When Arjun woke up the next morning, his stomach muscles felt like they had been punched repeatedly during the night.
He groaned, rolling onto his side. It was a good pain. It was the specific, dull ache of the transversus abdominis waking up after years of dormancy. He stretched, feeling the stiffness in his obliques.
"Arjun! School bus in twenty minutes!"
The morning routine was a blur of chaotic nostalgia. Brushing his teeth with the red Dabur toothpowder that tasted vaguely of cloves, wrestling into a white shirt that was slightly too tight around the neck, and frantically shoving books into his bag.
He sat at the table. Breakfast was poha—flattened rice with potatoes and peanuts. Delicious, but again, mostly carbohydrates.
His mother placed a steel glass of hot milk in front of him. "Drink. It has Bournvita."
Arjun looked at the glass. Sugar and malt. Better than nothing, but not enough.
"Ma," Arjun said, trying to sound casual. "Can we buy soya chunks?"
His mother paused, the ladle hovering over the kadhai. "Soya chunks?Why?"
"Vicky's brother eats them," Arjun lied smoothly. "He said they make you tall. I want to be tall."
In an Indian household, the desire to be "tall" was the ultimate trump card. Parents would feed their children anything if they thought it would add an inch to their height.
His mother's expression softened. She looked at his skinny arms. "Okay. I'll get a packet from the ration shop. But you have to eat your poha first."
"And moong," Arjun added quickly. "Sprouts. For breakfast."
"Since when did you become so demanding?" she laughed, ruffling his hair. "Fine. Sprouts are good for you."
Step one: complete. It wasn't whey protein and creatine, but soya and sprouts were the holy grail of a middle-class vegetarian budget.
School was an exercise in patience.
Arjun sat in the third row of Class 3-B, listening to Mrs. D'Souza explain simple multiplication. $4 \times 5 = 20$.
He rested his chin on his hand, staring out the window at the playground. It was empty, baking under the sun. His leg bounced under the desk. Restless leg syndrome, or just the pent-up energy of a child's body combined with an adult's desire to move.
He wasn't paying attention to the math, but he was calculating.
Shivaji Park is the Mecca, he thought. Achrekar Sir's academy is there. But there are others too. Kamat Memorial, Bengal Club. I need to get into one of them. Not just for the coaching, but for the turf wickets. I can't bowl on concrete forever.
The problem was the fee. And the kit. A decent Kashmir Willow bat cost ₹500. Pads, gloves, a helmet... it would add up to over ₹2,000. That was a significant chunk of his father's monthly salary in 2006.
He needed a deal.
The opportunity came at 8:30 PM.
His father, Ramesh, had just returned from his office in Nariman Point. He looked exhausted. His shirt was creased, and he smelled of the sweaty, metallic air of the Mumbai local train. He sat on the sofa, loosening his tie, while Arjun's mother brought him a glass of water.
Arjun sat on the floor, pretending to read his history textbook. He watched his father take a long sip of water and let out a sigh.
Now.
"Baba," Arjun said, closing the book.
"Hmm?" Ramesh leaned back, closing his eyes.
"The summer camp at Shivaji Park starts on Monday."
Ramesh opened one eye. "We talked about this. It's too far. And expensive."
"It's ₹300 for the month," Arjun said. He had asked Vicky earlier. "And I don't need a full kit. Just whites and shoes. I can use the club bat."
Ramesh rubbed his forehead. "Arjun, why are you so obsessed suddenly? Last year you wanted to learn drawing. Before that it was karate. You quit both in two weeks."
That stung. It was true. The old Arjun—the actual eight-year-old Arjun—had been fickle.
"I won't quit," Arjun said. He stood up. He didn't whine. He didn't stomp his feet. He stood straight, hands by his side. "I promise."
Ramesh looked at him. He seemed to notice the shift in demeanor. His son looked... serious.
"And how will you go? I leave for office at 8. I can't drop you."
"I'll take the bus," Arjun said. "Bus number 63 goes straight to Scout Hall. It's a ten-minute walk from there. I know the route."
" alone?" His mother chimed in from the kitchen, looking alarmed. "He's too small, Ramesh!"
"I'm not small," Arjun said, looking at his mother. "Vicky goes alone. Lots of boys go alone."
Ramesh sat up. He looked at Arjun for a long moment. He saw something in the boy's eyes—a stubbornness that reminded him of his own father.
"Okay," Ramesh said.
"Ramesh!" his mother protested.
"One month," Ramesh held up a finger. "It is a trial. You go for one month. If you complain about the heat, or if you are late, or if you miss the bus even once, it stops. And..."
He paused.
"And you have to finish the multiplication tables up to 20 before Monday."
Arjun suppressed a smile. Multiplication tables? He could do calculus if he had to.
"Done," Arjun said instantly.
"Don't say 'done' so fast," Ramesh warned, standing up to go wash his face. "Tables up to 20 is not easy. Start memorizing."
Arjun sat back down. His heart was hammering against his ribs.
He had the permission.
Now came the hard part.
Shivaji Park wasn't just a park. It was a battlefield. It was where thousands of boys in white clothes turned up every summer, all dreaming of being the next Sachin Tendulkar. It was crowded, dusty, and ruthless.
If he went there as just another skinny eight-year-old, he would be lost in the crowd. He would be stuck fielding at third man for three hours and maybe get to bat for five minutes in the nets against bad bowling.
He needed to stand out immediately.
He needed shoes.
He looked at his father's briefcase. He couldn't ask for expensive Nikes. That would break the deal.
I have to make do, he thought. I'll double up my socks. I'll tape my ankles. I'll manage.
He looked down at his hands. He opened and closed them.
Monday.
On Monday, he wouldn't just be Arjun the schoolboy. On Monday, he would step onto the red soil of Shivaji Park, and he would begin the long, painful process of turning this fragile body into a weapon.
"Arjun," his mother called out, holding a bowl of soaked, raw sprouts that looked utterly unappetizing. "Here. Your 'muscles'."(Just Sprouts nothing else!!!!)
Arjun took the bowl. He took a spoonful. It tasted like wet grass.
He chewed and swallowed.
"Thanks, Ma," he said.
He took another spoonful.