The alarm on his digital Casio watch beeped at 5:00 AM. Arjun slapped it off instantly.
He lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling fan. He tried to sit up, but a sharp, tearing pain shot through his chest and triceps. He gasped, collapsing back onto the pillow. DOMS. Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness. His thirty-year-old brain knew exactly what it was—micro-tears in the muscle fibers repairing themselves. But his fourteen-year-old body was screaming that he was dying.
Get up, he commanded himself. Pain is just weakness leaving the body.
He rolled out of bed, landing on the cold mosaic floor. He crept out of the room, past his parents' bedroom door where the rhythmic sound of his father's snoring drifted out. He unlocked the main door silently and climbed the stairs to the terrace.
The sky was a bruised purple, the sun not yet up. Arjun found a spot behind the water tank, hidden from the neighbors' view.
He dropped to the ground.
One. His arms shook violently.
Two. His back sagged. He didn't have the core strength to hold himself up.
Three. He collapsed, his face pressing against the rough concrete.
He lay there, panting, sweat stinging his eyes. Last week, in his head, he was a champion. Today, on the concrete, he was just a weak kid fighting gravity. He wiped the sweat off his forehead.
"Again."
The soreness was a constant companion for the next few days, a dull ache that followed him to school and tuition. But the bigger problem was hunger. Arjun became a scavenger.
On Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday —the "Veg Days"—he stopped at the food cart near the junction on his way back from school. He spent his saved auto fare on two boiled eggs and a packet of roasted peanuts. He ate them quickly, shielded from the road, checking his reflection in the vendor's steel vessel to make sure he didn't look suspicious.
But Friday was different. Friday was a non-veg day.
That night, the smell of chicken curry filled the house. Usually, his mother served him two small pieces and filled the rest of the plate with rice.
Tonight, Arjun didn't wait.
"Ma, can I have more?" he asked.
Sarada looked surprised. Arjun was usually a fussy eater. "You want more pieces?"
"Yes. And less rice."
She smiled, happy to see him eating well, and ladled four more pieces onto his plate.
Arjun ate them methodically. He chewed the meat off the bone, not wasting a scrap. He wasn't eating for taste anymore. He was eating for recovery. He needed every gram of protein to repair the damage he was doing on the terrace. By the middle of the week, the initial paralysis of soreness began to fade. That was when he started fixing the bowling.
He locked his bedroom door at night. He turned on the room lights, turning the dark window glass into a perfect mirror against the night sky.
He picked up a tennis ball. He ran three steps on the spot. Thud-thud-thud. He jumped.
He watched his reflection intently.
He saw the problem immediately. As he jumped, his body collapsed to the left. His core was too weak to hold him upright, so his arm dropped low to compensate. That was why he was chucking. It wasn't a bad habit; it was a lack of strength.
He couldn't fix the weakness in three days. But he could fix the technique.
"Straight back," he whispered to his reflection. "Don't jump high. Just stay straight."
He ran again. This time, he didn't jump as high. He focused entirely on keeping his spine rigid. He forced his arm to come over the top, straight by his ear, even though it felt awkward and stiff.
He repeated the motion. Again. And again.
Without releasing the ball. Just the run-up. The load-up.
Check the mirror. Reset.
Check the mirror. Reset.
He did this every night until sweat soaked his banyan.
Saturday came. The Test.
Arjun sat in the exam hall. He spun his pen.
He knew the answers. He could have written the advanced derivations if he wanted to.
But he stuck to the plan.
Don't be perfect. Be excellent.
He finished the paper in 2 hours. He aimed for 80% — high enough to stay near the top, low enough to avoid scrutiny.
He spent the remaining time staring at the wall, mentally rehearsing his new bowling action.
Run. Lock. Release.
Sunday morning arrived with a stillness that felt heavy.
Arjun woke up at 6:00 AM.
He didn't feel "strong" yet. One week wasn't enough to build visible muscle. But the soreness was gone. His body felt tighter. Connected.
