The journey back from the Zinc Ground to the residential quarters was a long, rattling affair.
Arjun sat on the back of the Bajaj Chetak, his head resting against his father's sturdy back. The vibration of the engine hummed through his body, numbing the sharp, throbbing pain in his knees. He was exhausted.
As Ramesh killed the engine outside their block, Arjun saw her.
Sarada was standing at the grille door on the ground floor, waiting. She wasn't just checking for them; she was holding the door open, her eyes scanning the dark street.
Arjun climbed off the scooter, his legs stiff. He grabbed his kit bag, but before he could lift it, Sarada was there.
"Give it to me," she said, taking the heavy bag from his shoulder.
"It's heavy, Ma," Arjun protested weakly. "I can carry it," she said firmly. She looked at his face—streaked with dried sweat and red dust. Then she looked at Ramesh, who was locking the scooter handle.
"He called," Sarada said, her face breaking into a wide, relieved smile. "He called me at 6:30 from the PCO. He said, 'Ma, start the chicken.'"
Arjun grinned. He remembered the call. He had spent his last one-rupee coin to tell her.
"I made the list, Ma. Top 30."
Sarada let out a breath she seemed to have been holding all day. She reached out and cupped his face, her hands smelling of turmeric and garlic.
"I knew it. I told Mrs. Murthy upstairs that my son is not wasting time. I offered a coconut to Sai Baba this morning."
She ushered them inside. "Come. Go wash. The water is hot."
Ramesh walked in behind them, carrying his helmet. He watched his wife fuss over the boy. He didn't say anything, but as he unbuttoned his collar, the tension in his shoulders finally unknotted.
Arjun disappeared into the bathroom. The sound of water filling the bucket echoed in the small flat.
Ramesh stood in the living room. The ceiling fan whirred above him, stirring the warm air. He felt the grit of the day on his own skin. He needed a bath, but he felt too heavy to move just yet.
He walked past the display cabinet in the corner of the room. It was a standard wooden cabinet with glass doors, filled with the debris of a middle-class life: a set of bone china cups that were never used, a plastic doll from a fair, a stack of old Reader's Digest magazines.
And in the corner, pushed slightly to the back, sat the silver cup.
Inter-College Badminton Runner-Up - 1985.
Ramesh stopped. He stared at his own reflection in the dusty glass, superimposed over the trophy. He opened the cabinet door. The hinge gave a familiar, high-pitched squeak.
He reached in and touched the cold metal of the cup. It was tarnished, dark spots blooming on the silver.
He closed his eyes and the memory washed over him. 1985. The heat of the indoor court. The smell of rubber shoes. The feeling of being twenty years old, fast, and hungry. He had been good. Not just okay, but good.
Then came the memory of his father's voice, sharp and practical.
"Sports won't feed you, Ramesh. Look at your uncle. He played football and now he sells tickets at the cinema hall. Get a job in the Plant. Be a responsible man."
Ramesh had listened. He had been scared of the uncertainty. He had chosen the exam, the interview, the quarters, the scooter. He had chosen safety. And for fourteen years, he had tried to force Arjun into the same safety, terrified that the boy would inherit his hunger but lack the talent to feed it.
But he didn't buckle, Ramesh thought, looking towards the bathroom door.
He had left the boy alone in an ocean of three hundred desperate kids. No coaching, no influence, no fancy gear. Just a fourteen-year-old kid with a secondhand bat and stubbornness.
Arjun hadn't panicked. He hadn't come home crying. He had stood his ground and carved a spot for himself.
Ramesh felt a strange emotion rising in his chest. It wasn't just pride. It was a mix of relief and a quiet, aching envy. His son had the courage he never did.
Ramesh wiped a smudge of dust off the base with his thumb. placed it back carefully and closed the cabinet door gently
He walked to the kitchen doorway. The aroma of chicken curry was thick and inviting. Sarada was stirring the pot, the steam rising around her.
"Sarada," Ramesh said softly.
She turned, startled. "Oh! I didn't hear you come in. Do you want tea?"
