The scent of dosas and filter coffee wafted through the narrow corridors of Srinivasa Nilaya, a modest residential complex nestled in the older quarters of Bangalore—Basavanagudi. Tucked between the sound of early-morning scooters and the cawing of crows was the quiet buzz of a middle-class household just starting its day.
Inside Flat No. 3B, a soft argument simmered between Meena Desai and her husband, Shankar Desai. Meena, a determined and punctual Kannada-medium schoolteacher, was meticulously packing her lunch box while scolding her son from the kitchen. Shankar, a quiet man in his late forties with a slight maunch and worn spectacles, worked as a data entry operator in a logistics firm near Majestic. His life was a loop of BMTC buses, cold tea, and chasing deadlines that no one cared about.
They weren't poor. But they had little room for luxury. What they had instead was rhythm, routine, and resilience—things that had unknowingly seeped into their son, Arjun Desai.
Arjun Desai wasn't the kind of boy who turned heads in a crowd, but neither did he fade into the background. His skin was a deep tan from hours under the sun, and though his frame was wiry, it hinted at untapped athleticism rather than fragility. His hair—thick, black, and perpetually messy—refused to stay in place no matter how often Meena tried to oil and part it neatly.
He had his mother's sharp jawline and expressive, almond-shaped eyes, always flickering with thought, calculation, or mischief. From his father, he'd inherited long fingers—ideal for grip and wrist work in cricket—and a narrow, angular nose that made him look older than he was when serious. He wasn't conventionally handsome, but there was something striking about him: the way he moved quickly but never wasted energy, the way his brow furrowed slightly just before he bowled, as if solving a puzzle no one else saw.
Even as a boy, his cricketing instincts were razor sharp. What set Arjun apart, though, wasn't visible. He had an uncanny feel for the game. He couldn't explain what a "corridor of uncertainty" meant or what a "flipper" technically was, but he understood cricket's rhythm—its invisible patterns. He could sense when a batsman was nervous, when a field change was psychological, when a slower ball was coming. He played by instinct, learning by watching, absorbing without knowing he was. That raw, wordless cricket intelligence would someday become his biggest weapon. Arjun was thirteen and cricket fever running in his veins. He didn't just love cricket. He became cricket and today was no ordinary day, January 5 2013 when arjun 1st held leather ball and started the cricket dream .
"Arjun, don't forget! Today is your last revision test!" Meena shouted, just as Arjun zipped up his schoolbag.
"I know, Amma! It's just science unit test**. I'll finish it and come straight back," he replied, adjusting the strap of his bag and slipping his feet into his Bata shoes.
"What's that second bag?" Shankar called from the hall.
"Books," Arjun lied, hoisting his duffel bag onto his other shoulder. Inside: pads, gloves, and most importantly—a brand-new, second-hand leather ball.
His school, St. Mark's, was a fifteen-minute walk. Arjun spent the walk daydreaming about bounce and spin and dipping yorkers. He sat through the science test, scribbling down what he remembered about acids and bases, but his mind was already at the ground. When the final bell rang at 1:45 PM—half-day because of exams—most kids rushed home or to their tuition centers.
Arjun made a detour. He cut through a side lane behind the Ganesha temple, past the bakery, and met his friends near the corner tea stall: Karthik, who always bowled short but had pace; Sameer, a lazy wicketkeeper with genius stumpings; and Vinay, the gangly all-rounder with an ego the size of Cubbon Park.
Sameer was already sipping on lime soda. "You sure your Amma won't check with tuition teacher?"
"She thinks I'm at Akshaya Tuition Center until 5:30," Arjun said, slipping on his cricket shoes. "Plenty of time."
They had pooled money for a "real" leather ball after weeks of gully matches with tennis balls. Today, they were trying their luck at the public ground near Basavanagudi National College, where older boys often practiced under the harsh afternoon sun.
There was no formal booking. You showed up early and staked your claim.
A half-worn matting pitch** lay on the red soil ground, stitched by sweat, stitched by loyalty. The older boys already had stumps planted and nets at one end.
"You guys got a leather ball?" asked the oldest of them, a stocky batsman named Prashanth.
Arjun held it up with reverence.
"Let's see if you can even hold the bat against it," Prashanth laughed.
Arjun didn't care. This was a dream. This was it.
He padded up, trembling inside. It was the first time he wore real pads—slightly loose, borrowed from Sameer's cousin. When he stepped in to bat, he did what he always did in pressure: channeled AB de Villiers.
He twitched like AB. Adjusted his imaginary waistband. Even shadow-practiced the reverse scoop.
"Here comes Bangalore's AB!" Vinay teased from the sidelines.
The first delivery from Prashanth was a decent length—and Arjun jabbed it toward covers. No timing.
Second ball, short—he pulled instinctively, and the ball rolled toward square leg but slowed down after 30 yard circle.
Frustration boiled. He wanted a boundary. Something to show.
On the fourth ball, Arjun went full de Villiers. He stepped across, opened the face, and attempted a lap shot—the ball nicked the edge and flew behind. The stumps stayed intact. But the ball didn't stop there.