He packed his kit bag. He walked to the living room, trying to be quiet.
"Where are you going?"
Arjun froze.
His dad, Ramesh, was sitting on the sofa, reading the newspaper. His mom was chopping vegetables.
"Ground," Arjun said, gripping the strap of his bag. "Just... playing with friends."
Ramesh lowered the paper. He looked at Arjun over his reading glasses. The silence stretched for a long, uncomfortable moment.
"You have changed," Ramesh said.
Arjun's heart skipped a beat. "What?"
"This whole week," Ramesh said slowly, folding the paper. "You woke up at 5 AM every day. You didn't turn on the TV once. You didn't ask for money for video games. You ate everything your mother cooked without complaining."
Sarada stopped chopping. She looked at him with concern. "And you look... tired, Arjun. Is the coaching too much pressure?"
Arjun gripped the bag tighter. He hadn't realized they were watching him so closely. Indian parents noticed everything.
He needed an answer. Fast.
If he said "I'm training for cricket," it was over.
"I... I was worried about the Test," Arjun lied, letting his shoulders slump a little. "I really wanted to get a good rank this time. So I was just studying and... you know, focusing."
Ramesh's expression softened instantly. The suspicion vanished, replaced by a glow of pride.
"The exam? You did well?"
"I think so," Arjun said, keeping his voice steady. "I think I'll be in the top 5."
Ramesh didn't smile. He just took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving Arjun.
"Top 5," Ramesh repeated, his tone neutral. "It's decent. But don't get comfortable, Arjun. In the real exam, the difference between Rank 1 and Rank 5 is the difference between IIT Bombay and a local college."
He set the cup down on the saucer with a soft clink.
"Next time, bring me Rank 1. Don't settle."
Arjun nodded quickly. "Yes, Dad."
Ramesh stared at him for another second, then waved his hand dismissively.
"Okay. Go play. You studied hard this week, so I won't stop you. But don't roam in the sun too much. Be back for lunch."
Arjun let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Thanks, Dad."
The AU Engineering Ground was buzzing. The dust was flying, the sun already harsh.
Arjun walked towards the pavilion. The tall Captain was there, taping up a tennis ball with electrical tape.
"Anna," Arjun said.
The Captain looked up. He squinted against the sun. He recognized Arjun. A faint smirk appeared.
"Oyy! The Schoolboy is back!"
The Captain stood up, wiping dust off his trousers. He looked Arjun up and down.
"You still look like a strong breeze will blow you away, kid. Did you eat the eggs I told you to?"
Arjun nodded. "Every day."
"Doesn't look like it," the Captain laughed. "But the effort is there."
He checked his Nokia phone and cursed. "Ravi is useless. He said he will be in 5 min " That means he just woke up."
He looked at the field. The other team—the 'Vizag Vipers'—was already marking their run-ups. Arjun could see a pile of cash kept under a brick near the umpire. A bet match.
"Okay. We are one short again. You're playing."
Arjun's eyes lit up. "Can I bowl? I fixed my action. I practiced all week."
The Captain scoffed, shaking his head.
"This is a 500 rupee match, kid. Not a charity. You want me to give the ball to a 9th class student against these guys? They will hit you to the beach."
Arjun opened his mouth to argue, but the Captain cut him off.
"Don't be a hero. Just field. Go to Deep Fine Leg—same spot as last time. And for God's sake, don't drop anything."
The Captain turned away, shouting orders to his team.
Arjun stood there for a second. The rejection stung. He had spent eight days bleeding on the terrace, fixing his arm, visualizing the perfect delivery.
But the world didn't care about his training montage. To them, he was still just a skinny filler.
He gripped the strap of his bag.
Fine, Arjun thought, walking towards the boundary line. I'll show you from the field.
He dropped his bag near the boundary rope. He jogged to his position.
The sun beat down on his neck. The red dust swirled around his ankles.
He was back in the game. Number 11. The fielder at the boundary.
But this time, he was ready.