The pleasant solitude of the morning was shattered by the sound of screeching bicycle brakes.
The "Seniors" had arrived.
By "Seniors," Sai meant the 9th and 10th graders from the neighboring A-Block. In the brutal hierarchy of gully cricket, they were the kings. Sai, standing there in his dirty shorts with a bat that was too big for him, was the peasant class.
"Oye, Chotu!" a voice boomed.
It was Ravi, a 15-year-old with the patchy beginnings of a mustache and an attitude that suggested he thought he was Yuvraj Singh. He was holding a Nivia tennis ball—the heavy red kind that felt like a rock if it hit your ribs.
"Ball ivvu ra," Ravi commanded, snapping his fingers. (Give the ball, man.)
Sai felt a flash of irritation. Inside his head, he was a 20-year-old engineering student. He didn't take orders from teenagers. But his 10-year-old body remembered the rules of the street: If you don't listen to the big boys, you don't play.
He tossed the ball to Ravi.
"You can field at fine leg," Ravi said dismissively, pointing to a patch of thorny 'Parthenium' weeds near the boundary wall. "If we need a batsman, we'll call you. Go."
Classic, Sai thought, suppressing a sigh. The grind begins.
He trudged over to the weeds. This was the reality of being ten. No academy, no nets, just standing in the sun hoping the ball comes to you so you can throw it back to the "stars."
7:15 AM
Twenty minutes passed. Sai hadn't touched the ball once.
Ravi was batting, swinging wildly at everything. He had "scored" about 40 runs, mostly because the bowlers were 12-year-olds who couldn't pitch it straight.
Sai watched intently from the weeds.
Ravi's backlift is too high, Sai analyzed. He closes the bat face early. If the bowler pitches it full, he's gone.
"Oye! Catch!"
The scream snapped Sai back to reality.
Ravi had top-edged a pull shot. The heavy tennis ball was looping high into the air, swirling towards the fine-leg boundary. Towards Sai.
It's too high, Sai calculated instantly. And I'm too short.
He ran. His little legs pumped hard.
[DISSONANCE]
He felt a jagged vibration in his ankles. Running form is bad. Heel striking too hard.
He ignored it. He had to get to the ball.
He stopped, waiting for the ball to drop. He instinctively reached his hands up, fingers pointing to the sky—the classic "Cup" method they taught in PT class.
[DISSONANCE]
Alert: Hard Hands. Impact Risk.
The system screamed at him. The ball was heavy; his 10-year-old fingers were fragile. If he caught it like that, it would either pop out or bruise his fingers.
Reverse cup, Sai thought, correcting instantly. Australian style.
He adjusted his hands, bringing them close to his chest, fingers pointing up but relaxed, creating a soft basket.
Thwack.
The ball smacked into his palms. He didn't fight the impact; he let his hands drop with the ball, absorbing the kinetic energy into his chest.
[CLICK]
Perfect absorption. No pain. The ball stuck like a magnet.
"Out! Gone!" screamed the bowler.
Ravi stood at the crease, glaring at Sai. He looked shocked that the "kid" actually held onto it.
"Fluke catch," Ravi muttered, tucked his bat under his arm. "Okay, Chotu. You can bat. Last man. Make it fast, school time is coming."
7:30 AM
Sai walked to the crease. The "crease" was a line drawn in the dirt with a sharp stone. The stumps were three lines drawn on a wooden plank propped up by a brick.
He held his heavy Kashmir Willow bat. He looked around. Fielders were everywhere, crowding him. They expected the little kid to just swing blindly and get out.
"Come on, finish it fast!" the wicketkeeper chirped.
The bowler was Bunty, a lanky 13-year-old known for "Bhatta" (Chucking). He didn't bowl; he pelted the ball.
Okay, Sai thought, tapping the bat. Bunty bowls fast but short. Don't engage in a power battle.
Bunty ran in. No run-up, just three steps and a violent jerk of the arm.
The ball came hurling down—a short-pitched delivery aimed right at Sai's chest.
Reflex: The 20-year-old brain wanted to pull it for six.
Physical Reality: The 10-year-old arms were too slow to drag the heavy bat across.
[DISSONANCE] surged through Sai's shoulders as he started to lift the bat. Abort. Abort. You will get hit.
Sai dropped his wrists instantly.
He swayed his upper body back, eyes locked on the ball. He didn't try to hit it. He just swayed out of the line like a boxer.
[CLICK]
The ball whizzed past his nose, missing him by an inch.
