The academy nets smelled of sweat and damp matting. Old balls lay scattered like forgotten ideas. Rao stood with arms crossed, watching Arjun take guard.
"Play normally," Rao said.
Arjun nodded.
The first few balls were unremarkable. Solid defense. Safe shots. Rao relaxed slightly.
Then Rao changed tactics.
He asked a senior boy—six years older—to bowl fast.
The first delivery came in sharp. Arjun's front foot moved instinctively, bat coming down straight, timing so clean it made no sound at all.
The ball raced back past the bowler.
Rao felt it in his chest.
There it is.
For ten minutes, Arjun dismantled the bowler—not violently, but surgically. Gaps opened where Rao hadn't noticed any. Fielders might as well not exist.
Then, just as suddenly, Arjun stopped.
Next ball, he mistimed a drive.Then another.Then he was bowled, late on the shot.
Silence.
Rao stepped into the net. "Why did you stop?"
Arjun blinked. "Stop what, sir?"
"Don't play games with me."
Arjun lowered his eyes. "I got tired."
Rao almost laughed.
"Tired?" he said. "You weren't breathing hard."
Arjun shrugged slightly. "Maybe my mind got tired."
That was the wrong answer.
Or the right one.
Rao dismissed the others early. When the nets emptied, he sat Arjun down on a bench.
"You know how many boys would kill to bat like that?" Rao asked.
Arjun said nothing.
"And you throw it away."
Arjun finally looked up. His eyes were calm. Too calm.
"If I play like that every day," he said carefully, "people will want things from me."
Rao felt something shift.
"What things?"
"Results," Arjun said. "Promises. Obedience."
Rao stared at him.
He had coached future Ranji players. None had ever spoken like this.
"You're seven," Rao said quietly.
Arjun nodded. "Yes, sir."
Rao leaned back, suddenly unsure who was being evaluated.
That evening, Rao made a decision of his own.
He would train the boy.
And he would not ask too many questions.