"Strong tea. Less sugar," Ramesh said. He leaned against the doorframe, lowering his voice so it wouldn't carry down the hallway.
"And listen," he said, his tone serious. "From tomorrow, change the grocery list."
Sarada paused, the ladle hovering over the pot. "Change what?"
"Buy the big packet of almonds. The American ones. And boil two eggs for him every morning. Not one."
Sarada frowned slightly, doing the mental math that every Indian mother does. "But Ramesh, the almond prices went up last week. And two eggs daily... the monthly budget will go over by 500 rupees."
"Adjust it," Ramesh said firmly. "Take it from my petrol allowance. I'll share a ride with Kumar for a few days. Or cut the cable bill."
He looked back toward the hallway, ensuring Arjun wasn't listening.
"The boy is playing the district camp now. He will be competing with boys who eat mutton every day. He cannot look like a skeleton in front of them. He needs strength."
Sarada looked at her husband. She saw the lines of fatigue around his eyes, but she also saw the determination. She smiled, a soft, knowing look.
"Okay," she whispered. "I'll get them tomorrow."
9:00 PM.
Dinner was a ritual.
They sat on the floor in the living room, plates balanced on their laps, eyes fixed on the Onida CRT TV.
It was IPL season. The sound of the crowd, the blast of the horn, and the commentary filled the room.
Mumbai Indians vs. Rajasthan Royals.
Venue: Wankhede Stadium, Mumbai.
Arjun sat with his legs stretched out, his back against the sofa. He was eating quietly, mixing the spicy chicken gravy with rice. The ice pack he had wrapped around his knee was dripping condensation onto the floor, but the numbness felt good.
"Mumbai batted first," Ramesh said, pointing at the screen with a chicken bone. "133 for 5. It is a low score."
"It's decent," Arjun mumbled, his mouth full.
"Decent? It's low," Ramesh argued, enjoying the chance to analyze. "But on this pitch, the ball is stopping. And look at the bowling attack. Malinga. Munaf Patel. Harbhajan Singh. Mumbai can defend this considering the RR recent form."
Arjun watched the screen.
Usually, his memory of the 2011 IPL was patchy. He remembered who won the tournament (CSK), and he remembered the World Cup vividly. But random league matches? They were a blur.
In fact, his "future knowledge" had taken a beating recently. Two days ago, he had confidently predicted that Pune Warriors would beat Deccan Chargers. He had been so sure.
Pune lost by 6 wickets.
Ramesh had mocked him for forty-eight hours straight. "Orey Cricket Expert, what happened to your prediction?"
But this match...
Arjun looked at the screen. He saw the Rajasthan Royals openers walking out.
Shane Watson. Rahul Dravid.
A specific memory clicked into place. Not a vague hunch, but a high-definition replay in his brain.
"Rajasthan will win," Arjun said casually.
Ramesh scoffed, taking a bite of a drumstick. "Here we go again. Just like you said Pune would win? Rajasthan is in terrible form, Arjun. They lost their last five matches in a row. They are demoralized."
"That was a bad guess," Arjun admitted. "This one isn't a guess. Rajasthan wins."
"Against MI , In Wankhede?" Ramesh waved his hand dismissively at the screen where Malinga was kissing the ball before his run-up.
"They won't lose a wicket," Arjun said.
Ramesh froze. He slowly turned his head to look at his son.
"What did you say?"
"Rajasthan will win by 10 wickets. Score will be 134 for 0."
Ramesh stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing. "Now you are just talking nonsense. You are high on adrenaline from the selection. 10 wickets? In T20? Against the best bowling attack in the league? In Mumbai?"
"Yes."
"Stop it," Ramesh shook his head, amused. "Be realistic. I know you watch cricket, but don't become arrogant. Statistics exist for a reason. 10-wicket wins happen once in a blue moon against weak teams. Not against Mumbai."
"Bet?" Arjun challenged, his voice calm.
Ramesh narrowed his eyes. "What bet? You have no money."