"Oye! What is that?" Ravi yelled from the sideline. "Hit the ball! Don't play style!"
Sai ignored him. He tapped the pitch. That sway felt good. Efficient.
Bunty looked annoyed. He walked back. "I'll break your toes now," he muttered in Hindi.
Second ball.
Bunty tried to bowl a yorker. But because he was chucking, it came out as a full toss, angling towards the off-stump.
The Trap: Every kid in 2008 would try to slog this over mid-wicket.
The Sai Way:
He saw the angle. He knew he lacked the power to clear the boundary.
He waited. He waited until the ball was right next to him.
He didn't swing. He simply presented the full face of the bat, rigid and straight, and at the very last moment, he softened his bottom hand grip.
He didn't hit the ball; he let the ball hit the bat.
[RESONANCE]
Plonk.
The ball hit the sweet spot. Because Sai's grip was soft, the ball didn't rebound in the air. It died instantly, rolling softly into the gap between the slip and gully.
Sai took a quick step. "Single!"
The fielders were confused. They were standing at the boundary waiting for a catch. By the time the slip fielder scrambled to pick up the ball, Sai had jogged a comfortable run.
"Kya hai ye?" Bunty yelled, hands on his hips. "Test match chal raha hai kya? Hit the ball!"
Sai leaned on his bat at the non-striker's end, wiping sweat from his forehead. He wasn't panting. He hadn't wasted a single calorie of excess energy.
"Runs are runs, Anna," Sai said calmly.
Ravi, standing on the sidelines, frowned. He was expecting the kid to get bowled. But that defensive push... it was annoying. It was technically perfect.
"Oye Venu!" Ravi shouted to a chubby kid. "Spin eyyu ra. Eedu out avvadu lekapothe." (Bowl spin, man. Or else he won't get out.)
7:40 AM
Venu took the ball. In Sai's past life, Venu became a Chartered Accountant who never touched cricket after 10th class. But right now, Venu was the "Shane Warne" of the street because he could turn the Nivia ball a mile on this rough ground.
"Chooskoni aadu, chinna," Venu smirked. (Play carefully, kid.)
Sai watched Venu's hand.
Analysis: In 2025, Sai had watched 4K slow-motion videos of Rashid Khan. He knew what to look for.
Venu's wrist was cocked inward. Leg-spin. It would turn away.
Venu ran in and tossed the ball up. High and slow.
The Trap: A normal 10-year-old sees a slow ball and tries to slog it.
The Reality: The ball would pitch, turn away, take the edge, and pop up.
Sai felt the urge to swing.
[DISSONANCE]
A sharp pinch in his lower back. Don't reach for it. You'll lose balance.
Sai waited. He didn't plant his front foot blindly.
Instead, the "Golden Finger" guided his feet.
Left foot forward. Get to the pitch of the ball. Kill the spin.
[CLICK]
Sai took a big stride forward. He met the ball on the full, before it could hit the ground and turn. He didn't hit it hard. He just "pushed" it straight back past the bowler with a straight bat.
"Arey!" Venu yelled as the ball rolled down the ground.
"Single!" Sai called out, jogging.
Ravi looked irritated. "Enti ra idhi? Dravid la build istunnadu!" (What is this? Giving buildup like he's Dravid!)
Sai smiled. "Out avvakudadhu kada Anna. Manam gelavalante wickets undali." (Shouldn't get out, right brother? We need wickets to win.)
Just then, a shrill voice cut through the air.
"RAVI! TIME ENTHA AINDI CHUSAVA?!" (Ravi! Did you see the time?!)
Ravi's mom was screaming from the third-floor balcony. "School bus will leave! Come home now!"
Ravi's face went pale. The terror of an Indian mother was greater than any cricket match.
"Coming Mummy!" Ravi yelled back.
The game broke up instantly. Kids grabbed their cycles and bags.
"Rey Sai," Ravi said, picking up his bat. He looked at the 10-year-old with a hint of new respect. "Repu morning ra. Fielding ki manchi ga unnav." (Come tomorrow morning. You were good at fielding.)
"Ha, vastha Anna," Sai nodded. (Yeah, I'll come.)
As the seniors left, Sai stood alone on the dusty patch for a second. He looked at his hands. They were trembling slightly, not from weakness, but from excitement.
He had survived. He hadn't just survived; he had looked competent.
He checked his Casio watch. 7:50 AM.
"Shit! Bus!"
Sai grabbed his bat and sprinted towards his apartment block.