dedications: This one's solely for Anks, my soulmate who recently got hers. Please accept my very very very extremely belated gift. I hope you don't kill me after you read it. This is nothing like what you asked for, at all. And I apologise for that in advance. But hey, I made up for the time with the length though.
special mentions: For Shaz who gets it, for Vaish who tolerates it, for Kish and Anki who get me and for SarSar who tolerates me.
disclaimer: I don't know them. This is completely fabricated and kind of murders the magic of Ang Laga De. I know, I'm sorry. Also, it's extremely long. Oops.
He hates the way her hands move on his shoulder. Actually he just hates her hands. And the control they display.
--
He had woken up that morning feeling disoriented and still felt foggy even after three chais. Charlie had already warned him he'd feel this way in the morning when he had popped those sleeping pills last night. But it was either this or bloodshot drowsy eyes and lethargic steps. And he couldn't afford that.
He's just finished getting his touch-up done when he sees her walk onto the set. Her steps are short, her body tense and she's avoiding his eyes. He sighs. It's going to be a long day.
They have been practicing this routine for days now. Initially individually and then together. It was always fun and games, laughs and taunts until the final dress rehearsals. Until the final shoot.
He often wonders why that is and then laughs. He's been hanging around her for too long, has started to take on her traits. Has begun asking questions whose answers are glaringly obvious, stare one in the face.
But this time it's different. Things could be different. They could be different. If only she chooses to change things. Chooses to change them. Chooses to pick him.
But she doesn't even want to consider the possibility and he's getting tired of waiting. He'd said he's willing to wait, convinced himself it was the right thing to do, that everyone felt differently and to different extents but he's been waiting for far too long for what he sees in her eyes to travel to her lips. He's tired of waiting for the transition to happen.
--
She's pissed off at him. Pissed at him for pushing her like this. For putting these conditions on her, for limiting her. She has never been one to be caged or tied down. He knows this. He's known this for years, just like she's known him - and his issues. They have an understanding between them, a shared beginning, a long history. How could he just put everything at risk? Why did he keep doing this to her? Why did he keep asking when he knew her answers, the one she uttered and the one she meant.
But he knows everything doesn't he? And now he's using it to his advantage. She would feel betrayed if she wasn't feeling this white hot rage coursing through her veins. He was using her weakness and his strength by wrapping it up under the guise of her passion and his act. Of course he would choose to have The Argument right before their dance. She should have seen it coming. He had cornered her. Used the show, the set, the shoot, the sequence - everything to his advantage.
She would have seen it coming, she reprimands herself, if she hadn't trusted him so blindly. But it's okay she reasons. For he may have abused her trust but she knew the best way to exact revenge was to be thoroughly professional.
After all, she knew his weaknesses just as well.
--
They're taking positions. It's time to shoot. He walks on to stand at the designated mark. He hasn't spoken to anyone all day today and he doesn't want to start now. They think he's in-character and he lets them.
He sees her approach from the corner of his eye and his body catches on fire. His senses are already on an overdrive from what's about to happen, what he's about to do and this is the last thing he needs.
He knows they're merely actors, pretending and enacting for the cameras - faking it, as she reminds him often. But it's only the make-belief that offers him a taste of the real. Like her standing there in messy, bed hair - the way he imagines her hair would look if he ran his fingers through it all night. It's styled he knows, but it's enough to offer him a glimpse of what could be, what should be.
The white sheet she is wrapped in just heightens the current already running through the room. There are lesser people than usual today, and she's not the only girl in the room. They've tried make this shoot as comfortable as possible for both of them and he would have appreciated it too but he catches the subtle way she clutches the sheet tighter around herself before steeling herself and dropping them to the ground and he immediately turns around, averting his eyes.
No one notices and no one cares. He's glad for that. He isn't sure how he would explain her sudden modesty or his reaction to it. He wishes he could blame it on the cultural connotations attached to Indian attire, but he knows it's not as simple as that. He doesn't think he understands it either. He's seen her in everything - from saari to sarongs and yet all he knows is that when she's modest, he finds his eyes lowering and quickly flitting away, every single time.
--
They have practiced the routine various times before. So when the time comes, he follows his instincts because he knows she'll follow the steps.
That will be his strength. That will be her downfall.
