Dating a sports fanatic amid football riots in India
The author recounts being caught in a football fan riot in India alongside her partner Minti: a large rock flew past her head and a mob armed with Molotov cocktails, knives and machetes descended on the restaurant where they were eating. The incident occurred when the couple had ventured off campus with their driver Satpal to buy groceries. The personal essay explores the tension between love and a partner's extreme sporting passions.
Full text
Before the first Molotov cocktail reached us, before the crowd with knives and machetes and wooden clubs arrived, it was a large rock that invaded our lunch table. It went past my left ear and bounced on our table, spilling food all over before hitting the restaurant’s glass window in front of me. It happened so fast that I initially thought it was a bug, like a praying mantis that had buzzed past. But the sound of glass shattering, followed by the cries of the restaurant workers, made our hearts beat fast—what we had been avoiding the past few weeks was here. The riot was at our doorstep. Minti and I had decided to go off campus to the Easy Go departmental store for groceries, and as we headed back with our driver, Satpal, a young man in his late twenties, we stopped at a roadside dhaba owned by one of his friends. We were just so tired of eating at the campus eatery. With the curfew in place, and the violence happening outside the campus gates, we had been locked up inside the thirty-acre university campus for two weeks and spent the time mostly inside our apartments, waiting for normalcy to return. The spring break had been extended indefinitely, and the university had advised students not to return to campus until further notice.
It wasn’t my idea to go there for lunch. I wanted to get to safety immediately, but Minti said it should be fine; Satpal knew the owner, and the media, the university authorities, the University Campus Safety Office, and her colleagues had all assured her that the violence on the streets was controlled and law and order restored.
More rocks followed the first, arriving like hailstones. In seconds, the windshields of four cars shattered into pieces. Our own car stood intact a few feet away, and I looked at Minti helplessly—we might have to run. One nearby family, who had just started eating, dragged themselves toward their small car. The man hugged a bag, the woman shouted and flailed her arms, and the young teenage boy pulled at his sister, who seemed stupefied.
“Rohit, watch your head!” Minti screamed.
I immediately covered myself with a steel dish to protect myself from a flying rock, letting the rice scatter on the concrete floor of the restaurant’s courtyard. “Run!” I shouted, and we headed toward our car.
Then we heard the screaming. A rock had broken through the family’s rear windshield where the woman and little girl sat. Minti started toward them but stopped short when a bottle swished through the space left by the crumbled window and erupted into flames.
“Get some water!” Minti shouted, pointing toward the jug on our table, and ran toward it.
But the car took off, barreling away down the street as the smoke and the screams of the family mingled. I didn’t have time to think if they would make it, if their car would explode into flames in the middle of the road. I turned away, saw the abandoned shiny leather and pink duffel bags that belonged to the family, and felt something tug at my heart. Did they do the right thing? What was the right thing to do in this situation? Should we run to our car?
The sounds of the angry crowd were coming closer—as if an entire marketplace, shouting and bargaining, was marching toward us like a swarm of bees.
Satpal suddenly came rushing out of the building that housed the dhaba, yelling, “Madam, we have to go.”
“What happened, Satpal?” Minti stood next to our table holding a fork, a piece of chicken still hanging from it.
“I saw from the terrace! They are armed!”
Satpal dragged us back to the building through a heavy iron door, leading to a storage room, followed by four fleets of stairs, up to the terrace of the dhaba. It was full of broken chairs, clotheslines, and a rotting mattress leaning against the waist-high wall that marked the boundary of the terrace. Near the roof’s edge, there was a giant water tank. It looked like an enormous hippopotamus sitting verti-cally on the wall, defying gravity. A ladder leaned against it.
“Where will we hide?” I asked.
Persuaded by a weeping Satpal, we climbed into the water tank using the ladder. Then Satpal covered it with the massive concrete lid sending us into a darkness so black that I couldn’t see my palms. The first thing I felt was the ice-cold winter water. We were knee-deep and enveloped in an eerie, cool stillness. I didn’t know how long we were inside; it was hard to hear what was happen-ing on the streets and ground floor. I heard a noise from outside. But it was just din: the din of people panicked, worried, screaming for help. It felt as though all that din, all that cumulative din, was coming from far; very far away. As if the cold-water tank had trans-ported us to another dimension.
“Minti, are we going to die here?” I whispered. “Rohit, nothing will happen to us. We will be fine.”
We heard a male voice on the terrace. “Look there, under that rotting mattress!”
Minti covered my mouth. I pulled out my phone from my back pocket. In the dim light produced by the phone, I could see the whites of her eyes widen.
My legs ached from the icy water. They turned numb as if they had melted into the water, and I was just floating; it felt like nothing existed beyond my thighs. My legs started to burn. It was then I felt it: something warm, cutting through the icy water. Fresh water was entering the tank. Had one of the vandals entered the kitchen downstairs and switched on the motor? It felt so lovely. The warm freshwater was moving up inch by inch toward my thighs, then to my waist, then to my chin. My legs came back to life. The ache from the icy water was gone.
Is this how it feels to drown?
I shouldn’t have come back home. Everyone had told me to accept the job I was offered in rural Minnesota. But I would never have fallen in love if I had not returned to India. I had just started my life. And in turn, my heart had shattered. I deserved to get some time to mend it. I deserved to experience the heaviness of a broken heart.
Is this how a life ends?
__________________________________
From How to Date a Fanatic by Aruni Kashyap and reprinted with permission from HarperVia, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. Copyright 2026.
Comments
No comments yet
Comments
No comments yet — be the first to weigh in 👇
No comments yet. Be the first!