Love Knows No LoC Read online

  ARPIT VAGERIA

  LOVE KNOWS NO LOC

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Acknowledgments

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  PENGUIN METRO READS

  LOVE KNOWS NO LOC

  Arpit Vageria is the bestselling author of You Are My Reason to Smile, Be My Perfect Ending and I Still Think about You. He was featured in a Tata Motors documentary to inspire youngsters to read stories. Vageria also writes scripts for TV shows and award functions, such as India’s Best Dramebaaz, Sabse Bada Kalakar, Indian Idol and IIFA Awards.

  You can contact him at:

  Email: [email protected]

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/arpitvageria27/

  Instagram: arpitvageria

  Twitter: arpitvageria27

  Phone number: +91-8451829595

  CHAPTER 1

  April ’17

  Some love stories seem to have been written in the stars; they seem to have received the benediction of some higher forces. However, make no mistake. Just like the moon might appear to be a flawless orb of white light from far away, but when peered through the powerful lens of a telescope, one finds that its face is rather pockmarked. So it is with these seemingly perfect love stories. Their timeline is marred by numerous episodes of hatred too. And what accounts for these dents? Do we really need to be incited or a trigger to hate someone? Could it maybe because we just love to hate, because hatred is ingrained in us as love is, and we simply act on our impulses? Is it simply a rule that we follow? Like India and Pakistan?

  As Kabeer settled into his seat on the flight, memories of his last meeting with Zoya came flooding back. This was the last leg of his tour. It was also his last chance to restore the selectors’ faith in him and secure a place for himself in India’s international cricket team. On his way from the airport to the hotel in the bus with his other teammates, he read his last WhatsApp chat with her over and over again until the bus drew up at the Taj hotel in Mumbai. Even though he wanted to stay completely focused on the game to avoid disappointing his city, as he had done the last time, his thoughts repeatedly drifted to Zoya. He wondered where she was. Whether she had fallen in love with somebody else or, worse, forgotten Kabeer like a bad past and moved on.

  There’s enough time to watch an entire movie when commuting through Mumbai’s gridlocked traffic, he thought. He wasn’t aware how long he had been listening to the playlist being fed into his earphones; it had already been repeated twice or thrice; all were tracks sung by Zoya. He remembered her telling him that every song she sang was inspired by him and that she had conceptualized these lyrics in his very presence. That made him feel special.

  Kabeer barely noticed the crowd of fans waiting outside the hotel, holding up placards with his name on it. The girls in the crowd frantically waved to catch his attention; some of them were wearing masks with his face painted on them—all for one smile in return.

  A hand on his shoulder shook him out of his reverie. Arko was a teammate from Team India A, playing for Mumbai Riders in the T20 tournaments. He nodded to Kabeer indicating that it was time to disembark. Kabeer felt a tightness in his throat. He quickly looked around, hoping no one had noticed his emotional state.

  Arko stared at Kabeer as he saw him sniffling and wiping his nose. ‘This is affecting your game, Kabeer; however, I’ve seen you in worse phases before. You can snap out of this as well.’

  ‘I’m just not used to being without Zoya,’ Kabeer said gruffly, picking up his rucksack and moving down the aisle of the bus.

  ‘You just have to get used to living without people who don’t belong with you in the first place,’ whispered Arko over his shoulder.

  ‘She was mine.’

  ‘She is a Pakistani,’ Arko stated flatly.

  ‘So?’

  ‘She was a habit; you’ll get over her. After what she did to you, you didn’t have any other choice. There were a million things that you could have done, but you did the right thing.’

  Kabeer took a moment to register his words.

  ‘Don’t blame yourself, Kabeer,’ Arko encouraged. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  Kabeer smiled. At times, when one has nothing to say, one falls back on meaningless gestures, such as forced smiles, handshakes, or even emoticons, hoping against hope that they would be adequate to convey one’s feelings to the other person.

  ‘Oh, you don’t have to do that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Smiling forcibly. But there’s one thing that you shouldn’t mind doing,’ Arko said and unzipped his bag, taking out a pair of sunglasses.

  ‘If the audience finds out that a big hitter of Team India A is a crybaby, it might hurt your fan following. Go on, put these on,’ he held out the shades, ‘and step out like you do on the field, with a big smile. This is your comeback match.’

  As they stepped out into the hazy, humid air of Mumbai, all Kabeer could see was a blur of faces, all hollering his name, desperately trying to touch him and find a way to quickly click a selfie or two. Kabeer kept pace with his team as they made their way to the hotel lobby.

  The players were received with fanfare as a dozen dhols were beaten in their honour. The paparazzi quickly surrounded Kabeer, with a fusillade of questions. He thought he espied a familiar face in the crowd, an unpleasant someone from his past. He was perturbed as a feeling of gloom descended on him. Arko’s shades were a perfect foil for the turbulence of his emotions and he found himself slipping back into thoughts of Zoya.

  ‘Kabeer, are you still in touch with Zoya?’ asked a journalist, shoving a mic into his face. Kabeer ignored the question and continued walking.

