The AU Engineering College Grounds didn't look like the lush stadiums Arjun watched on TV. It was a dust bowl of red earth, scattered with pebbles and patches of dry, yellow grass that crunched underfoot.
But to Arjun, standing there with the sea breeze hitting his face, it looked like paradise.
The air was thick with the smell of red dust and the specific, rubbery scent of "Hard Tennis" balls—the heavy red Nivia balls that felt like stones and could break fingers if you didn't catch them with soft hands.
There were four different matches happening simultaneously, the boundaries overlapping in a chaotic Venn diagram of cricket.
Arjun tightened the straps of his backpack and walked towards a group near the pavilion end. They were older—college students, likely 1st or 2nd-year B.Tech. They were loud, brash, and currently shouting at a Nokia phone.
"Orey! Where is Ravi? He said he's coming!" the captain, a tall guy with spiked hair, yelled. "We are one short!"
Arjun took a deep breath. He walked up to them. In his mind, he was a 30-year-old man. Here, he was a 5-foot-nothing kid in a school uniform.
"Anna," Arjun said, his voice steady. "Do you need a player?"
The captain looked down. He scanned Arjun's skinny frame, the oversized school bag, and the Bata school shoes. He smirked.
"Go home, kid. We play with Hard Tennis. If the ball hits you, you'll fracture a rib."
The other boys laughed.
"I can field," Arjun insisted, ignoring the jibe. "And I can bowl. I won't cry."
The captain looked at his watch. Ravi wasn't coming. "Fine. But you stand at Deep Fine Leg and don't move. If you drop a catch, you're out. Name?"
"Arjun."
"Okay, Arjun. You're number 11."
It was a 15-over match against a rival batch. Arjun's team was collapsing. The college bowlers were fast, chucking the heavy ball with serious pace. By the 12th over, the score was a miserable 72 for 8.
"Oyy, Schoolboy! Pad up!" someone yelled.
Arjun grabbed a spare bat. It was a heavy Kashmir Willow wrapped in electric tape. It felt like a lead pipe. His 14-year-old wrists wobbled under the weight.
This is going to be harder than I thought, Arjun realized. I have the technique, but I don't have the engine.
He walked to the crease. The bowler saw Arjun—a skinny kid—and visibly relaxed. He jogged in and bowled a slow, floaty half-volley outside off stump.
It was a gift. Arjun's instinct screamed: Smash it over covers.
He stepped forward, his brain firing the signals for a lofted drive. But as he swung, his body lagged. There was no snap in his wrists. He knew if he forced it, the bat would twist, and he'd spoon a catch.
Don't fight the body, he told himself. Use the geometry.
He adjusted mid-shot. Instead of swinging through, he softened his grip. He waited until the ball was right under his eyes. Just as the ball arrived, he opened the face of the bat, using the bowler's own pace.
Thock.
He didn't hit it hard. He just guided it. The ball sliced through the gap between slip and gully, racing away on the hard, red ground.
"Run!" Arjun screamed, his voice cracking. They scrambled for two.
For the next two overs, Arjun didn't hit a single boundary. He physically couldn't. But he poked, nudged, and worked the angles, finding gaps the older boys ignored. He scored a gritty 10 runs off 8 balls. Not a hero's knock, but it dragged the team to a respectable 95.
"Arjun! You said you can bowl?" the captain threw him the ball in the 4th over of the chase.
Arjun caught the heavy red ball. It felt lighter than a cork ball, bouncier.
"Come on.U can do this" Arjun whispered
He measured his run-up. He visualized the action—high arm, snap of the wrist. He ran in. He jumped.
His brain said: Release. His shoulder said: I'm not ready.
The timing was completely off. His back muscles weren't strong enough to hold the upright posture. The ball slipped out of his weak grip. It didn't swing. It didn't even land on the pitch.
It was a high, floating full-toss that sailed five feet wide of the stumps.
"WIDE!" the umpire shouted.
The batsman laughed. "Orey captain! Is this a match or nursery school?"
The captain face-palmed. "Okay, cancel the over! Ravi, you bowl. Chotu, go to Deep Mid-Wicket. Just... just stand there ."
Arjun walked to the boundary, his ears burning. The shame was physical. I know what to do, he thought bitterly. But this body can't do it yet.
The match went down to the wire. Last over. The opponents needed 3 runs to win off 2 balls.
Arjun was fielding at Deep Mid-Wicket.
The batsman smashed the penultimate ball hard. It was a flat pull shot towards Arjun.
Don't drop it.
Arjun fielded it cleanly on the bounce, killing the speed instantly. The batsmen had already completed the first run. They were turning for the second—the tying run.
"KEEPER END! KEEPER END!" the wicketkeeper screamed, waving his gloves.
Arjun looked up. It was a 60-meter throw to the Keeper. He cocked his arm to throw.
Then he stopped. He knew his arm strength. If he threw from the boundary, the ball would bounce three times and loop slowly. The batsman would make the ground easily. He didn't have the power for a direct throw.
He needed a bridge.
He spotted the Short Mid-Wicket fielder—a guy standing halfway between him and the pitch.
"ANNA!" Arjun screamed.
He threw the ball flat and hard—not to the Keeper, but to the fielder at Short Mid-Wicket. A short, fast 25-meter throw.
The fielder was surprised, but the ball came right to his chest. He caught it, turned, and fired it to the Keeper in one fluid motion.
The batsman was diving. The Keeper whipped the bails off.
Thwack.
"OUT!" the umpire raised his finger.
Run out by inches. The match was tied with one ball left.
The ground went silent. The captain looked at the Short Mid-Wicket fielder. "Great throw, ra!"
The fielder shook his head, pointing at the boundary. "Not me. The kid. If he tried to throw direct, it would have been too slow. He gave me a perfect relay."
Arjun stood at the boundary, hands on his knees, gasping for breath. His palms were stinging, and his ego was still bruised from the bowling disaster.
But he smiled.
He couldn't overpower them. He couldn't out-bowl them. Not yet. But he had just out-thought them.
The game ended a ball later—a tie.
Arjun picked up his bag. The captain was drinking water, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"Not bad, Schoolboy," he said. "Good batting. Smart throw."
Arjun nodded. "Thanks, Anna."
The captain slung his kit bag over his shoulder. He poked Arjun's bony shoulder with a grin. "But seriously, go home and eat some eggs. Maybe drink a liter of milk. If I high-five you right now, your hand might break."
The other boys laughed, turning away towards the canteen. They didn't ask for his number. To them, he was just a temporary fix.
Arjun stood alone on the red dust. He looked up. The sun was directly overhead, a blazing white hole in the azure sky. The heat shimmered off the soil. His stomach gave a loud, angry growl. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind the hollow ache of a body running on three dosas.
He hoisted his heavy bag.
"Lunch time," he whispered, squinting against the glare.