--
She moves with the music while he stands still. Even with his back to her, he knows how she would look, her body writhing to the music. The muscles in his back bunch up. He has to physically fight to calm his breathing, to not turn back and watch her, to stay focused. If he does this right, there will be plenty of time for that later. For now, he has a task at hand and giving the hottest performance of their career isn't just it.
--
She knows the exact moment things turn dangerous. Feels the power shift from all the way across the room. She had been expecting it. When things didn't go his way, he sometimes played dirty. And she played cold. She continues to move like nothing happened, like she senses nothing, like the dark quiet intensity vibrating off him didn't just sound warning bells in her head.
They were shooting after all, it was a practiced routine, what could he possibly pull off?
--
He turns right on cue, just as she's rubbing sand down her body. There's a precision even in her longing. He watches her as she pretends to be lost in her feelings, watches how calculated her moves are, who in control her body is. There is a reason she's considered to be one of the best dancers nationwide, she knew how to mold her body, to tame it to move just as she wanted, to convey what she wanted to show.
He hates that control. He hates her ease, hates the way she could appear to be soo immersed when he knew better. He can barely hold on to his resentment as he approaches her. His steps calculated, measured. He needs to hold on to his control to ensure she loses hers.
He watches her keenly. Even as a shiver runs down his spine. He knows she's moving for the cameras, but by the time this act is over, he'll have made sure it'll all be for him.
With a shake of his head, he comes to stand behind her. Soon she would reach out to him and he'll crumble her control like the sand that falls from his palms. But first, he'll play by the rules. Better not to warn her off just yet. He'll wait for the right time.
--
They go through the steps with a perfection earned over time. They compliment each other - two halves of a whole. A fact even she doesn't shy away from admitting. He often wonders how uncomfortable it makes her feel to realise he is the only one that can support her body, spin it, lift it, turn and twist it as well as only she can. He watches her as he dances besides her. Wonders what she thinks of his body moving besides hers. If she thinks of him as anything more than an accomplice, the perfect partner, the perfect support. Wonders if she can feel his heart pounding against his chest when he wraps his arms around hers and pulls her crashing back against it. Wonders if it even matters to her. If anything aside from perfection matters to her.
He gets his answer when he feels the cold air slap against his torso when she subtly moves away, moves ahead. She knows his body well, would have read his reactions by now but she forgets, he laments as he holds her arms up, following the steps and runs his hands down her body - that he knows her body better. Where she had insisted on keeping distance between their bodies, he makes sure she feels the heat of his hands blaze down her body. Feels his touch hot against the cold, every inch of the way. He knows she wouldn't break the routine as he turns his head into her hair. She's suddenly breathing heavier. He then presses his hands onto her waist, tighter than necessary and lifts her. Her hands tighten on his wrists. A warning, a plea, a restrain - he doesn't know which and he's past caring.
They're going through the motions again soon, practiced steps he could pull off in his sleep. Until he turns her around and let's his body mirror hers in a wave motion. That is when he finally offers her a glimpse, drops his mask for a bit. Just to see her reaction. While his body obey the rhythm and the beat, his eyes are on a quest of their own. Questioning, challenging, seeking and she stares back head on. She's got nothing to hide, nothing to show that he wishes to see.
They're walking in circles, like they have always done, like they always do. And then she leaves, like she always does but this time he pulls her back and she leaps into his arms and he sweeps her off her feet and spins her around. It's merely a step, done to death but somehow it feels like a missed chance, a flash of what could have been. If they had acted different. He's looking up at her and she's looking down. But their eyes mirror the same expressions, hold the same fleeting thoughts.
For a moment though, he forgets his anger, and she forgets her rage and they forget their routine. But they're professionals and the show must go on and it does. And everything comes crashing back and she's flowing out of his arms down to the ground while he lets her.
If they hadn't been doing it for so long, they would both ave crumbled to the ground by the sheer emotional force of it all.
--
It is only when she is back into his arms, after they have just penned a sonnet in motion, his arm around her waist, hers around his shoulder that she throws him off guard by running her fingers through his hair. The shock must show in his eyes because he sees a corner of her lip turn up mockingly even as she brings her feet up and wraps herself around his body. When she falls back, he makes sure to not touch her. To move his hand just above the contours of her body, a breath away from touching but close enough to leave a trail of sensations behind. A dark promise of things to come - if she lets them.
