Basavanagudi Nets, February 2013
The mornings in Bangalore were still cool in early February, but to Arjun Desai, they never felt that way. His body had begun to recognize the routine even before his mind fully woke. At 5:58 AM sharp, the alarm buzzed—a shrill, battered thing held together by masking tape—and Arjun silenced it with muscle memory.
He brushed his teeth in semi-darkness, the low gurgle of the neighborhood waking around him. Meena had left a steel cup of warm water and jaggery, his pre-training ritual. His cricket whites weren't white anymore. They were closer to cream-brown, torn at the knee, but they carried something sacred now—a history of bruises, grass stains, and the unsaid trust between boy and dream.
By 6:20 AM, he was already jogging down the main road, bat slung across his shoulder like a swordsman's blade, kit bag bouncing on his hip. The Basavanagudi Academy nets were still silent when he reached. Just the dew misting the red earth and the echo of his breath.
Coach Murali was already there.
He wasn't a man of grand gestures. He stood, leaning on a stump planted upright, sipping filter coffee. The only words he offered as Arjun dropped his bag were:
"Warm up. Two rounds. Stretches. Then we begin."
Arjun always felt something unspoken in Murali's presence—something ancient, like this man had seen generations rise and fall between creases and chalk lines. Not a word was wasted. Arjun sometimes wondered: Who was he, before this? Why does he watch like he's seen a thousand boys just like me—and yet, believe I'll be different?
Training Ground of the Forgotten
Arjun noticed it immediately that day. The bat Murali handed him wasn't his own. It was heavier, chipped at the toe, its grip nearly coming off.
"This isn't mine," Arjun said.
Murali nodded. "Good eye. It's not."
He pointed to a cardboard box near the wall, covered in a plastic sheet.
"Your new kit. Pick what you like. All discarded. Broken handles, cracked shoulders, split grips, dented pads. No excuses."
Arjun walked over, blinking. In the box were about eight old bats, a few pads with missing straps, gloves with more holes than fingers, and a helmet that barely had a grill left.
Murali walked over, pulled out one of the bats.
"This one belonged to a boy who once opened for Karnataka Under-19s. He nicked out in a trial match, threw the bat in frustration. Never came back."
"It's dead weight in the hands of a quitter. Let's see what it becomes in the hands of a fighter."
Arjun gripped it. The handle was uneven, the sweet spot long gone—but it was a bat, and he was a boy desperate to become something more.
He looked at the bat and imagined—What if this was mine? Would I throw it away too? Or learn to score with its flaws?
He ran his hand across the scar on its shoulder, thinking:
Even wounded things can carry you forward.
Batting Drill 1: Cover Drives Only
"Today's lesson," Murali barked, tossing the ball to a young net bowler named Somashekar, "is control."
He scratched a line on the pitch outside off-stump with his boot.
"Every single delivery bowled here. Nothing on the pads. Nothing short. Just there."
"You're allowed one shot. Cover drive. Off either hand. I don't care. But play it like your life depends on it."
The first delivery pitched perfectly. Arjun stepped out with his usual flourish—and missed. His front foot had gone too far across, throwing his balance off.
Murali didn't flinch. "Again."
By the fifth ball, something clicked. He adjusted his stance—wider, weight shifted to his back leg. He let the ball come to him, leaned in with precision. The bat glided through the arc.
Crack. The ball screamed past extra cover.
Murali didn't say a word. But Arjun saw the faintest smile.
By the twelfth delivery, sweat began soaking Arjun's collar. A blister had formed beneath his right ring finger, raw from repeated friction inside the glove. His thighs ached from constant crouching. And still, the only thing that mattered was hitting that chalk line again.
He wasn't just learning how to play. He was learning how to endure.
Batting Drill 2: Pull Shot Session
Now came the short balls.
"No room for elegance," Murali said. "This is violence with control. Feet still. Eyes locked. Roll your wrists late."
The first short ball hit Arjun square on the shoulder.
"Ow!" he winced, already feeling the sting bloom into a bruise.
"You flinched," Murali said. "Again."
By the sixth ball, he got it right—knees bent, wrists rolled at the last second.
Thwack! A clean pull shot behind square.
But it came at a cost. His forearms throbbed. His ribs felt raw. The bruises from mistimed pulls ached every time he moved.
Still, he held the bat firm.
Batting Drill 3: The Flick Shot
Murali signaled a new bowler. "Now we work your wrists."
Arjun struggled. Early flicks sliced to square leg. Some inside-edged dangerously.
Murali came over and literally repositioned Arjun's fingers on the bat.
"Split the grip slightly. Bottom hand loose. Don't force it—guide it."
On the fourth clean one, the ball whispered through midwicket. It felt like slicing silk. He wanted that feeling again.
But his fingers were now swollen. A blood blister had formed near the base of his thumb.
Still, he stayed.
Bowling Begins: Murali's Gauntlet
"You're ambidextrous. That's rare," Murali said. "But your bowling is chaos. Let's add order."
He drew a chalk box—2x2 feet.
"Land the ball here. Six out of ten, or we don't move on."
The first ten balls? Two in the box. Eight outside. Murali said nothing but:
"Again."
When Arjun tried left-arm, it was worse. Some balls barely bounced. One skidded into his shin.
His bowling fingers stung. Calluses tore. Sweat ran into the cracked skin, making it burn.
By the third hour, Arjun's fingers had blistered beneath the gloves. His inner thighs ached from crouching. His bowling fingers stung from repeated friction. But he didn't stop counting the chalk marks he hit—each one a medal in a war only he knew he was fighting.
Murali demonstrated grips: top-spinner, slider, googly.
"Spin isn't magic. It's geometry."
Arjun drilled the finger placements like he was learning a new alphabet. Each letter written in pain.
By the end, he landed four out of ten. Murali nodded.
"Progress. Slow is fine. But it must be forward."
The Unseen Lessons
As the sun climbed higher, boys trickled in. Most didn't notice Arjun's early grind.
Coach Nayak did. He watched from afar, saying nothing.
Arjun's shirt was soaked. His lips were dry. He could barely close his right hand. But his eyes still searched for another ball.
He picked up another bat from the dustbin box. "V.G." etched faintly on the toe. Chipped bottom. Handle tilt.
No attachments. Just tools.
He was about to pad up again when Murali said:
"That's enough for today."
"But I still have energy," Arjun replied.
"I know. That's why we stop."
Discipline is knowing when to stop and when to push.
Murali looked at the worn chalk box, now smeared into the earth.
"You'll remember this more than any academy match."
Legacy in Scrap
That evening, as Arjun walked home, his shoulders drooped. The kit bag dug into his spine. The blisters throbbed. But his mind was calm.
He passed a boy playing with a plastic ball and a plank.
And he remembered—The first bat I ever held was a hand-me-down. Too heavy. No grip. But I thought it was Excalibur.
At home, the bat grip had come undone. Arjun tried to tape it. Failed.
Meena passed by, silent, then handed him one of her old socks.
"Wrap that," she said.
It fit perfectly.
End Note: The Alchemy of Scrap
He wasn't just learning how to play. He was learning how to endure.
Anyone could learn a cover drive. But to train with broken tools and still sharpen your edge?
That was how legends were forged—not on turf, but in trial.
Years later, when journalists asked about the turning point, Arjun would never mention centuries or trophies. He'd simply say: "Coach Murali. The chalk box. And a bat from the dustbin."