🏏 Chapter 36 — Return to Kolkata
Age: 17 Years
The airplane descended slowly through grey evening clouds over Kolkata.
From the small oval window, the city looked endless.
Yellow lights.
Crowded roads.
Wet rooftops after rain.
Tiny moving trains cutting through the darkness.
For most passengers, it was simply another landing.
For Riddhiman Paul—
it felt stranger than any overseas tour.
Because for the first time in months, there was no next match waiting immediately.
No Australian pace.
No Caribbean chaos.
No English swing.
Only home.
As the plane touched runway, slight vibration moved through cabin.
A few passengers clapped softly.
Riddhiman remained still.
Head resting lightly against window.
Mind replaying fragments automatically:
Perth pull shots
Trinidad reverse lofts
Manchester late cuts
Bangladesh crowd noise
The matches were over.
But internally, they were still continuing.
🧳 The Airport Return
Unlike future cricket eras, U-19 players were not national celebrities.
There were no massive media barricades waiting outside airport.
No screaming fan mobs.
Only a few cricket reporters standing quietly near exit gate.
And yet—
the atmosphere still felt different.
Because the people who DID know him, looked at him carefully.
A local cricket coach whispered immediately:
"That's the boy."
Another replied softly:
"The one from England tour?"
Nearby, two CAB officials stopped talking mid-conversation after seeing him pass.
Not admiration.
Observation.
As if they were looking at something difficult to categorize.
Harvinder Singh slapped his shoulder before leaving.
"Enjoy rest now."
Bundela grinned.
"Before selectors start politics again."
S. Sriram only smiled faintly.
Then said quietly:
"Don't let waiting disturb rhythm."
That sentence stayed in Riddhiman's head longer than expected.
Outside airport, humid Kolkata air hit immediately.
Warm.
Heavy.
Familiar.
After months of foreign conditions, even the smell felt recognizable:
rainwater on concrete
traffic smoke
roadside tea stalls
His father stood beside taxi silently waiting.
No dramatic emotional scene.
Only relief hidden beneath calmness.
"You became thinner," his father said after a while.
Riddhiman blinked once.
"England food."
His father laughed softly for first time in months.
🚖 The Ride Home
Taxi moved slowly through evening traffic of Kolkata.
Outside window:
tram lines
crowded buses
old buildings stained by rain
cricket-playing children in narrow lanes
At one crossing, a boy played straight drive using plastic bat under streetlight.
For few seconds, Riddhiman kept watching him silently.
Something about the simplicity felt distant now.
Not lost.
Just distant.
His father finally asked:
"How was Australia really?"
Most people asked about runs.
Or centuries.
Or records.
But that question felt genuine.
Riddhiman answered after brief pause.
"Fast."
Then another pause.
"But clean."
His father looked confused.
"Clean?"
"Ball behavior was honest there."
That answer ended conversation for several minutes.
Because cricket had slowly become the language through which Riddhiman understood the world itself.
🏠 Home
When he entered home, his mother froze for one second before hugging him tightly.
No cricket questions.
No statistics.
Only: "You're finally back."
Dinner that night felt strangely peaceful.
Simple food.
Ceiling fan sound.
Rain tapping lightly outside windows.
No team meetings.
No analysis sessions.
No pressure scoreboards.
His mother kept placing extra food on plate repeatedly.
"You eat too little overseas."
"I ate enough."
"You still became thin."
His father smirked quietly from other side of table.
For first time in many months—
Riddhiman smiled naturally.
Not controlled.
Not polite.
Natural.
🌧️ The Silence After Cricket
Days passed slowly afterward.
And that became the strangest challenge.
Because overseas tours had conditioned his mind into nonstop intensity.
Now suddenly:
no practice schedules
no flights
no match plans
Only silence.
Morning rain over Kolkata.
Afternoon heat.
Evening tea stalls below apartment.
Everything ordinary.
But inside his head—
nothing was ordinary anymore.
Even during rest, his brain continued processing automatically.
While drinking tea: he replayed bowling sequences mentally.
While hearing rain: he remembered swing movement in Manchester.
While watching television: he unconsciously studied field placements.
Not intentionally.
It simply never stopped anymore.
📖 Cricket Magazines Begin Mentioning Him
One afternoon, his father returned home carrying sports magazine.
Not national front-page hype.
Just small cricket publication.
Inside, there was half-page article about India U-19 overseas tours.
And his name appeared repeatedly.
"Riddhiman Paul's adaptability across conditions has surprised multiple former players."
"Technically unconventional but statistically extraordinary."
"Selectors divided over long-term projection."
He read article quietly.
No emotional reaction.
But one phrase stayed with him:
"Selectors divided."
That mattered.
Because numbers should have removed doubt already.
Yet doubt still existed.
Why?
⚙️ Cricket Circles Start Whispering
Inside Indian cricket networks, his reputation had become strange.
Not superstar-level famous.
More dangerous than that.
He had become: a topic.
Domestic coaches debated him after matches.
Former Ranji players discussed him in club tents.
Junior coaches showed clips of his batting secretly to students.
Some admired him.
Some disliked him immediately.
One coach reportedly said:
"This boy reads cricket differently."
Another replied:
"Or maybe he ignores cricket basics completely."
Nobody fully agreed on what he actually was.
And somehow—
that uncertainty made him even more unsettling.
🌙 Rooftop Again
One rainy evening, Riddhiman walked to rooftop alone.
The same rooftop where years earlier:
academy pressure had broken him
timing rebellion had begun
"Box Theory" first evolved inside his mind
Now the city looked unchanged.
But he wasn't.
Far below, Kolkata continued normally.
Tea sellers shouting.
Traffic lights blinking.
Children playing cricket in narrow lane despite wet ground.
Yet somewhere inside cricket offices across India—
his name was being discussed intensely by people he had never met.
That thought didn't excite him.
It sharpened him.
Because instinctively, he could already feel resistance forming.
Not from bowlers.
From systems.
🧠 The Beginning of a New Pressure
Overseas pressure was simple.
Fast bowlers.
Hostile crowds.
Scoreboard tension.
All readable.
But selection pressure?
That was different.
Because systems behaved emotionally while pretending to behave logically.
And emotional systems were harder to predict.
Standing under cloudy Kolkata sky, Riddhiman replayed one thought repeatedly:
If performance is clear…
why does doubt still remain?
The answer came slowly.
And dangerously.
Because people accepted greatness faster when greatness looked familiar.
Anything different created fear first.
Wind moved across rooftop.
Rain smell filled air again.
And somewhere inside Indian cricket—
the next conflict had already begun forming silently.
Not: player vs opposition.
But: evolution vs tradition.
🏁 Ending of Chapter 36
Late night settled over Kolkata.
Inside his room, trophies from overseas tours rested quietly near wall.
But Riddhiman barely looked at them.
Instead, he sat near window watching rain slide slowly across glass.
Because deep inside, he already understood something important:
The hardest battles in cricket were not always played on the field.