Chapter 8 — Conscious Batting Begins
Age: 7 Years Old
Winter arrived softly over Kolkata.
Cold mist floated above the Ganga near Dakshineswar Kali Temple while morning temple bells echoed through the pale dawn air.
Seven-year-old Riddhiman Paul stood barefoot on the rooftop before sunrise.
Bat in hand.
Eyes closed.
Breathing slow.
Around him, the city still slept beneath fog and silence.
But inside his mind—
cricket never stopped moving.
For almost two years after rebirth, he had trained obsessively:
yoga,
balance,
reflex,
geometry,
badminton,
conscious movement.
Now something new had begun emerging naturally from all that training.
Not talent.
Not instinct.
Awareness.
And awareness was dangerous.
Very dangerous.
"Again."
Riddhiman whispered softly to himself.
Then shadow-batted slowly.
Front foot moved.
Wrists aligned.
Head stabilized.
Bat swing descended.
But just before imaginary contact—
he consciously altered the bat face angle.
The imaginary ball's direction changed instantly inside his visualization.
Not toward cover.
Toward point.
His eyes opened sharply.
Again.
It worked again.
Not perfectly.
But enough.
Excitement spread through him rapidly.
Most batters decided shots early.
But what if shot direction itself remained changeable until final moment?
That possibility obsessed him now.
Because it meant:
bowlers couldn't predict,
field placements became unstable,
geometry itself became controllable.
His pulse quickened slightly.
This was bigger than technique.
Much bigger.
Later that morning, during cricket practice, Ghosh Kaku immediately noticed something strange.
Riddhiman no longer batted normally.
His movements looked… unfinished.
Delayed.
As if decisions happened later than expected.
The old coach frowned.
The bowler delivered outside off.
At first Riddhiman shaped for defensive push.
Then suddenly— tiny wrist adjustment.
The ball redirected behind point unexpectedly.
Everyone blinked.
Not powerful.
Not flashy.
But strange.
Very strange.
Next delivery: same thing.
Tiny late adjustment.
Different angle.
Again.
Ghosh Kaku narrowed his eyes slowly.
That shouldn't happen consistently at seven years old.
Children usually committed completely before impact.
This boy somehow adjusted after commitment began.
That was abnormal.
"Riddhi," the coach called suddenly.
"Hm?"
"Ki korchis?"
(What are you doing?)
Riddhiman hesitated briefly.
How could he explain?
Finally he answered quietly:
"Ball late dekhar cheshta korchi."
(I'm trying to see the ball later.)
The old coach blinked once.
Later?
That sentence sounded technically absurd.
And yet—
the results in front of him were real.
Practice continued.
The older boys gradually became irritated.
Field placement stopped working properly against Riddhiman anymore.
Gaps appeared unexpectedly.
Shot directions changed late.
Nothing looked fully committed until last second.
One frustrated bowler shouted:
"O age thekei decide kore na naki?"
(Doesn't he decide shots beforehand?)
Riddhiman heard the comment.
And internally, something clicked beautifully.
Exactly.
That was the point.
The realization thrilled him.
Batting should not become predictable.
Predictability created control for bowlers.
Uncertainty created fear.
And fear changed cricket.
That evening after practice, Riddhiman sat alone beside Ganga ghat watching river water move beneath fading sunlight.
Cold wind carried distant temple chants through the air.
His bat rested across his knees while thoughts raced endlessly inside his head.
Conscious batting.
The phrase had begun forming naturally in his mind lately.
Most players batted instinctively.
Automatically.
Like trained habit.
But Riddhiman increasingly believed true mastery required something else:
Complete awareness of every movement.
Not robotic repetition.
Conscious adaptation.
He picked up small stone and threw it toward river.
Splash.
Then another.
Different angle.
Different force.
Different result.
Everything followed geometry.
Everything.
The realization made his eyes sharpen slowly.
Batting itself was simply controlled redirection.
Which meant theoretically—
every shot had infinite variations.
That thought felt almost terrifying.
At home that night, his father repaired spectacles beneath dim yellow light while radio commentary played softly nearby.
Again: Sachin Tendulkar dominating somewhere.
His father smiled proudly.
"Ei chele batting ke shoja kore dey."
(This boy makes batting look easy.)
Riddhiman listened silently while eating fish curry.
Easy.
No.
Nothing about batting was easy.
Not if you understood it deeply.
His mother suddenly looked toward him suspiciously.
"Practice e abar kichhu notun korchis?"
(Are you trying something new in practice again?)
Riddhiman paused briefly.
"How?"
"Coach eshe bollo tor shot dekhe bujhte parchhe na tui ki korbi."
(Coach said he can't understand your shots anymore.)
His father laughed loudly.
"Bhalo toh!"
But his mother looked worried instead.
"Normal cricket khelar cheshta kor."
(Try to play normal cricket.)
Riddhiman lowered his eyes silently.
Normal.
That word felt suffocating now.
Because deep inside, he no longer wanted normal cricket.
He wanted evolution.
Days passed.
Conscious batting improved rapidly.
At first the adjustments were tiny:
slightly open bat face,
delayed wrists,
angle changes.
But gradually something far more dangerous emerged.
Recovery adaptation.
Even after mistakes, Riddhiman's body now adjusted unnaturally fast.
A mistimed shot became late glide.
A cramped position became wrist flick.
Improvisation started appearing naturally.
One afternoon during practice match, a short ball rose awkwardly toward his chest.
Any normal seven-year-old would panic.
Instead, Riddhiman instinctively leaned away while opening wrists late.
The ball flew over slip unexpectedly for four.
Silence covered ground briefly.
Everyone stared.
Not because boundary was impressive.
Because the shot looked impossible.
Even Riddhiman froze slightly afterward.
That…
was new.
Excitement spread through him instantly.
Not planned.
Adaptive.
His body had begun reacting creatively under pressure.
Exactly what he wanted.
That evening, Ghosh Kaku stopped him before leaving practice.
The old coach looked unusually serious.
"Tor batting ta ajeeb hoye jacche."
(Your batting is becoming strange.)
Riddhiman stayed quiet.
The coach continued slowly:
"Kintu ekta jinis bujhte parchhi…"
(But I'm understanding one thing…)
His sharp old eyes locked onto Riddhiman.
"Tui shot khelar age shot decide korish na."
(You don't decide the shot before playing it.)
Cold wind moved softly across empty ground.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Riddhiman answered honestly:
"Last moment e beshi option thake."
(There are more options in the last moment.)
The old coach stared silently.
That sentence should not come from a seven-year-old child.
And yet somehow—
it made terrifying cricket sense.
That night on rooftop, beneath fog and distant thunder, Riddhiman practiced alone again.
Shadow batting endlessly.
Only now his movements had changed completely.
No rigid structure.
No fixed shot commitment.
Everything remained fluid until final moment.
Conscious.
Adaptive.
Alive.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Hours passed.
At one point, while redirecting imaginary yorker angle late, sudden realization struck him so hard he stopped breathing briefly.
If batting became conscious enough—
then eventually…
he could connect any shot to any ball.
The idea sent chills through his entire body.
Not now.
Not yet.
But someday.
Someday cricket itself would stop having limitations for him.
And standing alone beneath Kolkata's winter sky, seven-year-old Riddhiman Paul smiled faintly for the first time in many months.
Because finally—
he had begun creating something the world had never seen before.