Bus number 63 rattled like a tin can full of coins.
Arjun stood near the front, clutching the vertical metal pole. He was small enough that his head was level with the sweaty elbows of the office-goers standing around him. The air inside smelled of hair oil and humidity.
He was wearing his "whites"—a pair of cheap cotton trousers that his mother had hemmed up by two inches, and a white polo shirt that had turned slightly yellow from being in storage. On his feet were the Bata canvas shoes, now worn with two pairs of socks to add a millimeter of cushioning.
Dadar T.T., the conductor shouted, slapping the side of the bus.
Arjun squeezed his way out, jumping onto the pavement.
He walked past the flower market, the smell of marigolds and exhaust fumes hitting him. Then, the road opened up, and he saw it.
Shivaji Park.
It wasn't just a park; it was a dust bowl of dreams. A massive expanse of red earth, creating a haze that hung low in the morning air. It was partitioned not by fences, but by invisible lines. Dozens of matches were happening simultaneously.
Thwack. Thwack. "Howzat!"
The sounds overlapped into a chaotic symphony.
Arjun gripped the straps of his bag tighter. In his previous life, he had visited Lord's and the MCG. He had worked in state-of-the-art rehab centers. But this... this patch of red dirt was where Indian cricket was manufactured.
He navigated through the sea of players. He was looking for the "Vijay Manjrekar Academy" banner—one of the reliable, old-school camps.
He found it near the Gymkhana end. A long line of boys, ranging from seven to fifteen, stood waiting. At the front sat a man on a plastic chair under a large umbrella. He wore a floppy hat and dark sunglasses.
Coach Sawant.
Arjun joined the back of the line. He looked around. Most kids had their own bats. Some had full kits with shiny pads. Arjun had a water bottle and a handkerchief.
"Name?" a senior boy with a clipboard asked, moving down the line.
"Arjun," he said. "Eight years old."
The boy scribbled it down. "Bowler or Batsman?"
Arjun hesitated. In modern cricket, you had to be both. But in 2006, at a selection trial, you had to pick a lane. If you said "All-rounder" at age eight, they laughed at you.
"Fast bowler," Arjun said.
The boy looked at Arjun's skinny arms and smirked. "Okay. Pace bowler. Go stand in that group."
Arjun walked over to a cluster of twenty kids near the nets. They were all shadowing bowling actions. Some were windmilling their arms furiously.
Arjun didn't shadow. He crouched down and touched the ground.
Red soil.
He rubbed the dirt between his thumb and fingers. It was dry and abrasive. Unlike the concrete lane behind his house, this surface would offer grip. It would take spin, but for a pacer, it meant something else: Friction.
If I land hard, I'll stop, he analyzed. I need to skid through the crease.
"Next five! Come!" Coach Sawant yelled.
The selection process was brutal and efficient. You got three balls. If the coach liked you, you stayed. If he didn't, you were told to come back next year.
Arjun watched the first batch. Most kids just ran and threw the ball. The coach barely looked up.
"Too slow. Next." "Chucker. Next." "Wide. Next."
It was an assembly line of rejection.
Finally, it was Arjun's turn.
He was given an old, dark red leather ball. It was significantly heavier than the tennis ball. It felt hard and distinct in his hand. The seam was prominent.
He stood at the top of his run-up. The batsman in the net was a bored-looking teenager wearing pads that were too big for him.
Don't try to be Shoaib Akhtar, Arjun told himself. Just show the mechanism.
He ran in.
The run-up was smooth. He didn't stomp. He glided.
At the crease, he didn't jump high. He stayed low, loaded his hip, and let the natural elasticity of his oblique muscles take over.
Snap.
He released the ball.
Because it was a leather ball, the physics were different. It didn't zip like the tennis ball. It thudded.
It landed on a good length, just outside off stump. It wasn't 145 kmph—he was eight, after all. But it was noticeably quicker than the floaty deliveries the other kids were bowling. More importantly, it had a sharp, whip-like action.
The batsman defended it on the back foot.
Coach Sawant, who had been peeling an orange, stopped. He looked over his sunglasses at Arjun.
"Again," the coach grunted.
Arjun walked back. His heart beat faster. He had his attention.
Ball two. Let's try the inswinger.
Arjun couldn't generate massive swing yet, but he knew that if he angled his wrist slightly towards fine leg and let his open-chested action do the work, the ball would naturally drift in.
He ran in. Snap.
The ball left his hand. It drifted in the air, angling towards the stumps. The batsman played across the line and missed. The ball hit the net behind the stumps.
Coach Sawant sat up straight. He tossed the orange peel into a bin.
"Boy," Sawant called out. "Come here."
Arjun jogged over, hands behind his back, head bowed respectfully. The "Good Indian Boy" act.
Sawant grabbed Arjun's arm. His grip was strong. He squeezed Arjun's bicep, or rather, the lack thereof. He poked Arjun's shoulder blade.
"You are eating air for dinner?" Sawant asked gruffly.
"No, sir. Sprouts," Arjun said.
Sawant huffed. "You have a... strange action. Very open. You twist your back too much."
Arjun stiffened. This was the moment of danger. This was where a coach in 2006 would say, 'Stand side-on, look through your arm, bowl straight.' This was how natural talent died.
"But," Sawant continued, narrowing his eyes behind the dark glasses. "Your arm is fast. Very fast."
He looked at Arjun for a long silence.
"Who taught you to load the hip like that?"
Arjun blinked. He couldn't say 'I learned it from a biomechanics textbook in 2023.'
"No one, sir," Arjun said. "It just feels natural."
Sawant nodded slowly. "Natural is good. But natural breaks easily. You are too weak to bowl like that for long."
He pointed to the far end of the ground, where a group of boys were running laps in the heat.
"You are selected. But you don't bowl today. You don't bowl tomorrow. You run. You do warm-ups. You strengthen those legs. If I see a ball in your hand before I say so, you are out. Understood?"
Arjun felt a surge of relief so strong he almost laughed. This coach... he actually knew his stuff. He wasn't trying to change the action; he was trying to protect the chassis.
"Yes, sir!" Arjun beamed.
"Go. Five rounds. Now."
Arjun turned and ran towards the boundary line. The sun was blazing. The red dust coated his shoes. His legs were already tired.
But as he started his first lap, looking at the Mumbai skyline shimmering in the heat, Arjun didn't feel tired.
He was in. He had a coach who wasn't an idiot. And he had a patch of red soil to call home.
Round 1 of 5, he counted.
He started to run.