The profound conversation with his father had unburdened Aarav in a way he hadn't realized was possible. The weight of expectations, both his own and his family's, had been lifted. The fear of disappointing them, the anxiety of choosing the "wrong" path, all of it had vanished, replaced by a deep, unwavering sense of peace. His father's words, a legacy of his own unfulfilled dreams, resonated with a simple, powerful truth: pure intent. It was a mantra that settled his mind, allowing him to breathe deeply and find clarity in the chaotic world of professional ambition.
With his mind finally clear, Aarav returned to his training, but his approach was fundamentally different. The gnawing feeling of FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) that had plagued him before, the subtle comparisons he'd make between his journey and those of others, all fell away. He wasn't trying to be the next Kohli, the next Steyn, or the next big IPL star. He was simply trying to be the best version of himself, a cricketer who honored the game and the trust placed in him. He practiced with a renewed sense of joy, driven not by the need to prove something, but by a genuine, unadulterated love for the game itself.
His primary focus, beyond his relentless stamina drills for bowling, was to elevate his fielding. He had always been a solid fielder, but now he sought to make it a weapon, an art form in its own right. He knew that in the long, attritional game of Ranji cricket, where every single run was a hard-fought battle, every saved run and every quick-fire run-out could turn the tide of a match. His experience of having seen matches lost by a handful of runs had left an indelible mark on him.
Aarav dedicated hours to improving his reflexes. He would stand at point-blank range, with Coach Reddy hitting sharp, stinging volleys at him with a tennis racket, or with a reflex ball that bounced unpredictably. He would move his feet with lightning speed, diving, catching, and parrying with an intensity that made him sweat and pant as much as a bowling spell. He worked on low-ball pickups, ground fielding, and catching high lobs, understanding that a single dropped catch of a set batsman could cost his team a win and a match.
He also meticulously worked on his throwing accuracy from the boundary. This was a critical skill for a fast bowler, who often field in the deep. He would stand at long-off or long-on, with a teammate running between the wickets. He'd practice gathering the ball cleanly and firing a flat, powerful throw directly over the stumps, aiming for the keeper's gloves or the non-striker's end with pinpoint precision. He knew that a fast, accurate throw, even if it didn't result in a run-out, could save precious seconds, turning a comfortable two into a desperate single, or forcing an error from the batsmen. The repetitive, focused nature of this training, where every throw was an opportunity to get it right, became a new form of meditation for him, a quiet, single-minded pursuit of perfection.
His training was no longer about impressing a selector, securing a spot, or competing with a rival. It was about pure, unadulterated self-improvement. The father's words were a constant companion: play with pure intent. Aarav was doing just that. He was honing his craft, not for fame or glory, but for the satisfaction of knowing he had done his best, for the love of the game itself. The Ranji season was approaching, and Aarav, with a clear mind and a pure heart, was ready for the next challenge.