The offer came sooner than Arjun expected.
A private school in Vijayawada had noticed his performances. Better nets. Better exposure. A clearer path to age-group cricket.
His parents were proud. Nervous. Excited.
"This is good for you," his father said one night. "Better education. Better cricket."
Arjun sat on the floor, bat across his knees.
He saw the future split cleanly in his mind.
One path was comfortable. Polished. Guided. Watched.
The other was slower. Rougher. Hidden.
"Do I have to go?" he asked.
His mother looked surprised. "Why wouldn't you want to?"
Arjun chose his words carefully.
"Because everyone will be watching there."
His father frowned. "Isn't that the point?"
Arjun shook his head. "Not yet."
They didn't understand. How could they?
He couldn't tell them that being seen too early would warp the board. That institutions would shape him before he shaped them. That survival, not success, was the first step.
Rao was called in to advise.
"He's gifted," Rao said honestly. "But… unusual."
"Unusual how?" his mother asked.
Rao paused. "He thinks long-term."
Arjun met Rao's eyes. Just for a moment.
Rao understood.
"He can stay," Rao said slowly. "If he wants. I'll make sure he isn't wasted."
The decision was made.
The offer was declined.
No headlines. No applause.
That night, Arjun stood on the terrace of their house in Guntur, warm wind brushing his face. The city hummed below—markets closing, trucks moving, deals finishing unseen.
He gripped the railing lightly.
Not yet, he told the future. I'm still building the base.
Somewhere far away, cricket boards, corporations, and empires continued along paths that assumed they would never be challenged.
From a quiet house in Guntur, a boy chose difficulty over comfort.
And the game—every game—shifted slightly in response.