April 1978. KCSA Stadium.
The stadium was a concrete bowl that trapped the cold morning air.
At 6:00 AM, the sun hadn't fully risen. The floodlight towers were dark, skeletal silhouettes against a purple sky. The stands were empty, vast sweeping curves of grey concrete that seemed to go on forever.
Srinivas parked the scooter outside the main gate. He smoothed down Varun's hair with a spit-dampened palm.
"Listen to the coaches," Srinivas said. His voice was tight. "Don't try to be a hero. Just play straight."
Varun nodded. He was wearing his whites, a shirt that was slightly too big in the shoulders and trousers that had been hemmed up three inches by his mother. He carried his kit bag, which felt heavier than usual.
They walked through the players' entrance. The transition was jarring. One moment they were on the noisy asphalt of Queen's Road; the next, they were inside a cavernous tunnel that smelled of damp concrete and old grass.
When they emerged onto the outfield, Varun stopped.
The Malleswaram ground was red dust and rocks. This was green.
The grass was cut short in concentric circles, emerald and lush, wet with heavy dew. It looked like a carpet. In the center, the pitch was a strip of tan clay, protected by ropes.
"Finally," Chuck Thomas thought. "A proper pitch."
There were three hundred boys on the outfield. They were grouped by age, nervous clusters of white uniforms shifting on the wet grass.
A man with a whistle blew a sharp blast.
"Under-10s! Here!"
Srinivas squeezed Varun's shoulder once, then stepped back behind the boundary rope where the other parents stood.
Varun walked toward the group.
The coach was a short, stocky man with a bushy moustache that hid his upper lip. He wore a floppy white hat and a KSCA tracksuit. He held a clipboard like a weapon. This was Rama Murthy.
"Line up!" Murthy barked. "Pads on. If you don't have pads, share. Quickly!"
Varun sat on the grass. He strapped on his pads. They were the ones from the colony, scuffed, the buckles rusted. The boy next to him had new SG pads that shone white and smelled of leather.
"Names?" Murthy walked down the line.
"Varun Reddy."
Murthy looked at his list. "Batter or bowler?"
"Batter," Varun said.
"Go to Net 3. Spinners only."
Net 3 was a strip of coconut matting rolled out over concrete at the edge of the field. It was enclosed by green nylon netting.
Varun stood in the queue. He watched the boy inside. The boy played a defensive shot. Block. Block. Block.
"Boring," Chuck whispered. "Take a cut at it."
When it was Varun's turn, he walked into the net. The matting felt spongy under his rubber-soled shoes. He took his guard, scratching a mark on the crease.
The bowler was a tall boy who looked closer to twelve. He tossed the ball up.
It was a slow, looping delivery.
Varun saw the seam. He saw the arc.
"Don't block," Chuck said. "Make a statement."
Varun didn't step forward to defend. He planted his back foot. He waited for the ball to drop. Then, he uncoiled. He swung the Kashmir Willow horizontally, like a baseball bat, aiming for the cow corner.
THWACK.
The contact was sweet. The ball rocketed into the side netting, stretching the nylon until it almost snapped. If there had been no net, the ball would have gone into the stands.
Varun held the pose, feeling the vibration in his arms.
"Stop!"
Murthy was marching toward the net. He didn't look impressed. He looked angry.
"What is that?" Murthy pointed at the bat.
Varun lowered the bat. "A pull shot, sir."
"That is not a pull shot," Murthy snapped. "That is sweeping the floor. This is cricket, not gilli-danda. Where is your elbow?"
Varun blinked.
"Elbow up!" Murthy grabbed Varun's arm and yanked it upward, forcing the bat into a vertical defensive pose. "You play in the V. You play straight. You hit across the line again, you go home. Understood?"
Varun felt the heat rise in his cheeks. The other boys were watching. He looked toward the boundary. His father was watching, his hands gripping the rope.
"Understood?" Murthy repeated.
"Yes, sir," Varun said.
"Again."
The bowler ran in. Another slow loop.
"Do it his way," the Whisper said. "Show him you can do both."
Varun suppressed the urge to heave it. He stepped forward. He leaned his head over the ball. He kept his left elbow high, pointing at the sky. He presented the full face of the bat.
Tok.
He met the ball on the half-volley. He didn't swing hard. He just pushed.
The ball sped straight back past the bowler, rolling along the ground, hitting the back net with a satisfying thump.
A perfect straight drive.
Murthy didn't smile. He just nodded once, marking something on his clipboard.
"Better. Next ball."
Varun spent the next ten minutes in a war with himself. Every time the ball flew out of the hand, Chuck Thomas wanted to murder it. He wanted to swing from the heels. But every time, Varun forced his body into the unnatural, rigid geometry of cricket.
Step. Elbow. Push.
When his turn was over, he walked out of the net, sweating in the cool air.
He looked at Srinivas. His father gave him a small, tentative thumbs-up.
Varun sat on the grass to unbuckle his pads. His hands were shaking slightly.
He looked at the stadium around him. The empty concrete stands loomed over them like a judgment.
