stop trying to be a part of your life. You, either of you, don’t have to stay friends with me.” The words felt like broken glass in his mouth but he’d do it. For Taran, even for Shekhar no matter how infuriating the bastard has been in his obstinate blindness to see reality. He felt guilty the moment the desperate answer left his mouth. It felt a little mean to assume that would be Shekhar’s condition. But it was quite a reasonable assumption.
“I don’t want you to be friends with us.”
Amar felt his stomach drop. He nodded, not quite able to wipe the miserable expression off his face.
He was about to turn, get enough of a hold of himself to call Taran and give her the good news without his voice breaking when a pair of hands grabbed his face and pulled him forward.
He didn’t even flinch or recoil. He could not even decipher what’s going on as he felt a pair of lips covering his own and tongue press open slack mouth.