Chapter 7 — Watching the Future
Age: 6 Years Old
Rain hammered endlessly against Kolkata.
Water overflowed from roadside drains while tram tracks disappeared beneath muddy floodwater. Near Dakshineswar Kali Temple, temple bells still echoed faintly through the storm like distant warnings.
Inside the Paul household, electricity flickered repeatedly.
The television screen glowed weakly through darkness.
And six-year-old Riddhiman sat motionless in front of it for hours.
Watching cricket.
Not like a fan.
Like someone studying the future.
His mother placed a bowl of muri mixed with mustard oil and chopped onions beside him.
"Chokh noshto hoye jabe eto TV dekhle."
(Your eyes will get ruined watching so much TV.)
Riddhiman barely reacted.
On screen, highlights replayed repeatedly:
batting technique,
bowling angles,
field placements,
crowd reactions.
But most importantly—
patterns.
Always patterns.
Every batsman belonged to an era.
That realization had begun haunting him lately.
Older players moved differently:
more rigid,
more textbook,
less adaptive.
Everything depended heavily on:
front-foot commitment,
early decision-making,
traditional shot structure.
But Riddhiman remembered the future.
He remembered cricket evolving.
Batters would become:
more flexible,
more reactive,
more creative,
more fearless.
And somehow— he intended to arrive there before everyone else.
The television showed another straight drive from Sachin Tendulkar.
Perfect.
Compact.
Immortal-looking.
His father smiled proudly from nearby chair while cleaning spectacles.
"Dekhechis?"
(Saw that?)
"Hm."
"Technique bole etake."
(That is called technique.)
Riddhiman remained quiet.
Yes.
Sachin's technique was extraordinary.
But internally, Riddhiman already understood something terrifying:
Future cricket would eventually break traditional technique itself.
Not destroy it.
Evolve beyond it.
The realization made his pulse quicken slightly.
Because if everyone else still worshipped textbook cricket—
then unconventional evolution would become his greatest advantage.
That evening after rain slowed, Riddhiman walked toward local ground carrying bat while humid wind blew through narrow Kolkata lanes.
The world looked alive after storm:
children splashing through puddles,
tea stalls crowded,
radios blasting commentary,
fish sellers arguing loudly.
But his mind remained elsewhere.
Always elsewhere.
At practice, Ghosh Kaku watched children bat casually while smoking bidi near boundary.
Riddhiman entered nets silently.
Today he wasn't interested in scoring.
He wanted observation.
The bowler delivered short outside off.
Riddhiman defended automatically.
But immediately frowned.
Too early.
His decision happened too early.
Next ball.
Again.
He consciously delayed movement slightly longer.
Contact improved.
Interesting.
Next delivery angled toward pads.
Again he waited later before final adjustment.
His eyes sharpened.
That felt better.
Much better.
The realization hit him slowly:
Most batters committed before complete information arrived.
But what if he trained himself to decide later?
Very dangerous thought.
Because late decision-making meant:
more options,
more improvisation,
more control.
His breathing slowed.
This could change everything.
"Ki holo?" Ghosh Kaku asked suddenly.
(What happened?)
Riddhiman looked up briefly.
"Kichhu na."
(Nothing.)
But internally his mind raced violently now.
Cricket wasn't fixed.
Batting itself could evolve.
That night, while thunder rolled above Kolkata again, Riddhiman spread old newspapers across floor beside his bed.
Then began drawing fields manually with pencil.
Boxes.
Angles.
Bowler release points.
Movement arrows.
His mother entered room carrying milk and froze.
The entire floor looked like battlefield diagrams.
"Egulo ki?"
(What are these?)
"Field."
She blinked once.
"Field?"
Riddhiman pointed seriously.
"Fielder ekhane gele ei jayga khule."
(If the fielder moves here, this space opens.)
Then another drawing.
"If bowler ekhane ball kore…"
(If the bowler bowls here…)
His tiny finger traced angle across paper.
"…then batter can redirect here."
His mother stared at the six-year-old silently.
Half the explanation made no sense to her.
The other half worried her.
Because children normally drew cartoons.
Not tactical cricket diagrams.
She placed milk beside him carefully.
"Beshi bhebona."
(Don't think too much.)
Then softly touched his hair before leaving.
But after she left, Riddhiman continued drawing for hours.
Obsessively.
The future slowly formed inside his mind piece by piece.
Days later during badminton training, another realization arrived unexpectedly.
The shuttle moved toward his body rapidly.
Instinctively, he adjusted wrist angle at last second and redirected return sharply crosscourt.
The coach praised the shot casually.
But Riddhiman froze internally.
Late wrist redirection.
Again.
The same concept.
Badminton rewarded:
delayed commitment,
reaction adjustment,
angle manipulation.
Exactly like future batting would.
Excitement spread through him instantly.
Everything connected.
Yoga improved:
balance,
recovery.
Badminton improved:
reflex,
wrists.
Cricket improved:
geometry,
prediction.
Suddenly his training no longer looked random.
It became system.
A complete system.
One Sunday afternoon, Ghosh Kaku brought old VHS cricket recordings to practice ground clubhouse.
Children watched casually while eating chanachur and shouting randomly.
But Riddhiman watched with frightening intensity.
Footwork.
Bat angles.
Trigger movement.
Head stability.
Everything mattered.
At one point, a batsman attempted improvised shot and commentators criticized it heavily.
"Wrong cricket shot."
The room laughed.
But Riddhiman leaned closer toward television.
No.
The shot itself wasn't wrong.
The execution timing was wrong.
That difference mattered enormously.
His heartbeat accelerated slightly.
Because suddenly he realized something nobody around him understood yet:
Future cricket would reward creativity.
Not punish it.
The idea felt revolutionary in this era.
And if he mastered that evolution early—
then eventually bowlers would enter matches already afraid of possibilities they couldn't predict.
That thought made something darkly satisfied inside him.
That night on rooftop, rain clouds covered moonlight completely.
The city below looked blurred beneath humidity and storm mist.
Riddhiman stood barefoot holding bat.
Silent.
Thinking.
Then slowly he practiced shadow batting again.
Only tonight—
he intentionally delayed every movement.
Wait longer.
Adjust later.
Recover balance.
Redirect angle.
Again.
Again.
Again.
At one point he changed imaginary shot direction mid-swing unconsciously.
The motion felt unnatural.
But exciting.
Very exciting.
His pulse quickened immediately.
Not stable yet.
But possible.
And suddenly one terrifying realization settled fully into his mind:
The world still played present-day cricket.
But he—
he was already practicing the future.