  ‘Kabeer, are you still in a relationship with that Pakistani?’ the same man rephrased the question. Fury surged through Kabeer, but he clamped down on it.

  ‘Kabeer, are you still in touch with that terrorist?’

  That was it. Kabeer lost his rag and leapt at the man in a blind rage. Three security guards rushed in to intercede. In the ensuing chaos, Kabeer punched the journalist, while all around them numerous cameras clicked and whirred to record the spectacle.

  The press got its scoop for the day; this incident would go viral and become fodder for weeks to come.

  His teammates looked embarrassed and disappointed. The coach was understandably livid, while the fans looked confused and appalled.

  In a matter of sixty seconds, they went from cheering to booing him. Two minutes later, the world would know that Kabeer had lost his temper again. Three minutes later, the cricket board would expel him from the next match. And five minutes later, he would discover that the sloppy hous
ekeeping service had missed emptying out one of the drawers in his room, thereby accidentally leaving a ray of hope for him in it.

  Although it was night-time, the sky had taken on a tint of silver for Kabeer as he leaned on that faint optimism. From the balcony of his sea-view room, he gazed at the crowd beneath gradually dispersing and wondered if his fans would ever forgive him or maybe even go as far as to empathize with him.

  But there’s only so much one can expect from people. Nobody can restore lost loved ones or help undo one’s mistakes.

  The only way forward is to strive for it ourselves.

  CHAPTER 2

  May ’16

  On a Friday evening, Kabeer found himself on a bus along with some of the top players of the country. As he looked around, he realized that he had shared the field with most of these players at one point or another, but this was the first time he was going to play with them as a team at an international level. He sat back, relaxed and did a mental recap of the extraordinary turn of events that had bagged him this golden opportunity.

  Two days ago, the BCCI had called to offer Kabeer a chance to play in place of Rishabh Pandey, who had suffered an unfortunate injury. Pandey was one of the best all-rounders in the team. Kabeer was determined to give his best today and not let his teammates down. Gunfire could be heard at a distance, but Kabeer remained unmoved. He was aware that these were—unlike the ones seven years ago—celebratory gunshots in anticipation of this friendly match in Lahore between India and Pakistan. He recalled the Lahore terror attack of 2009 when a bus full of Sri Lankan cricketers, along with several Pakistani policemen and civilians, was ambushed and many of those on board were injured, maimed and, some, even killed.

  Considering his loathing for the country, its principles and politics, it was ironic that Kabeer’s international debut was in Pakistan. As he gazed out at the passing scenery through the bus window, he saw countless people going about their daily routines. Although he couldn’t hear them through the double-glazed windows and the roar of their large bus, he knew that they were speaking with each other in a language that he could easily comprehend.

  Expecting to feel alien in an unfamiliar environment, Kabeer was startled by his strange empathy towards this foreign land and taken aback by its uncanny similarity to his homeland—the same shops, the same roads generously freckled with potholes, gigantic posters of political leaders and traffic rules that were flagrantly violated.

  What would have happened had the Partition never taken place? Kabeer wondered. He imagined reading ‘Lahore, India’ on the billboards in such a world.

  His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a huge hoarding on the side of the road—a strikingly beautiful woman was featured on it, wearing a sleeveless, black sequined top and holding a mic in her hand. Her lips looked as luscious and tempting as jelly on vanilla ice cream. Kabeer was awestruck. This wonderful, marvellous being took complete control of his senses. The caption on the hoarding said she was Zoya Malik—famous Pakistani singer, with a massive fan following.

  As the bus drove on through the streets, several billboards featuring her kept coming into view. She looked lovelier in each of them, and like a child seeing snow for the first time, Kabeer was wholly enchanted by her inexplicable splendour. It wasn’t as if Kabeer hadn’t been exceptionally attracted to a woman before, but this felt different—different how, he could not fathom. Her glowing skin seemed translucent and her midnight tresses flowed in thick luxuriant waves over her shoulders. She was drop-dead gorgeous! He felt particularly drawn to her eyes, which were deep, dark and mysterious, and pulling him in like a magnetic field.

  He was entrapped in that intense and piercing gaze when the bus suddenly hit a speed breaker. This broke the spell and Kabeer looked at Arko, who was nodding off beside him.

  Arko was an opener from Bengal, famous for his summary responses to fast bowlers. He revered Sourav Ganguly like a God; and one of his most well-talked-about eccentricities was his never-ending recitation of the ‘Ganguly Chalisa’. Although he had met him only once, he informed every person whom he met about it and every time with a new twist—like a director taking shots from every possible angle to get the best result.

  The commentary of an ongoing tennis match was crackling over Arko’s earphones, but his eyes were shut. As Kabeer began to turn away, Arko took a sip from his water bottle. Surprised, Kabeer realized that he must not have been sleeping after all, unless such a condition as sleep-drinking existed. Kabeer began to look away, but it was too late. Arko suddenly opened his eyes and frowned, ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Kabeer replied.

