The sun had barely risen over the narrow lanes of Chandpur, a small town tucked between sugarcane fields and forgotten railway tracks. The morning air was thick with dew and the distant hum of temple bells. But for Nikhil Srivastam, thirteen years old and barefoot, the only sound that mattered was the thwack of a tennis ball hitting a broken bat.
His bat was a relic—splintered at the handle, wrapped in layers of electrical tape, and missing half its toe. But it was his most prized possession. He had found it in a garbage pile behind the local school, discarded by a richer boy who had upgraded to an English willow. Nikhil had cleaned it, patched it, and named it "Shera"—his lion.
"Oi, Nikhil! You coming or not?" shouted Rafiq, his best friend and unofficial wicketkeeper, from the dusty field they called a pitch.
Nikhil wiped his forehead with the edge of his frayed collar and jogged over. His mother had warned him not to play today—his father was sick, and the tea stall needed help. But cricket wasn't just a game for Nikhil. It was escape. It was identity. It was everything.
The field was a patch of uneven ground behind the local ration shop. No boundary ropes, no stumps—just bricks stacked in a triangle and a chalk line drawn with borrowed powder. The boys played in slippers, some barefoot, dodging cow dung and potholes with the agility of trained athletes.
"Today's match is against the Railway Colony kids," Rafiq said, tossing the ball. "They've got a new guy. Fast bowler. Real deal."
Nikhil caught the ball mid-air. It was soft, worn, and slightly oval from overuse. He turned it in his palm, feeling its weight. "Real deal, huh? Let's see if he can handle Shera."
The match began with chaos. The Railway kids arrived in branded jerseys, their bats gleaming. Their new bowler, Arjun, was tall and muscular, with a run-up that kicked dust like a storm. His first delivery knocked over the brick stumps and sent Rafiq diving.
Nikhil watched from the non-striker's end, eyes narrowed. Arjun had pace. But he lacked control. His follow-through was wild, and his grip too tight. Nikhil had studied bowlers on his uncle's cracked smartphone—Bumraah, Shaami, even old clips of Waasim Akraam. He knew what made a bowler dangerous. Arjun was raw.
When it was Nikhil's turn to bat, the field fell silent. Arjun smirked. "Nice bat," he said, mocking Shera.
Nikhil didn't respond. He adjusted his grip, tapped the ground twice, and looked up. The ball came fast—short, aimed at his ribs. Nikhil stepped back and pulled. The ball flew over midwicket, landing near the ration shop.
The boys erupted. Rafiq screamed. Arjun cursed.
Nikhil didn't smile. He just whispered to Shera, "Good boy."
By the end of the match, Nikhil had scored 47 runs off 22 balls, including three sixes and five boundaries. The Railway kids left in silence. Arjun didn't shake hands.
Later that evening, Nikhil sat beside his father at the tea stall, pouring chai into cracked cups. His father coughed, weak from fever. "You played today?" he asked.
Nikhil nodded. "We won."
His father smiled faintly. "You're wasting time. Cricket won't feed us."
Nikhil looked down. He didn't argue. But inside, something burned. A quiet defiance. A dream too big for Chandpur.
That night, under a flickering bulb, Nikhil opened his notebook. He had drawn a cricket field on the first page. On the second, he wrote:
"Goal: Play for India.
Step 1:Win local tournament.
Step 2:Get selected for district trials.
Step 3:Make it to U-19 squad.
Step 4:National team."
He stared at the list, then added one more line:
"Step 0:Fix Shera."