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Author Thought
Many may wonder why the first chapter is titled "The Boy Who Bowled with a Broken Bat" when the protagonist never so much as bowled a single ball. Here's the secret: the finest batsmen are those who truly understand bowling—often more deeply than they understand batting itself. To triumph, it is wise to know one's strengths, but even wiser to know the mind and methods of the opposition. A batsman may never become a masterful bowler, but he is perfectly placed to read each delivery and anticipate every move, much like a general who studies his rival's strategy to win the war.
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The morning after the match, Chandpur was buzzing—not with news of politics or prices, but with whispers about a boy who had hit three sixes off the Railway Colony's fastest bowler. Nikhil Srivastam's name was passed around like a secret too good to keep.
But Nikhil wasn't basking in glory. He was scrubbing steel cups at his father's tea stall, his fingers raw from detergent and his mind replaying every ball he'd faced. He didn't care about praise. He cared about progress.
"Your footwork was off on the second six," said a voice behind him.
Nikhil turned. A man stood there, tall and wiry, wearing a faded red cap and carrying a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. His skin was sunburnt, his eyes sharp.
"You're Nikhil, right?" the man asked.
"Yes," Nikhil replied cautiously.
"I'm Coach Devraj. I run the cricket academy near the sugar mill. Saw you play yesterday. You've got timing. But you're raw."
Nikhil blinked. No one from the academy ever came to Chandpur. It was for rich kids—those who had pads, gloves, and parents who paid for private coaching.
"I can't afford your academy," Nikhil said, wiping his hands.
Devraj smiled. "I'm not offering you a seat. I'm offering you a trial. One week. If you impress me, I'll talk to the district board. There's a tournament next month. U-14 selection."
Nikhil's heart thudded. A trial? A real chance?
"But I don't have gear," he said.
Devraj tossed him a pair of old spikes. "They're worn, but they'll grip better than slippers. Be at the ground tomorrow. 6 AM sharp. Don't be late."
And just like that, he was gone.
That night, Nikhil couldn't sleep. He stared at Shera, his battered bat, and wondered if it would survive another match. He taped it again, layer by layer, whispering to it like a friend before war.
The next morning, he arrived at the academy ground. It was unlike anything he'd seen—flat turf, real nets, cones, and boys in matching kits. Nikhil stood out like a stain.
Devraj walked over. "You'll bat third. Watch the first two. Learn."
The first boy was textbook—perfect stance, crisp drives, no wasted movement. The second was aggressive, pulling short balls with flair. Nikhil watched every detail—their footwork, their grip, their reactions.
Then it was his turn.
He stepped into the net, heart pounding. The bowler was fast, older, and clearly unimpressed. The first ball was short. Nikhil ducked. The second was full. He drove—clean, straight, and powerful.
The sound echoed.
Devraj nodded.
For the next ten minutes, Nikhil faced everything—bouncers, yorkers, off-spin, leg-spin. He didn't dominate, but he adapted. He learned. He survived.
After the session, Devraj pulled him aside.
"You've got instinct. But instinct isn't enough. You need discipline. You need hunger. Do you have that?"
Nikhil looked him in the eye. "I don't want to play cricket. I want to live it."
Devraj smiled. "Good. Come tomorrow. We'll start with footwork drills. And bring Shera."
Nikhil blinked. "You know my bat's name?"
Devraj chuckled. "Every warrior names his sword."