But a few moments later, as he watches her crawl to him, lithe as lioness with just as much fierceness in her eyes, he realises he's not the only one with temptations to offer. It's all a part of the act but if this is what she looks like play acting, he wonders... and then quickly turns around just in time to hide the glint in his eyes. When he feels her curl up against his back hiding her face into his shoulder blade, tighter than intended, it feels like a real embrace and oddly like she's offering an apology. He's glad for the dimness that hides his confusion.
--
The minute the director shouts cut, she's springing away from him as if she's burnt and he feels a splash of coldness chilling him to his bones. He should be used to the hot and cold by now, should be used to her, but he isn't. He doesn't think he'll ever be used to her. Getting used to requires time, tradition, trust, taming but she's a force and he's merely a reflector.
--
He's just stepping back in for the next part of the shoot after getting off the phone with Charlie. She's more worried about the sequence than he is, had left him numerous missed calls. Her concern overwhelms him and sometimes like right now, he wonders why she chooses to be with him and why he just can't love her the way she deserves. Then he remembers The Promise. No doubts, no sorries, no demands - to just live for today. He shakes his head in an attempt to shrug off his feelings. He has all the time to think about this later but right now, he has work to finish. And take another shot at his future.
There is a change of plans he soon finds out. They're shooting for the third sequence of the song instead of the second now. He struggles to hold in a smirk and fails. He knows exactly why that happened and looks up just in time to see her step onto the set. Her eyes are cold, her face blank and he feels his smirk widening.
By the time the shot is set and the candles lit, she's gotten the mask back in place. When the camera rolls, she looks serene and calm, her face literally glowing. By the looks of it (and he knows it's an act. It's always an act.), she's forgotten all about their alteration, about what happened an hour ago, about him. He feels his chains rattled and it must show for he notices the satisfied look that flashes in her eyes for a moment. They were back to square one. Back to pretending nothing happened. Again. Of course.
He's been playing this game for far too long to slip now. He's tired of it, but he won't be the one to quit. He'll be the one to make her stop.
--
She's lighting a diya and he's watching her like he's meant to. Watches the way she blows the match off, grand gesture and all and thinks it's ironic. Fire and her and them. How she's the one that lights it but he's the one that burns. How she's the only one that can put it off yet is the one that ignites him. He's always related her to fire. Being around her has always felt like playing with the flames - a low shimmering that eats away at his sanity, slowly turning it to ash. But it was always worst when they danced. In those moments (rare moments, too much but never enough moments), he felt like he was being engulfed by an inferno. She blazed him to life and then left him charred.
When she gets up, he lets her see the burning in his soul, unveils his eyes but the cameras are rolling and she ignores him and he lets her. He follows her like he's meant to - led by her fire. A moth to a flame. And when he slides his hand across her bare skin, he's only following a step. But he makes sure to slow his movement just enough to let her know his intentions. Every move counts, every touch matters. These are his weapons - her body and his and he will use them wisely.
When he puts her down, he turns her towards him and she comes like she's meant to. But he's tired of rules, tired of the act, tired of restraining and control and he slips. Let's his fingers walk across her waist, lets her feel his presence and absence - his touch and lack of it all at once. He's giving her a choice and he watches intently to see what she picks. They're moving, sinking, falling to their knees but they're still staring at each other and he's watching her battle while she's pleading him to stop. Her breath hitches when he pulls his hand away, so subtle he would have easily missed it but he's her moth and he knows her every flicker. He puts his hand in her hair then and blows off the candle. He doesn't need the light anymore - he's already got his answer.
--
The next part, the middle part, the one they left until now is improv and he isn't sure if that was a smart move on their part anymore.
There is a particular challenge in performing improv. Most of the dancers he knows, his friends, his colleagues look forward to it. It's the perfect opportunity to put the best foot forward, show what they're made of - no holds barred. But he thinks otherwise. He doesn't think it's a chance for him to show off his dancing ability. Instead he believes it's dance's opportunity to show the dancer's reality. The feelings, emotions, passions, fear - everything comes barreling out when dance takes over. It pushes everything out to make room leaving the performer naked - his soul exposed.
He's always been wary of them, wary of it's power but when it's with her - he's usually downright scared. But things are different today, have to be and he sees it for what it is. Another chance for him to try, another opportunity for her to reciprocate. With the cameras around he wouldn't completely loose control and she wouldn't be able to run or hide.