It flew past the net, over the shrubs behind the ground, and with a sickening CRASH, shattered a small windowpane of an old house beside the temple wall.
Silence.
The ball had disappeared into enemy territory.
From within the house emerged her—Old Granny Subbalakshmi. Draped in an ancient pink saree and carrying a walking stick that looked like it could end world wars, she stormed out, brandishing the shattered glass in one hand like a sword.
"Who broke my window again? You boys think this is Eden Gardens?! Arrey, Arjun Desai! I know your mother! You'll pay for this window! You want cricket? I'll call the police!"
Arjun whispered, "Go! Go! Go!" and the gang scattered, giggling and gasping, but not before Sameer snuck in through the broken gate to rescue the ball.
They relocated to the other end of the ground, under a neem tree.
Now it was time to bowl.
Arjun hadn't formally trained, but he had something unusual—a freakish ability to make the ball spin wrong. He didn't hold the ball like regular off-spinners or leggies. His grip was odd: fingers splayed too wide, wrist cocked at a weird angle, elbow low.
"Dude, why do you hold it like you're throwing chapatis**?" Karthik asked once.
"I don't know," Arjun shrugged.
His deliveries didn't loop like textbook spin. They skidded. Or dropped suddenly. Some dipped mid-air, bounced unusually high, or gripped sideways and beat the bat by a foot.
The older boys watched with mild amusement—until he dismissed one of their openers with a delivery that looked like an off-break but turned like a leg-cutter.
"You sure this guy hasn't trained at NCA?" Prashanth murmured.
Arjun wasn't consistent—but what he lacked in control, he made up for in chaos. Two wickets came in two overs—one bowled, one stumped after the batsman danced down expecting a slower ball but missed a dipping slider.
"Lucky," Vinay muttered.
"Or weird genius," Sameer corrected.
By 5:15 PM, they were walking back in the direction of their homes, Arjun brushing dust off his uniform shirt and trying to remember which page of his tuition notebook he'd need to forge. The sky had turned amber, the air warm but not harsh anymore.
As he turned the corner to Srinivasa Nilaya, he took a deep breath, steeled himself, and crept into the house.
Shankar Desai was waiting in the hall, arms crossed, spectacles low on his nose. On the dining table beside him lay Arjun's marked revision test paper—17 out of 25.
"Seventy percent," Shankar said, tapping the paper. "Not bad. But not enough to justify skipping your tuitions and playing cricket with leather balls."
Arjun froze.
"How did you get this?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
"Your tuition teacher messaged your mother. Said you didn't show up today. And then Subbalakshmi aunty came shouting this evening saying you broke her window again."
His heart dropped.
"You've already made a fool of yourself last year trying for school trials," Shankar continued. "And now you're bunking tuition for cricket?"
Arjun's face flushed red, his jaw tightening.
"But Appa, I wasn't just playing. I bowled well today—really well. They said I was turning the ball like... like I was doing magic. And I—"
"Magic won't pay your college fees," Shankar snapped.
Meena Desai emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her dupatta**. "Arjun, why don't you play on weekends? Gully cricket is fine. But this leather ball obsession... it's too much. No one from our street has made it to the state team, forget international."
Arjun threw his duffel bag down, voice cracking. "I don't want to be like everyone on our street. I want to go to a cricket academy! Coach Murali told me to come try one net session at Basavanagudi Club. He saw me bowl today and said I had something! Why can't you just believe that?"
His voice echoed in the small hall, bouncing off the beige walls.
Shankar stood up, shaking his head. "You think gully cricket and a broken window mean you're ready for an academy?"
"You don't get it," Arjun muttered. "Neither of you do."
And before they could reply, he turned and stormed into his room, slamming the door.
Later that night, Arjun lay staring at the cracks in the ceiling. Karthik had messaged: "Plan confirmed. Meet at bakery 7:30 AM. Bring 10 rupees. We're sneaking into Chinnaswamy tomorrow."
He sat up and pulled out a notebook. On the first page, he scribbled:
Dream: Play in Chinnaswamy.
Step 1: Watch from inside. Learn.
Step 2: Get into a real academy.
Step 3: Play for Karnataka.
Step 4: Face the world.
He tore out the page and taped it inside his cupboard.
He didn't know how. He didn't know when.
But he was going to get there.
Even if it meant sneaking through a gate tomorrow morning to watch someone else live his dream—for now.
Because someday, the world would watch him.
Note:
1. dupatta** - A length of material worn arranged in two folds over the chest and thrown back around the shoulders, typically with a salwar kameez, by women from South Asia.
2. unit test** - A regular informally test conducted by subject teacher which helps us guage the subject understanding
3. matting pitch**- cricket pitch that uses a coir or jute matting surface instead of a natural grass or turf. This matting is rolled out over soil surfaces
4. chapatis** - a thin pancake of unleavened wholemeal bread cooked
A/N: It is my first time writing so if there is any error do tell me. I made a plotline and am mostly follow that with slight modification. I thought of adding others like s gill and all as friends but might make this into complete original as it is.