February arrived with a crispness in the air and a crackle in the cricketing world. The winter sun hung low over the fields, casting long shadows across the nets and outfields of academies across India. The long-awaited match schedules for the Syed Ali Trophy and Vijay Hazare Trophy had been published, and the selected squads were already deep in the throes of preparation.
In Lucknow, Kanpur, and Meerut, the UP state squad was grinding through double sessions—fitness drills in the morning, net practice in the afternoon, and tactical meetings that stretched into the evening. The atmosphere was electric, the stakes higher than ever. For the chosen few, this was the gateway to national recognition.
But in Chandpur, far from the spotlight, Nikhil Srivastam was building something quieter—and perhaps, something stronger.
The Ship and the Storm
His days began before the sun rose. The village was still asleep when he stepped onto the cracked concrete pitch behind the school, Veer slung over his shoulder, breath fogging in the cold.
He started with shadow batting—slow, deliberate movements, each stroke carved into the air with precision. Then came the bowling drills, where he worked on his off-spin variations, focusing on loop, drift, and control. He fielded alone, throwing a ball against the wall and diving to collect it, again and again, until his elbows were scraped and his shirt clung to his back.
He wasn't just preparing to anchor a team anymore.
He was preparing to be the ship itself—the anchor, the engine, the compass, and the sail.
He had tasted the edge of elite cricket. He had stood at the gates of selection and been turned away. But instead of breaking him, it had clarified him.
The Watchful Eye
Coach Devraj stood at the edge of the ground most mornings, arms folded, eyes narrowed. He didn't interrupt often. He didn't need to. His presence alone was enough to keep Nikhil sharp.
But when he did speak, his words landed with weight.
One evening, as the sun dipped low and Nikhil was finishing a punishing set of sprints, Devraj finally broke the silence.
"You're not chasing selection anymore," he said, his voice calm but firm. "You're chasing the best of yourself."
Nikhil stopped mid-stride, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his brow. He didn't reply. He just nodded, and jogged back to the crease for another round.
The Quiet Provider
Back home, things were better than they had been in years.
In the last eighteen months, Nikhil had played consistently for his zonal team, earning a modest but steady income. The District Cricket Association, under the UP Cricket Board, had paid him a small salary—match fees, travel allowances, and a stipend during the three-month camp.
He hadn't spent much on himself.
Most of it had gone home.
And now, the results were visible.
His father's tea stall had a new tin roof and a fresh coat of green paint. The benches were sturdier. The kettle hissed with confidence. Customers lingered longer, chatting over steaming kulhads of chai.
Their small house had been renovated. The walls were smooth, the windows replaced, and the courtyard swept clean. A new bulb hung above the entrance, glowing like a quiet promise.
For the first time, Nikhil felt like more than just a dreamer.
He felt like a contributor.
A provider.
The Call
It came on a Thursday afternoon.
Nikhil had just finished a long solo session. His palms were raw, his shoulders sore, and his shirt soaked through. He was packing up when his phone buzzed.
The number was familiar—District Cricket Association.
He answered, breath still heavy.
"Srivastam ji," the voice said, "we've finalized the zonal squad for the upcoming inter-district tournament. You're in."
Nikhil nodded, silent.
"You're not just in," the voice continued. "You're captaining the team again."
There was a pause.
Then a quiet, steady "Thank you."
The matches would begin next week.
The Shift
That night, Nikhil sat on the terrace, Veer beside him, the stars sharp above. His father joined him with two cups of tea.
"You've changed," his father said, handing him one.
Nikhil looked up.
"You used to chase the game," his father continued. "Now you carry it."
Nikhil smiled faintly. "I'm still learning."
His father nodded. "Good. Never stop."
They sat in silence, sipping tea, the night stretching out before them.
The Next Morning
The next day, Nikhil's training took on a new rhythm.
He wasn't just preparing for himself anymore. He was preparing for a team. For decisions. For pressure. For leadership.
He worked on his communication—calling out imaginary field placements, rehearsing bowling changes, visualizing match scenarios.
Coach Devraj noticed.
"You're thinking like a captain now," he said.
Nikhil didn't respond.
He just faced the next delivery.
The Evening Light
That evening, as the sun dipped behind the trees and the sky turned gold, Nikhil sat on the edge of the pitch, Veer beside him.
He didn't smile.
He didn't celebrate.
He just leaned forward, elbows on knees, and whispered to himself:
"Now we sail."