Instead, he walked to the nine-storeyed shopping complex opposite, walked up the stairs, stopped at the balcony on the sixth floor, paused. There was the stadium down below, the Ganges snaking its way through eastern Uttar Pradesh, just beyond, cargo boats bobbing up and down, a thin green line of trees framing the horizon. He stepped over the ledge, paused again. And then, he stepped into thin air.

First, the life insurance hoarding on the fifth floor, then in a blur, the fourth, and before the gardener at the stadium, watching in horror, could blink his eye, the third, the second and the loud thud.

Kya kar rahe ho aaj kal? Subhash Dixit had finally managed to come up with an answer: he had killed himself.
India under-15 captain for the World Challenge in 2000, Uttar Pradesh under-19 captain till 2002. But then: kya kar rahe ho aaj kal?

Failing to live up to that early promise, dumped without a second chance by his state’s cricket association, counting the days in his “pool in” accommodation in distant Kolkata, playing club cricket, his cricket dreams fading out, no job, his grandmother dead, his grandfather suffering from brain tumour, his father mentally unstable, living separately.

Just 22 years old, Subhash simply gave up, got sucked into the dark underbelly of smalltown India’s bigtime cricket boom.

On one side, you have Mahendra Dhoni, Subhash’s under-15 teammate Irfan Pathan, Mohammad Kaif, Suresh Raina, Sreesanth and RP Singh, all international stars—Ranchi, Vadodara, Allahabad, Kochi, Rae Bareli, mega deals, millions of fans, interviews, advertisements.

On the other side, Subhash Dixit, Nala Road, Parwat, Kanpur. And millions like him. This is their story, most of them ending behind piles of files in government offices, on the clerical desks of banks, in the cubicles of small-time private companies, some of them in mortuaries, like Subhash.

Yet, they all began the same way. “He was just about three years old when his mother came back to the family house with him and his younger sister. Since then, I started taking him to the Green Park Stadium nearby,” says Dixit’s uncle OP Tiwari, a junior clerk with Eastern Railway and former Bengal domestic player, who turned his back on UP cricket over 15 years ago.

Tiwari, then trying to break into the UP Ranji team, saw better hope in Subhash, too small to hold a cricket bat but crazy enough about the game to run hard around the stadium, lap after lap, with his uncle and his teammates. His first feel of the hard cricket leather was when the ball began to thud into his fingers--at 4, his uncle had begun to give him “high ball catch practice”.

“Subhash used to come home crying, but I lured him back to the ground with a toffee or two,” says Tiwari. Soon enough, his friends started calling him “mama”, amused and a bit jealous at the way Tiwari was pushing his nephew’s cricket career.

The years passed by in a mad whirl of grounds, home and the odd visit to the cinema theatre with friends. And Subhash began to develop into a “fine” all-rounder, known locally for his “safe, stylish batting” in the middle order, called in occasionally to bail out teams with his off-spin. “That flick off his legs, oof,” says Shashikant Khandekar, former UP player, Subhash’s early mentor.

But then, the young cricketer had also began to skip school, finishing his Class X after a few breaks, and then picking up only much later, appearing for his Class XII last year, “in private”. His family didn’t keep tabs, they didn’t think they should—grandfather’s pension kept going. Cricket, they were sure, would bail them out.

It did actually, in the beginning. Khandekar had become a national junior selector—he was a UP selector too—and Subhash was picked for the Indian camp for an Asian Cricket Council tournament in Kuala Lumpur and the World Challenge in England in July 2000. By then, he had scored a string of “decent scores” in a series of age-group tournaments across India, never topping hundred, but always there in the reckoning.

But what happened then stunned even Subhash. “At the India camp, we had a look at all the boys and decided that the captain would be a batsman. We conducted a series of matches, made the main batsmen lead by turns, looked for leadership qualities. Three names cropped up, including that of Subhash. I pushed for my boy, former left-spinner Rajinder Goel back me, and Roger Binny, the coach, went along,” says Khandekar.

Looking back, was that the turning point, thrusting too much pressure on a cricketer who had clearly begun to develop into an introvert by then, rarely confiding his thoughts even to his closest friends? Khandekar won’t answer, just gives an embarrassed smile. Anyway, Subhash returned to Kanpur a hero—interviews, newspaper profiles, declarations from experts and officials that he was their next India man.

