The house was quiet. The cricket commentary from the TV had faded an hour ago. Ramesh and Sarada were asleep in the bedroom.
Arjun sat on the floor of the small kitchen, his back against the refrigerator. His body was broken. The first day of the camp had dismantled him. His legs throbbed, his shoulder ached from throwing the dead ball, and his ego was bruised.
But the most worrying part was his wrist. Coach Reddy's voice echoed in his head: "Brain is sharp. Wrist is weak."
Arjun looked at his right forearm. It was thin. When he tried to snap the heavy leather ball earlier that day, he had felt the strain in his tendons. He didn't have the forearm mass to generate those high revolutions needed for a sharp cutter.
He needed resistance training. But he didn't have dumbbells, and he couldn't ask Ramesh for a gym membership.
He looked around the kitchen. His eyes landed on the large plastic drum in the corner. The monthly ration. 25kg of Sona Masoori Rice.
Arjun stood up, his knees popping. He dragged the heavy drum to the center of the kitchen. He pried off the lid. The rice was raw, dry, and densely packed.
He took a deep breath. He plunged his right hand deep into the rice. The grains shifted, creating a vacuum-like grip around his fingers and wrist. He tried to open his hand. The resistance was immense. The pressure of thousands of grains pushing back against his fingers made it feel like his hand was trapped in wet cement.
Twist. Open. Close. Twist. Open. Close.
Within thirty seconds, his forearm was on fire. The extensor muscles, usually ignored, were screaming. He switched hands. Left hand in. Twist. Open. Close.
It was a silent, brutal grind. No weights, no machines. Just friction.
"Arjun?"
The voice made him jump. Ramesh was standing in the kitchen doorway, wearing his lungi and banian, holding an empty glass. He had come for water.
He stared at his son. Arjun was sitting on the floor, sweat dripping from his forehead, stabbing his hands violently into the rice drum.
Ramesh blinked. He just looked at the sweat and the intensity.
"What ... are you doing?" Ramesh asked, his voice rough with sleep.
"Training for the wrist," Arjun said, pulling his hand out. His forearm was trembling. "To grip the ball better."
Ramesh walked to the clay water pot. He filled his glass. He drank it slowly, watching Arjun plunge his hand back in for another set. He didn't understand the logic, but he recognized the obsession. It was the same look he had seen in the mirror in 1985.
"Don't spill it," Ramesh said simply, turning back to the bedroom. "Your mother will kill us both."
May 24th, 2011. Tuesday Morning.
The morning session was batting rotation. Arjun padded up. He strapped on his old, yellowing pads.
Today, the context had changed. He wasn't just surviving a trial; he was competing in the Camp. He decided to treat the net session not as practice, but as a match simulation—every ball a contest, every shot a run added to an imaginary scoreboard.
He walked into Net 2. The bowlers were the Club Kids. They saw a new face and wanted to test him. Vikram, a tall fast bowler, marked his run-up.
Ball 1: Vikram banged it short. Arjun saw it early. His brain screamed Pull shot. He swiveled. He tried to whip his hands through the line, just like he used to. But his body didn't follow. The timing was off. The swing felt rushed. His longer arms—unfamiliar to his old muscle memory—arrived a fraction late. Instead of a crack, there was a dull thud. The ball hit the splice of the bat and lobbed awkwardly to where square leg would be.
Ball 2: Vikram bowled full, searching for the pads. Arjun's instinct was to flick it off his legs. A wristy, elegant shot. He planted his foot. He tried to roll his wrists. But the bat face closed too early. The ball found places it hadn't before—grazing the leading edge and popping up to mid-off.
Ball 3: Vikram bowled a good length ball outside off. Arjun threw his hands at it, looking to slash it over point. He missed. His feet hadn't moved. He had just thrown his hands. Whoosh. The ball beat the outside edge by an inch.
"Hold it!"
Coach Reddy walked up to the net. He didn't look angry. He looked like a mechanic listening to a car engine that was misfiring. He stood next to the stumps, arms crossed.
"What are you doing?" Reddy asked, his voice flat. "Are you batting or swatting flies?"
Arjun opened his mouth to explain, but then he stopped. He looked at his hands. They were vibrating from the mistimed shots.
Why am I playing like this?
Then it hit him. His mind instinctively reached for the old blueprints: improvisation, reaction, freedom. These were the reflexes of tennis-ball cricket, where thinking was a luxury and scoring was a necessity.
He wasn't playing the ball. He was playing a memory. And his 14-year-old body couldn't execute the 30-year-old's T20 instincts.
"Trying to... play freely, Sir," Arjun mumbled.
"Free?" Reddy scoffed. "You are flailing. Feet stuck in cement, hands throwing at everything. You play like a gully cricketer."
Reddy walked down the pitch and took the bat from Arjun. "Listen. This is a red ball. It swings. It moves late. You try that cross-batted nonsense here, you are caught behind in five minutes."
He tapped the pitch with the bat handle. "Forget runs. Runs come later. First, you survive."
