May 1978. The Backyard.
The victory tasted like metal. Specifically, the rusty taste of adrenaline fading into exhaustion. But the aftermath smelled like Dettol.
Varun sat on the stone slab in the washing area behind the house. His trousers, the white ones Lakshmi had hemmed with such care, were ruined. The right leg was shredded, the fabric stained a dark, muddy brown where blood had mixed with the red clay of the stadium after Varun had slid during a fielding drill.
Lakshmi Reddy did not care about the state selection. She cared about the infection.
"Hold still," she commanded, holding a bottle of amber liquid and a ball of cotton wool.
"It's fine, Amma," Varun hissed, gripping the edge of the stone slab. "It's just a scratch."
"It is a road map," Lakshmi said grimly. "That soil is full of filth. Do you want gangrene? Do you want them to cut the leg off?"
She dabbed the Dettol onto the raw, weeping abrasion that ran from his hip to his knee.
Fssssst.
The pain was blinding. It was a sharp, chemical fire that made Varun's vision blur. He gasped, arching his back, his toes curling against the wet cement.
"Walk it off," Chuck Thomas tried to say.
"No," the seven-year-old brain countered. "This hurts. This really hurts."
Srinivas Reddy stood by the door, holding the ruined trousers. He looked at the hole in the fabric.
"He's trying his best" Srinivas said softly.
"He slid like a donkey," Lakshmi snapped, blowing on the wound to cool it. "Why fall down? Can you not run on your feet?"
"It saved the wicket," Varun managed to say through gritted teeth.
Lakshmi applied a paste of turmeric and oil over the Dettol. The burning subsided to a dull, throbbing heat. She bandaged it with a strip of clean white cloth torn from an old dhoti.
"No cricket for three days," she declared. "Let the scab form."
The List
Later that night, after a dinner of rice and rasam, Srinivas placed a sheet of paper on the floor. It was the official letter from the KSCA.
"Congratulations," it read. "Selected for the Under-10 State Training Squad."
Below that was the equipment list.
1. White Shirt and Trousers (2 sets)2. Cricket Boots (Spiked)3. Batting Gloves4. Abdominal Guard (The Box)5. Helmet (Optional but recommended)6. Kit Bag
Varun looked at the list. In Seattle, the team manager just handed you a duffel bag. You didn't even check what was inside; you just knew it was the best gear Nike could manufacture.
Here, nothing accompanied this note. It was a stark reminder of what his life was before he became a star in his former life. When every day was a grind, and he hustled for every spare dollar available.
Moreover, poverty in the US did not compare to poverty in India. In the United States immense funding was given to sports programs, and there was enough equipment to go around. The struggle was immense, but the facilities were superb.
"I have the shoes," Varun said quietly. "Rohan gave them to me."
"They are borrowed," Srinivas said, staring at the paper. "A state player should not wear charity."
"They fit," Varun argued. "With two socks."
Srinivas ran a hand over his face. The stubble on his chin rasped. "Gloves. We need gloves. And the guard. The ball is hard."
"I don't need a helmet," Varun said defiantly. "I can see the ball."
"Viv Richards doesn't wear a helmet," Srinivas conceded. "But you are not Viv Richards. You are seven."
"I don't need it," Varun insisted. A helmet was expensive. Imported. It would cost more than the bat.
Srinivas looked at Lakshmi. She was sitting in the corner, mending the torn trousers. She was stitching a patch of white cloth over the hole. It would look ugly. It would look poor.
"We will manage," Srinivas murmured. His voice was steady, but Varun heard the strain in it.
_____________________________
Two days later, Srinivas took Varun to Chickpet on the scooter.
They didn't go to the sports shop first. They went to a small, narrow shop sandwiched between a silk merchant and a tea stall. The sign said Mahaveer Bankers & Jewelers.
Srinivas parked the scooter. He patted his shirt pocket.
"Wait here," Srinivas said.
"What are we doing?" Varun asked.
"Business," Srinivas said.
He went inside. Through the glass partition, Varun watched. Srinivas took something off his wrist. It was the HMT watch. The silver watch with the black dial. The one his father, Varun's grandfather, had given him when he turned eighteen.
Srinivas placed it on the counter. The man behind the counter, a heavyset man with rings on every finger, picked it up. He put a jeweler's loupe to his eye. He examined it. He shook his head. He offered a price.
Srinivas argued. He gestured. He pointed to the watch again.
Finally, the man counted out a stack of notes. Srinivas took them. He didn't look back at the watch. He walked out.
"Appa," Varun said, his throat tight. "That was Thatha's watch."
I know how much that meant to you. How much of a sacrifice this is.
Srinivas put the money in his pocket. He looked at Varun. His wrist looked strangely naked, a pale band of skin where the strap had been.
"It is just a machine that tells time, Varun," Srinivas said lightly. Come. We have to buy gloves."
They went to Olympic Sports. It smelled of leather and linseed oil.
Srinivas didn't haggle this time. He bought a pair of SG batting gloves. They were white with green rubber sausage-fingers.
"Try them," Srinivas said.
Varun slipped them on. The leather palm was soft. He gripped the Kashmir Willow.
Grip.
It felt right. The connection was secure. No sweat. No slipping.
Then, Srinivas bought the abdominal guard. A hard plastic cup shaped like a shell.
"Most important," the shopkeeper joked. "Future insurance."
Varun blushed.
Srinivas counted out the money. He had enough left for a pair of socks and a new white shirt.
They walked out into the sunlight. Varun carried the box. He felt the weight of the gear, but he felt the weight of his father's sacrifice.
"I will get it back," Varun said suddenly, stopping on the crowded pavement.
Srinivas stopped. "What?"
"The watch," Varun said. He looked up at his father, his eyes fierce. "When I play for India. I will buy you a Rolex. A gold one."
Srinivas laughed. It was a genuine, warm laugh. He ruffled Varun's hair.
"First, play for Karnataka, Kanna. Then we will talk about gold."
He climbed onto the scooter. Varun hopped on the front.
As they drove away, Varun gripped the handlebars with his new gloves. He squeezed them tight.
"He sold time for you," the Whisper noted somberly. "Don't waste a second."
"I won't," Varun vowed internally. "I'm going to succeed or die trying."