“This is the first time after his death that I am opening this,” says Tiwari, turning the key in gingerly, pulling open the doors of Subhash’s steel cupboard. There’s that under-15 team tie neatly folded, a cococut-shaped local trophy, and a few shirts folded and piled neatly, one on top of the other.

On the wall of room is a Sachin Tendulkar poster—Sachin in a garish, striped Polo T-shirt, eyes hidden behind fancy sunglasses. “He wanted the poster just there, opposite his bed so that he could wake up and see Sachin,” says Tiwari, biting back the tears.

Next Sachin? That’s when Subhash’s life began to tailspin. “He just couldn’t live up to that early talent. He was captain of the under-19 UP team, but couldn’t make it to the under-22 team, he started fading,” says Khandekar.

But then, there’s this small records sheet his family pulls out, which shows Subhash scored his first big century (143) in the Cooch Behar Trophy just two games before he was dropped forever in 2002. Again, that embarrassed smile—let’s just say that Khandekar’s stint as selector was over by then, there was nobody to back Subhash now.

That was also when a friend first asked him: “Kya kar rahe ho aaj kal?”

The tailspin was now gathering speed. Subhash hung around to attend a few more state selection trials—more tea with friends, more movies—till Tiwari took him to Kolkata to play for the Barisha club there, run by Arup Chatterjee, an uncle of former India captain Sourav Ganguly. “He’s the kind of good boys clubs usually look for, and Subhash had the right manners. I grew so fond of him soon that I even sometimes used to ask him over to my place. There was a time when we even arranged for his stay in a flat owned by Sourav,” says Chatterjee.

But Barisha coach Debu Mukherjee admits: “As a player, strictly from the coach’s point of view and without any harsh feelings, I thought he was a little better than average at cricket. He wasn’t bad but he wasn’t outstanding. There was another thing about him that strikes me, now that all this has happened. He used to get very obsessed with performance.”

“Kya kar rahe ho aaj kal?”
Early this year, Subhash had begun that long, slow walk towards that pan-stained ledge on the sixth floor. His grandmother was gone, his grandfather was sinking, his Barisha season had been cut short by a shoulder injury, he wasn’t getting that job he badly wanted. Says Anurag Shukla, neighbour and close friend: “He had really become an introvert. Things became so bad that we even took him to a doctor who said it was just a case of anxiety.”

Then, the final thud. “Just the day before, I met him at the nearby temple, but he slipped away without talking to me. He had been like that for a while, so I didn’t really bother. Then I got that phone call,” says Prem Kumar, who has played with Subhash since their under-12 days.

“It was about 9.30 am, when I heard this loud noise. I turned and saw this body just beyond the steps outside, just a few feet away from where I was standing,” says Devrat Shukla, security guard at Kanpur’s Krishna Towers. “For a few minutes, I couldn’t open my mouth, my body was shivering. Why would anyone do that?”

“I heard people shouting. I looked up, and saw something falling past the third floor of the shopping complex,” says Sitaram, the gardener at Green Park, just opposite.

For a whole day, Subhash’s body lay on ice in the mortuary, nobody knew who it was. By lunch time, his family had begun to get worried, there were rumours that a “boy had jumped from Krishna Towers”. “I rushed to the mortuary, but the body was so mangled that I decided it wasn’t him,” says Shukla, adding, “I went back in the evening, but again, I was sure that it wasn’t him. His family kept on hoping that he had gone out with his friends and would return by night.”

Night became day, and when his uncle saw the morning papers, and that photo of “an unidentified body”, his heart sank. “It was the same black, check shirt, the red thread on his wrist.”

Soon, the netas landed up, Khandekar’s house was pelted with stones, a march was organised to the District Magistrate’s office, the Uttar Pradesh Cricket Association scrambled for cover, then emerged one day later with a cheque for Rs 1 lakh. “There are so many people from poor backgrounds struggling to make it big in cricket. Nobody commits suicide like this. Even I was from a poor background,” squeals Gopal Sharma, former India off-spinner and UP selector.

But Subhash’s family is just numb, can’t react, mother Rama Devi won’t speak, the tears won’t stop, even a week later. “What’s the use now? We only hope no other family, anywhere, has to go through this ever again.”

Kya kar rahe ho aaj kal. No more.