Reddy took a stance. It was compact, boring, and solid. "Check your drive. Front foot to the pitch of the ball. Head on top. High elbow." He shadowed a forward defense.
"Don't hit it," Reddy said, handing the bat back. "Just meet it. Kill the ego. Kill the ball at your feet."
He pointed to Vikram. "Next 30 balls. Straight drives only. No cross bat. If I see the bottom hand take over, you run two laps."
Arjun gripped the handle tight. The Coach was right. He couldn't just download his old skills. He had to re-install them, one driver at a time.
Watch. Step. Block. The grind began.
By Day 3, the camp had settled into a rhythm.
The Club Kids sat on the pavilion steps. They had catered lunch boxes—paneer, chapati, juice packets. They laughed loudly, throwing foil balls at each other.
Arjun sat under the large Banyan tree near the boundary line. It was cooler here. He opened his steel tiffin box. Lemon Rice. Simple, yellow, and filling.
A shadow fell over him. It was the boy from the first day—the one with the keeping pads. Karthik.
He sat down next to Arjun without asking. He opened his own box. Curd Rice and Pickle. "Is that Lemon Rice?" Karthik asked, eyeing Arjun's box.
"Yeah. Want some?"
"Trade?" Karthik offered a spoon of pickle.
Arjun smiled. "Deal."
They ate in silence for a minute. Arjun watched Karthik. The kid was small, wiry, and had that restless energy of a wicketkeeper. He looked about 14, same as Arjun, but his eyes were bright with unjaded enthusiasm. Arjun felt a strange distance—he was sitting there with the mind of a 30-year-old, listening to a kid talk about lunch.
"My legs are dead," Karthik mumbled, mouth full. "Squatting 300 times a day... Coach makes me do duck-walks."
"Part of the job," Arjun said, sounding more like an uncle than a friend.
Karthik pointed his spoon towards the pavilion steps. "Ravi is smashing everyone in the nets. Did you see him today?"
"I saw," Arjun said. "He hits hard."
"He has a custom bat," Karthik whispered, as if sharing a state secret. "English Willow. Grade A. My dad says it costs 8,000 rupees. The ball just flies off it."
Arjun looked at the group on the steps. He saw the confidence that came with expensive gear and years of private coaching. "Gear helps," Arjun said. "But he plays across the line. If the ball moves, he's in trouble."
Karthik looked at Arjun, surprised. "You think? He scored a fifty in the league last month."
"He scored fifty on flat wickets," Arjun noted calmly. "Wait for a moving ball."
Karthik grinned. "I hope so. If he gets out cheap, maybe we get a chance to bat."
Arjun finished his rice. He liked Karthik. The kid was observant, just lacked the cynicism that Arjun carried. "We'll get a chance," Arjun said. "Just be ready."
May 27th, 2011. Friday Evening.
The first week of camp was over. Bodies were broken. Skins were tanned three shades darker. The initial excitement had turned into grim survival.
Coach Reddy walked to the pavilion pillar with a sheet of paper and a roll of tape. "Sunday. First Practice Match!" Reddy shouted.
The boys gathered around.
"We have 30 boys," Reddy said, crossing his arms. "Next week, I cut the squad to 25. This match will decide who stays and who packs their bags."
He pasted the paper and walked away.
The mob rushed to the pillar. Arjun and Karthik waited at the back, letting the chaos die down. "I bet Ravi is Captain," Karthik said, standing on his toes.
The crowd thinned. They walked up to the list.
TEAM A (Bib Color: Yellow)
V. Ravi (Captain)
S. Vikram (Fast Bowler)
P. Anil (Opener) ... (The list was basically the 'Who's Who' of the camp. The best bats, the fastest bowlers, the club regulars.)
TEAM B (Bib Color: Blue)
... ... 6. Karthik (WK) 7. Arjun (All-Rounder) ... (Basically the non-club players.)
Karthik stared at the list. He let out a dry, disappointed laugh. "Probables vs. Possibles," Karthik muttered. "They put all the stars in Team A. They want them to practice scoring runs against us."
Arjun scanned the names. He saw exactly what the coaches had done. They had stacked the deck. Team A was the intended core group. Team B was just the opposition to help them warm up.
Arjun looked at Team A. They had the power, the pace, and the ego. Then he looked at Team B. They had nothing to lose.
"They expect a massacre," Arjun said quietly.
"We are the practice cones," Karthik agreed. "They just want us to field while they score centuries."
Arjun looked at the name V. Ravi at the top of the list. He touched his right forearm. It felt sore, but harder than it had been on Monday. The rice bucket was working.
"Let them score," Arjun said quietly, turning away from the list. "Sunday is going to be long."
"Maybe," Arjun said, turning away from the pillar. "Or maybe we ruin their practice."
He adjusted his cap. The match wasn't about making the final team yet. It was about surviving the first cut.
Karthik looked at him. He saw something in Arjun's eyes that didn't look like resignation. It looked like a plan.