November 5, 1988, Delhi went about its business as usual.
Buses honked, newspapers were folded under arms, and winter quietly announced its arrival.
Inside a small hospital room, far away from the noise of the city, a boy was born.
Virat Kohli.
No cameras.
No applause.
No signs of what the future holds
At three, he carried a bat larger than his arms could support. At six, he argued with boys older than him, not with words, but with intent. He didn't like being told to wait. He didn't like being told he was "too young."
His father saw it clearly. This was not a phase. This was a direction.
At nine, when most children were still experimenting, he was taken to the West Delhi Cricket Academy. The nets were unforgiving. The bowlers are older. The expecations higher. He was no prodigy announced with applause. He was just another boy learning to survive.
There were mornings he didn't want to go. There were evenings when failure weighed heavier than the bat in his hand. But quitting was never discussed. The routine remained unchanged. Discipline did not bend for moods.
Slowly, something took shape.
Coaches noticed the intensity before they noticed the runs. Teammates noticed how seriously he took practice matches. Mistakes angered him. Mediocrity offended him. He demanded more from himself than anyone else did.
Once, after getting out cheaply in a junior match, Virat did not return to the dressing room immediately. He stood near the boundary, helmet still on, watching every delivery that followed. His bat rested against his pads, untouched. He wasn't sulking. He was studying. Replaying the moment he failed, over and over, as if repetition might undo it.
Most boys forgot a bad innings by evening.
Virat carried it into the night.
Another time, during practice, a senior dismissed him twice in quick succession. The third ball was edged again, but this time, Virat refused to walk off. He asked for one more ball. Not out of defiance, but necessity. He needed to prove something to himself before leaving the net. The next delivery was driven cleanly. Only then did he walk away.
Even as a child, he hated being protected from competition. When adults suggested he play against younger boys to build confidence, he refused. He wanted pace. He wanted a challenge. Comfort felt like an insult.
The boy called Chiku was still far from becoming Virat Kohli.
There was no crown yet. No jersey stitched with expectation. No country watching.
But the foundation was already set.
A child who refused shortcuts.
A mind that rejected comfort.
A spirit that leaned toward pressure rather than away from it.
And long before the world would learn his name,
Chiku had already decided something that mattered more:
He would never choose the easier path.
End of chapter 1 - The Making of Chiku