  ‘Are you attracted to me?’

  This question left Kabeer as surprised as Arko was when he had found Kabeer staring at him.

  ‘Then why are you looking at me like that?’ Arko scowled, ‘is there anything I can do to help? As long as you don’t want me to sleep with you.’

  ‘It’s nothing. I thought you were watching the tennis match,’ Kabeer scowled back, ‘and I just found it odd that your eyes were shut.’

  ‘Oh, that! Can I tell you a secret?’

  ‘If that doesn’t make you think that I am not straight, then, yes, definitely,’ Kabeer replied, although he couldn’t help smiling.

  Arko gave Kabeer one of his earphones. ‘Now close your eyes and just concentrate on the voice of the female player. Enjoy yourself.’ He increased the volume and in an instant, Kabeer understood what he had meant. The grunts the female tennis player made while playing each energetic shot sounded orgasmic.

  Kabeer opened his eyes in amazement and started laughing hysterically.

  ‘And this is your big discovery?’

  ‘Yes, when I got bored of studying in an all-boys’ school,’ Arko said, with a naughty twinkle in his eyes, and Kabeer burst out laughing once again. There was something about Arko’s straightforward intelligence and unforced humour that made Kabeer feel that they could be good friends.

  ‘Do you want some more action?’ Arko offered.

  ‘Not right now, thanks, but I would certainly like to catch up with you once we start our practices in the nets,’ Kabeer said. Arko replied with a brief thumbs up, before getting busy with his tennis match again.

  Kabeer extracted the water bottle in the side pocket of his seat and gulped it all down in one go. Another one of those hoardings flashed past his window. It mentioned that Zoya Malik would perform at Hotel Hilton Suites, Lahore, very soon.

  A sudden hatred for the British government surged through him for partitioning the country. How easy it would have been to meet her if they had belonged to the same country. No matter how unlikely it seemed, his intuition told him that they would cross paths someday.

  But all his grudges against Pakistan, the Partition and the British Raj soon dissolved into nothingness as he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

  CHAPTER 3

  April ’17

  Zoya ruled Kabeer’s thoughts through the days that followed his tumultuous arrival in the city. He agonized, as he blamed himself over and over again, yearning to somehow undo the violent history of the two nations.

  The news of his scuffle with the reporter spread like wildfire and Kabeer was suddenly daubed with the dubious distinction of being the prime target of the Indian media. A public outcry was raised against his treachery for dating a Pakistani. Some senior cricket experts even took to a newsroom debate, advising him to stay grounded and not let fame and success go to his head. Despite the prevailing chaos around him, Kabeer felt calm and at peace.

  The bell rang. Kabeer did not open the door, deciding it would be best if he simply ignored everyone for a while.

  ‘It’s me! Open the door, dammit!’ Arko bellowed. Much as Kabeer liked Arko, he sometimes tended to be tiresome enough to give him a headache. Arko never seemed to respect anybody’s privacy, not even his own, and would sometimes take a dump with the bathroom door ajar.

  As Kabeer opened the door, he shook his head at Arko and said, �
�I don’t want to talk about it.’

  Kabeer expected Arko to persist, but instead, he merely shrugged and went over to the large leather sofa and lay down on it. Arms behind his head, he crossed his feet, as if waiting for Kabeer to speak.

  ‘By the way, in case you’re freaking out because of what happened a while ago, I should probably let you know that I am not ashamed of what I did,’ Kabeer remarked coldly. He tried switching off the television, but Arko snatched the remote from him.

  ‘Then why run away? Face those media cannibals. They’re going to target everyone who is even remotely connected to you. You cannot let your close ones pay the price,’ Arko said before turning up the volume.

  ‘We tried contacting Kabeer’s family to find out whether he is dealing with some medical issues post his break-up with Zoya, but his family refused to respond. His father slammed the phone down on us. Like father, like son,’ said a journalist who seemed to be reporting from outside their hotel.

  ‘It’s a shame how a person who has been loved so much by the media strikes out at a journalist so viciously. Shame on Kabeer! Shame on cricket!’ another news anchor shouted.

  Kabeer exhaled sharply. ‘You expect me to take all this seriously?’

  ‘No, I expect you to take your career seriously. You can’t keep goofing up and expect the media to turn a blind eye.’

  ‘Where did I go wrong? Defending my girlfriend who is from another country or attacking someone who has been hounding us forever?’ Kabeer snapped.

  Arko sighed and looked out of the window. He could see the ‘victim’ reporter at a distance being interviewed by other reporters. Arko could see the winning smile on his face—the person who no one knew about a few minutes ago had suddenly become the centre of everyone’s attention.

  ‘You were wrong in defending yourself when everyone was busy attacking you, and you were wrong in attacking the reporter when he lured you into it.

  ‘Kabeer, the best thing you could have done in this situation was not to get provoked. That was exactly what he wanted. He will receive his share of sympathy for the next few days and smirk like the devil whenever you get labelled as the villain!’