In the colony, he could be a king, smashing the ball out of the parl. Here, he was just a name on a clipboard. Here, that talent wasn't enough. He had to learn the language of the game before he could write it himself.
_______________________________
The session wasn't over. After the nets, Coach Murthy blew his whistle again.
"Fielding drill! Circle up!"
The boys shuffled into a large circle in the outfield. The sun was higher now, burning off the morning mist. The grass, which had been cool and wet, was turning dry and prickly.
Murthy held a cricket bat in one hand and a brand-new, dark red leather ball in the other. He looked at the boys with a grim sort of satisfaction.
"In cricket, catches win matches," Murthy shouted. "If you drop it, you lose. Simple."
Varun stood next to a boy named Rohan, who was adjusting a wristband made of white terrycloth. Rohan looked expensive. His whites were ironed, his shoes were Adidas, and he smelled of talcum powder.
"Ready?" Murthy yelled.
He tossed the ball up and hit it high into the air with the bat.
It went up a mile. It was a tiny red dot against the blue sky.
"Mine!" a boy shouted. He ran forward, hands outstretched, fingers spread wide.
"Don't reach," Chuck Thomas thought. "Get under it. Camp under it."
The boy misjudged the arc. The ball landed three feet in front of him with a sickening thud. It didn't bounce like a tennis ball. It skidded, hard and heavy, like a stone.
"Terrible!" Murthy yelled. "Cup your hands! Soft hands! Next!"
He hit another one.
Varun watched the ball rise. In Seattle, he had a glove. A beautiful, oil-treated Rawlings glove that was an extension of his hand. He could snag a 100mph liner and feel nothing but a dull pop.
Here, he had ten fingers, two palms, and raw skin.
"Reddy!" Murthy pointed. "Yours!"
Murthy swung the bat. The ball rocketed up, high and swirling.
Varun moved. The instinct was instant. He didn't run like a cricketer, shuffling his feet. He ran like an outfielder, turning his hips, eyes locked on the ball.
He settled under the ball.
"Where's my mitt?" Chuck screamed internally. "This is going to hurt."
"Reverse cup," the Whisper instructed. "Fingers up. Let it give."
Varun raised his hands above his head. In baseball, you caught it high. In cricket, they told you to catch it at chest level. But Varun was small, and the ball was coming down fast.
He clamped his hands together, palms facing the sky, pinkies touching.
The ball hit his palms.
SMACK.
The pain was immediate and shocking. It felt like catching a falling brick. The shockwave traveled down his wrists to his elbows. His palms burned as if he had touched a hot stove.
But he held on.
He brought the ball down and threw it back to Murthy.
"Good hands," Murthy grunted, though he looked suspicious of the technique. "But don't catch it over your head. If you miss, it hits your face. Catch it at the chest."
Varun looked at his hands. They were throbbing. A red welt was already forming on his left palm where the seam had bitten into the skin.
"Nice catch," Rohan whispered. "Did it sting?"
Varun closed his fist, testing the fingers. "Yeah."
"You get used to it," Rohan said. "My dad says you have to build calluses."
The drill continued for thirty minutes. High catches. Flat catches. Ground fielding.
The ground fielding was worse. In baseball, you put your glove down and the ball funneled in. Here, you had to get your body behind the ball, forming a barrier with your legs. You had to stop a hard, bouncing rock with your bare fingers.
By the time Murthy blew the final whistle, Varun's hands were red and raw. His right index finger was swollen.
"Pack up!" Murthy yelled. "Tomorrow, 6 AM. Don't be late."
The boys dispersed toward the pavilion. The rich kids, like Rohan, opened insulated water flasks and drank cold orange squash.
Varun walked to the boundary rope where Srinivas was waiting.
Srinivas handed him a stainless steel bottle filled with boiled water from home. It was lukewarm. Varun drank it greedily.
"Show me your hands," Srinivas said.
Varun held them out. They were trembling slightly.
Srinivas turned them over gently. He saw the angry redness, the swelling near the thumb. He didn't coo or look horrified.
"Ice," Srinivas said. "When we get home."
"It's hard," Varun said. "The ball is like a rock."
"It is a rock," Srinivas agreed. "That is why you must respect it. If you don't hit it in the middle of the bat, it hurts the hands. If you don't catch it right, it hurts the fingers."
They walked to the scooter.
"Did you make a friend?" Srinivas asked, nodding toward the group of boys by the gate.
"Rohan," Varun said. "He has Adidas shoes."
Srinivas adjusted the mirror on the scooter. "Shoes don't score runs, Varun. Hands score runs."
Varun climbed onto the front of the scooter. He gripped the handlebars, wincing as the metal pressed against his bruised palm.
As they merged into the chaotic traffic of Cubbon Road, Varun thought about the glove. He missed it. He missed the safety of it.
But then he remembered the sound of the ball hitting his palms. Smack. It was a brutal sound. A raw sound.
"No pads," Chuck thought. "No gloves. No timeouts."
It was a stupid sport. It was a dangerous sport.
Varun looked at his red hands and smiled a little.
He kind of liked it.