April 1978. Outside KSCA Stadium (Chinnaswamy old name).
Srinivas Reddy shifted his weight from his left leg to his right. The sensation in his heels had turned from a dull ache to a sharp, burning throb. He had been standing outside the massive iron gates since four in the morning.
The line stretched down Queen's Road, a silent, shuffling snake of men. They were fathers, uncles, and older brothers, all clutching plastic bags with water bottles and folded newspapers. They weren't queuing for Test match tickets. They were queuing for a single sheet of paper.
The Karnataka State Cricket Association Summer Camp application form.
It was a numbers game. There were five hundred spots. There were two thousand people in line.
Srinivas checked the HMT watch he had inherited from his father. It was 10:15 AM. The sun was already beating down on the asphalt, radiating heat through the thin soles of his chappals. He wiped sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief that was already damp.
He looked at the man in front of him, a government clerk wearing a safari suit who had brought a folding stool.
"Only fifty rupees," the man said, noticing Srinivas looking. "The private camps in Basavanagudi are charging three hundred."
Srinivas nodded politely. "Three hundred is too much."
Three hundred was a month's earnings at the loom during a bad season. Fifty was still a week's worth of food, but it was manageable. Just.
The queue lurched forward. A ripple of anxiety passed through the line like a current. Voices raised near the front.
"Don't push!" someone shouted in Kannada. "There are enough forms!"
Srinivas held his ground, planting his feet wide, creating a small buffer of space. He didn't look at the men around him. He focused on the grilled window of the ticket counter ahead. He needed that form.
Varun was good, Srinivas knew that in his bones, but he was wild. He played with a violence that belonged to a different game. He needed a teacher who could tame the fire without extinguishing it.
It took another forty minutes to reach the front. When he finally got there, the clerk behind the grill looked bored. He had a stack of papers on his desk that was dwindling fast.
"Name?" the clerk asked, not looking up.
"Varun Reddy," Srinivas said. He had rehearsed it. "Age seven."
The clerk paused. He looked up, peering through the wire mesh. "Seven is too young. We usually take ten and up. The leather ball is hard, sir."
Srinivas's heart hammered against his ribs. He gripped the ledge of the counter. "He plays for the Colony XI. He hits a hard ball. He is not afraid."
The clerk sighed. He looked at the line stretching behind Srinivas, endless and impatient. He licked his thumb and peeled a form off the stack.
Thump.
He stamped it with purple ink: KSCA OFFICIAL / PAID.
"Fifty rupees at the next counter. Bring two passport photos tomorrow. 6:00 AM sharp."
Srinivas took the paper with both hands. It was thin, cheap newsprint, warm from the clerk's grip. He walked away from the window, stepping out of the crush of bodies, and exhaled for the first time in six hours. He folded the paper carefully into four squares and tucked it into his shirt pocket, buttoning it shut. He patted the pocket once, just to be sure.
When Srinivas got home, the afternoon sun was hitting the back of the house. Varun was in the small patch of cement backyard, throwing a tennis ball against the compound wall and blocking it with the Kashmir Willow.
Thwack. Block. Thwack. Block.
Srinivas stood in the doorway, watching. The boy's focus was absolute. He didn't look like a child playing a game; he looked like a craftsman refining a technique. His footwork was precise, his head still.
"Varun."
Varun caught the rebound one-handed and turned. He was barefoot, his knees scuffed from the rough ground. He looked at his father. He saw the dust on Srinivas's trousers and the exhaustion in his posture.
Srinivas sat down on the back steps. He unbuttoned his shirt pocket and pulled out the folded square of paper. He smoothed it out on his knee.
"Come here."
Varun jogged over, spinning the bat in his hand. He looked at the paper. It was covered in Kannada script and official stamps.
"What is it?" Varun asked.
"Summer camp," Srinivas said. "At the stadium."
Varun's eyes widened. "Chinnaswamy?"
"Yes. Starting next week. You have to wake up at five."
Varun looked at the paper, then at Srinivas.
Inside Varun's head, Chuck Thomas scoffed. "Camp? I don't need a camp. I need batting practice. I need live pitching, not drills."
"You need structure," the Whisper cut in, sharp and immediate. "You need to learn how to stand before you learn how to dominate. You need to learn the etiquette of the game."
"Who are the coaches?" Varun asked.
"State players," Srinivas said. "Real cricketers. Not the colony boys."
Varun touched the purple stamp on the paper. The ink was slightly smudged. He looked at Srinivas's feet. The heels were cracked and dusty.
Varun knew what standing in line meant in India. He had seen the lines for kerosene, for rations, for cinema tickets. He knew his father had been gone since before he woke up.
"Did you wait long?" Varun asked.
"Not long," Srinivas lied. He rubbed his aching knees. "Go wash your face. We have to go to the studio to get passport photos taken."
Varun nodded. He ran his thumb over the cheap paper again. It felt fragile, but weighty. It felt like a contract.
"Don't waste it," the Whisper said.
"Yeah, yeah," Chuck muttered. "Let's go see what these 'state players' have got."
Varun ran inside to get a towel. Srinivas stayed on the steps for a moment longer, watching the empty wall where the ball had left a constellation of red clay marks. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and finally let his legs relax. The pain in his heels was worth it. He had bought the boy a chance.