They're starting where they left off from the first act. Her against his back but now they are back on the sand pit and he remembers her laying on it, moving, thrusting. They get up and she's got her hand on his shoulder. A perfect stance for him to lift her, spin her but he instead pulls her closer. She's soft curves against his hard abs and he searches her face to see if the impact throws her off. Her face gives nothing away, but her hand move in circles on his shoulders. He hates her hands. They're always in control. Even now, when they should grab on to him or push him away, they move as if it's all an act. As if that move was preplanned. But he's not surprised. It is her after all. Cold, precise perfectionist.
He stands still and stoic while his hand slowly moves up her body, tangles in her hair as she continues to move to the music. He knows she trusts him. That's the only reason why they haven't stopped yet. Why she's not called for the shoot to be stopped. It's a trust he has earned over countless hours, long nights, painful practice session. Most days he wears it around like a medal, a badge of honour but right now he feels it tight around his neck, a collar that restrains him, holds him back. Because he may be out to prove a point, to show her the truth that she hides but he would never do it at against her will. But right now he's tempted to see just how far she'll let him go. Just how long will she hold back before she lets it all show.
He pulls her head back and buries her face in the crook of her neck and leaves a small kiss (on impulse, impromptu he reasons!) when he feels her hand on his neck. She isn't stopping him but she isn't meeting his eyes anymore either. Her head's bent and her eyes are closed and somehow that's wrong. His hands are lifting her face before he even realises he's moving. He won't let her hide anymore. He needs her to see it's him. He needs her to see the face behind these sensations but most of her all he needs to see the effect of his touch on her face, in her eyes - so he knows what he's doing right and when he needs to stop.
She moves then, comes closer, and for a moment her eyes clash with his and their foreheads touch and then she's leaving, running, hiding - all over again. But he's having none of that. He pulls her back and runs his hands down her arms but she's flings them away and turns into him and pulls his head down. He looks up surprised and is prepared for her next move even before she makes it. She's moving back but his hands are pulling her in again and somehow in the milliseconds it takes for her body to meet his again, her resistance melts with the distance and they're wrapped around each other.
Peace and heat. He feels complete and on fire, both at once. The noise within has screeched to a halt and he feels lightheaded at the emptiness. Feels the need of his body stronger now that his soul's thirst has been quenched. The music continues, they're shooting and he needs to see her face. Needs to see for himself. He turns her around, and lowers her away from his body but her eyes don't meet his. She refuses to look at him. And he spins her around confused and lowers her again - one more chance, her last chance. He's done playing. He's done fighting. He spins her upright and makes her sit on the sand. It would be a bittersweet end to their sequence. But this time, for the first time, he wants to be the one to walk away. He looks at her one last time as he turns to go. She's looking at him. Her face contorted by emotions they haven't found names for yet. He turns to leave (too late, too silent) but feels her hand on his wrist stopping him. In reflex, his hand automatically (instinctively) tightens around her own and he lets himself be pulled.
When he looks down this time, his fingers once again in her hair, she shows him everything he's always dreamt of. She lets him in. He doesn't know how it happens next. Whether she pushes him or he pulls her but somehow he finds her on top of him and then they are rolling. Their bodies too strung up to stop just yet.
When they stop, she's moving up and so's he. She's turning away, shy this time - self conscious as the daze clears. But he's not done yet. And this time he calls the shots. He decides when she leaves. So he pulls her back to him and reclaims his hold on her. Her back against his chest, their hands entwined over her bare skin and his senses overwhelmed with her scent as he buries his face in her hair. He feels like he's drowning but she's the one swashing around. But even as she moves to and fro - to find relief, to find respite, he doesn't release her, doesn't let her go. When she finally gives up, drops her head back in surrender, he drops his to kiss her on her forehead. He still doesn't let her go.
It is only when they hear a voice, not just sounds, thuds, gasps, music - that they realise what just happened. He immediately drops his hand, she automatically puts hers where his had been even as she sits upright with a start. There is distance between them again.
He doesn't watch her go, finds himself unable to lift his eyes off of the floor. He has no idea how long he stays there, how long it's been since she's left, how long since they finished filming. But he realises it's time to go when a spot boy comes and offers him a hand to get him up.
--
When he opens his apartment door at 2am, he isn't surprised at all to find her standing outside. He moves aside wordlessly and she walks right in.
--
And that's all folks!
If you've reached all the way here, thanks for reading. Please drop me a line and let me know what you think!
Taara
Indian Premier League
Anupamaa