"If I lose, I will clean the scooter for a month," Arjun said. "Every Sunday. I'll scrub the tires with detergent. I'll even polish the mirror."
Ramesh's eyes lit up. He hated washing the scooter. It was the one chore he despised on his day off. "Done," Ramesh said immediately. "I'll hold you to that. Sunday morning, 8 AM, bucket and rag."
"And if I win?" Arjun asked.
Ramesh laughed again. "You won't win. But fine, if a miracle happens and they win by 10 wickets, I will admit that you know more cricket than me. And I won't nag you about studying Math this weekend."
Arjun smiled and went back to eating his chicken.
The atmosphere in the living room had shifted from casual dining to stunned silence.
The chase had begun. And it wasn't a contest. It was a massacre.
Shane Watson.
The broad-shouldered Australian was playing like a man possessed. He didn't just hit the ball; he dismantled the bowling attack.
Malinga ran in—the bowler who terrified the world with his slinging action.
Watson planted his front foot and smashed him over long-on for a massive six.
Ramesh stopped eating. He sat with his empty plate in his lap, staring at the TV, his mouth slightly open.
"How?" Ramesh muttered. "That was a yorker. How did he hit a yorker for six?"
Arjun leaned back against the sofa, massaging his knee. He watched the screen with a satisfied smirk.
He remembered why he hadn't forgotten this match. It wasn't just a win; it was a statement. It was one of the most brutal innings in IPL history.
Rahul Dravid was just watching from the non-striker's end, clapping. He was a spectator like everyone else.
13.1 Overs.
Watson smashed a ball from Munaf Patel to the boundary.
The game was over.
Rajasthan Royals: 134 for 0.
Shane Watson: 89 off 47 balls.*
The TV commentator screamed, "An absolute demolition job! Mumbai stunned at home! A 10-wicket victory for the Royals!"
Ramesh stared at the TV. The score flashed in neon blue graphics. 10 Wickets.
He slowly turned his head to look at Arjun.
Arjun was scraping the last bit of curry from his plate, looking innocent.
"You..." Ramesh narrowed his eyes. He looked back at the TV, then at Arjun. "How did you know? Arjun."
Arjun shrugged. "I told you. Watson looked angry in the warmup."
"You can't see the warmup on TV!" Ramesh argued, his logical brain failing to process it.
"I saw his face when he walked out," Arjun lied smoothly. "Intuition. Sometimes you just know."
Ramesh shook his head. He looked at his son with a mix of suspicion and awe. The boy had been predicting many things and merely chalked it up to intuition.
"Devil's luck," Ramesh muttered, standing up to pick up the plates. "Pure devil's luck." He walked to the kitchen, shaking his head.
But as he rinsed his hand in the sink, Ramesh found himself thinking about the sports shop near the Jagadamba Junction. He had seen a pair of white Adidas spikes in the window. Expensive. But maybe... maybe the boy deserved them.
The lights were off. Arjun lay in bed, staring at the ceiling fan cutting through the darkness.
The adrenaline of the day had finally faded, leaving behind the raw reality of his body.
His knees throbbed with a dull, persistent ache. His lower back was stiff. The skin on his palms felt raw from gripping the bat handle for so long. He lifted his hand and looked at it in the dim light coming from the streetlamp outside. Calluses were forming at the base of his fingers.
It had been a perfect day. He had survived the Cattle Class.
But as he closed his eyes, the smile faded. He knew the reality of the system. The "Probables Camp" wasn't a team. It was a filter.
They would take 30 boys and cut them down to 15 for the final District Team.
The fun was over. The coaches at the camp wouldn't be bored selectors looking for a diamond in the rough. They would be drill sergeants.
He would be up against V. Ravi, the captain. He would be up against kids who were actually 17 years old with moustaches, pretending to be 15.
Arjun rolled over, pulling the thin blanket up to his chin.
Watson played well today, he thought, his eyelids growing heavy. But I have to play better tomorrow.
He drifted into sleep, the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of the ceiling fan matching the beating of his heart.