Sunday Evening. The Bedroom.
The smell of raw linseed oil filled the small room. It was a pungent, nutty scent that, to any cricketer, smelled like promise.
Arjun sat cross-legged on the floor, a rag in his hand. The new SS bat lay across his lap. It was pale, the grains of the willow visible and unblemished. To a layman, it was ready to play. To Arjun, it was a raw recruit that needed basic training.
Oiling, he thought, rubbing a teaspoon of oil into the face of the bat with his fingers. Hydrate the fibers. Prevent cracking.
He let it dry for two hours. Then came the noise.
Since he didn't own a wooden ball mallet (a luxury item), he used the classic Indian jugaad. He took the old, scuffed leather ball he had stolen from the academy's discard pile, put it inside one of his father's old socks, and tied a knot.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
He struck the face of the bat gently, starting from the edges and moving toward the center.
"Arjun!" his mother yelled from the kitchen. "Are you breaking the furniture?"
"Knocking it in, Ma!" Arjun shouted back, not stopping. Thwack. "I have to compress the wood. Otherwise, it will snap."
He did this for forty-five minutes. His arm ached. The repetitive sound echoed through the thin walls of the apartment building.
Ding-Dong.
The doorbell rang.
Arjun stopped. He heard his mother open the door.
"Is someone doing carpentry in there?" It was Mrs. Kulkarni from the floor below. "My husband is trying to watch the news. Thak-thak-thak for one hour!"
"Sorry, sorry," his mother apologized. "Arjun is fixing his bat."
She closed the door and marched into the bedroom. She looked at Arjun, who was holding the sock-hammer mid-air.
"Enough," she said sternly. "Mrs. Kulkarni is complaining. Do it on the balcony with the door closed. Or better, do it tomorrow."
Arjun sighed, putting the bat down. He ran his thumb over the face. It was starting to dent slightly—a good sign. The fibers were knitting together.
Patience, he told himself. You don't take a Ferrari to the track without warming up the tires.
Monday Morning. Class 3-B.
The physical toll of the "Double Life" was beginning to show.
Arjun had woken up at 5:00 AM for his tyre-hitting session (quietly, using the stick, not the new bat). Then school. Then cricket.
Now, at 11:30 AM, in the middle of Environmental Science, his eyelids felt like lead shutters.
Mrs. D'Souza was droning on about the parts of a plant. Roots, stem, leaves...
Arjun's head dipped. His chin touched his chest. The humid breeze from the window was a lullaby. He drifted off.
Whack.
A wooden ruler slammed onto his desk.
Arjun jumped, his heart hammering. The class erupted in giggles. Mrs. D'Souza loomed over him, looking like a giant.
"Deshmukh," she said, her voice sharp. "Is my class a bedroom?"
"No, Miss," Arjun stammered, rubbing his eyes.
"Since you are so relaxed, perhaps you can tell the class what is the function of the chlorophyll?"
The class went silent. It was a trick question. She hadn't taught that yet; it was in the next chapter.
Arjun blinked. His adult brain booted up through the fog of sleep. Chlorophyll. Photosynthesis. Sunlight to energy.
"Chlorophyll is the green pigment in leaves, Miss," Arjun said, his voice steady. "It traps energy from sunlight to help the plant make food. Photosynthesis."
Mrs. D'Souza paused. She looked at the blackboard, then back at Arjun. She hadn't expected that answer.
"Correct," she said, slightly annoyed that she couldn't punish him. "But sit up straight. If I catch you sleeping again, you will stand outside."
She turned back to the board.
Arjun exhaled. He pinched his thigh hard to stay awake.
I need more calories, he realized. The egg is helping, but the energy expenditure is too high. I'm burning the candle at both ends.
He looked at his new bat, which was tucked under his desk in its black cover (he refused to leave it at home). It was the only thing keeping him going.
Tuesday Evening. Shivaji Park.
The moment of truth.
Arjun stood in the nets. He had spent two days knocking in the bat. It wasn't fully ready, but it was playable.
"New bat, eh?" Vikram walked by, eyeing the black cover.
"Yes," Arjun said, unzipping it.
The SS Sunridges gleamed in the evening sun. It wasn't a top-tier Grade 1 English Willow with straight grains, but compared to the club bat, it was Excalibur.
Arjun strapped on his pads. He walked into the net.
The bowler was Nilesh—the coach's assistant. He bowled medium pace, around 110 kmph. Fast for an eight-year-old, manageable for an adult mind.
Ball 1: Nilesh bowled a length ball outside off. Arjun leaned forward. He didn't try to hit hard. He just wanted to feel the ball on the wood. He defended.
Toc.
It felt solid. No vibration. No stinging in the palms. It felt like shaking hands with a firm grip.
Ball 2: Overpitched. On the legs. Arjun's eyes narrowed. This was the test. He planted his front foot. He used his hips—the "Natural Torsion"—and flicked his wrists.
The ball met the sweet spot.
PING.
The sound was distinct. It wasn't the dull thud of the club bat. It was a sharp, high-pitched crack, like a rifle shot.
The ball didn't just travel; it flew. It hit the side netting with such force that the net bulged out dangerously.
"Whoa," Nilesh said, stopping in his follow-through.
Arjun felt the feedback in his hands. It was buttery smooth. The energy transfer was almost 100%.
So this is what proper equipment feels like, he thought, a thrill running up his spine.
Coach Sawant was watching from his chair. He heard the sound. He looked up from his notebook.
"Boy!" Sawant yelled.
Arjun froze. "Sir?"
"Don't hit the net so hard. You will tear it. Play straight."
But Arjun saw the slight nod. The validation.
Ball 3: Nilesh, annoyed at being flicked, bowled a bouncer. It was chest high. With the old bat, Arjun would have swayed. It was too heavy to pull. But this bat... this bat was balanced.
Arjun saw the length early. He transferred his weight back. His hands came up high. He swiveled. The bat came down fast—much faster than before because of the lighter pick-up.
CRACK.
He rolled his wrists over the pull shot. The ball smashed into the ground and rocketed towards the back net.
Arjun stood in the pose for a second, feeling the aftershock of the connection.
He looked at the bat handle. He squeezed it.
Thank you, Baba, he thought.
He was no longer fighting his equipment. Now, the only limit was his own body.
"Okay, get out!" Sawant shouted. "Next batsman!"
Arjun walked out of the net, unstrapping his gloves. He felt lighter. He felt dangerous.
As he packed his bag, he noticed Vikram watching him. The older boy wasn't smirking anymore. He looked... calculating.
"Nice bat," Vikram said, his voice lacking the usual mockery. "SS?"
"SS," Arjun confirmed.
"Let me see." Vikram held out a hand.
Arjun hesitated. In the unspoken rules of cricket, you didn't let others use your new bat. It was bad luck. And they might edge it.
"Sorry, Bhaiya," Arjun said politely but firmly, zipping the cover. "It's not fully knocked in yet. Baba said no one else touches it."
He slung the bag over his shoulder and walked away towards the bus stop, leaving the academy captain staring at his back.
Arjun smiled.
He had the hardware. He had the software. Now, he just needed the stage.