The house was quiet when Aarav arrived that Saturday afternoon. The familiar scent of masala drifted from the kitchen, his mother humming softly as she worked. His father was seated in the veranda, a newspaper spread across his lap, glasses resting low on his nose. Aarav hadn't told them why he was coming. He didn't have the words—not in a text, not over the phone. Some things had to be spoken face-to-face.
"Appa," Aarav said, stepping forward.
His father looked up, instantly sensing the seriousness in his son's tone. He folded the paper neatly, setting it aside, and gestured to the chair next to him.
"Sit."
For a long moment, Aarav said nothing. He looked out at the street, where kids were playing cricket with plastic stumps and taped tennis balls. Then, quietly, he began.
"It started small," he said. "Just a few overs in college nets. I didn't even think it meant anything at first. But the more I bowled… the more alive I felt. Like I'd found something that was mine."
He paused, looking at his hands. "I didn't tell you because I wasn't sure it was real. And then… things just kept moving. Coach Reddy saw something in me. I started training harder. Practicing at odd hours. Trying to juggle everything—classes, cricket, studies. I played tournaments, Appa. I even helped win the college final with two clutch wickets and a six."
His father's expression didn't change. He was listening.
"But then I pushed too hard. I stopped sleeping. I skipped meals. I lied to you during the holidays when I said I was just tired from studying. The truth is… I couldn't even stand properly some mornings. I was hiding how bad it had gotten. Then during finals, my body just... gave up. I sat in the exam hall and couldn't think. Couldn't write. The doctor said I was dangerously close to a collapse."
He looked up, guilt etched in his face. "That's when I stopped. I stepped back. I focused on recovering, on placements, on making you both proud again. And I did. I secured a job. Got healthy. Balanced my life. I thought maybe that chapter of my life was closed."
His voice caught slightly. "But then… I watched that match. The semi-final. When Charles and Simmons took the game away from us, and Kohli—our best batter—had to bowl. I couldn't sleep that night, Appa. Not because I was angry we lost. But because... I knew I could've done something in a moment like that. I've felt that pressure before. I've delivered in it. I know what it means to be that missing link."
He finally looked his father in the eye. "I'm not chasing fame anymore. I'm not reckless. I've learned what happens when I ignore my limits. But I also know what it feels like to have something burning inside you and walk away from it. And now, with a job in hand, my health in control, and clarity in my mind... I want to try again. But this time, wisely."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was thick with thought.
His father didn't speak immediately. He leaned back, gazing out at the same kids Aarav had watched. Their plastic ball clacked against a tin gate. A dog barked.
Finally, he said, "You've lived a whole world we didn't even know about."
He took off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"I always thought your tiredness was from the books, the stress of final year. I never imagined you were living a double life—one where your mind was in circuits and code by day, and your body was being pushed like an athlete's by night."
He looked at Aarav again. "You've grown. I can see that. The boy who used to chase cricket videos on YouTube… became someone with his own highlight reel. But this—" he gestured at nothing and everything "—this is not a small decision."
"I know," Aarav whispered.
His father nodded slowly. "Let me think this through, beta. You've told me your truth. And I'm proud of your honesty. But I need time to understand what this means—for your future, for our family, for you."
Aarav swallowed hard. "Okay."
There was no argument. No raised voice. Just a pause, the kind that holds both weight and respect.
His father stood, placing a gentle hand on Aarav's shoulder.
"You've done a lot. You've come far. And you've come home. That matters."
Then, almost as an afterthought, he asked, "You still have that cricket kit?"
Aarav blinked, caught off guard. "Yeah. It's in my hostel."
His father gave the faintest of smiles. "Bring it next time. Let's see what this 'dream' of yours really looks like."