Basavanagudi Academy – 2013
He hadn't slept much since the duck.
That first-ball silence still rang louder than any cheer he'd ever heard.
In his dreams, the stumps shattered again and again—sharp, brutal, merciless.
It was just one ball.
But it had replayed a hundred times in his mind.
One moment had reduced all his preparation to ash.
So he woke before the city.
Before the birds.
Chasing a silence that only hard work could bury.
4:42 AM.
Basavanagudi Academy was deserted.
The gates creaked open. The cold morning air stung his cheeks.
A dog lifted its head, then went back to sleep.
Arjun dragged his kit bag to the center net.
The same one where he'd once dominated juniors with flair.
Now, he stood there alone.
No warm-up music.
No teammates.
Just turf soaked in dew, a half-lit sky, and a quiet resolve.
Coach Murali's voice from the night before still rang in his head.
"Show up at 5. No shortcuts. 500 balls. You'll face each one. No escape."
It wasn't punishment.
It was resurrection.
The Arrival of the Storm
5:01 AM.
A scooter coughed to a stop near the main gate.
Coach Murali.
Helmet off. No greeting. No nod. Just a piercing look.
"You ready?"
Arjun didn't speak. He just nodded.
Murali tossed an old, sweat-darkened leather ball at him.
"Then begin. First fifty. Front-foot only."
He gestured toward a bucket of balls.
"No fancy footwork. One step forward. Head still. Middle of the bat. Fifty times."
Then, without waiting, he called to a junior bowler nearby.
"Karthik, start your off-spin. Toss it full."
Phase I – Ball 1 to 50: Precision. Repetition. Pain.
The first batch came slowly. Loopy off-spinners.
But Murali wasn't watching the bowler.
He was watching Arjun.
From short mid-off, arms folded, laser-eyed.
The first few drives were... decent.
But not precise.
"Foot too early," Murali muttered. "You're guessing. I don't want guesses."
By Ball 23, Arjun's thighs were already screaming.
Each step forward burned his legs like coal.
Sweat pooled around his eyes. The bat felt heavier with each drive.
"Stay low! Stay compact! You want to play state cricket with that lazy front leg?"
By Ball 50, Arjun's shoulders drooped. But his eyes... stayed locked in.
Murali raised one finger.
"Now 50 more. Only cover drives. Hit the cone's heart."
"But—"
"Shut up. Get into stance."
Phase II – Ball 51 to 100: Carving Muscle Memory
The next 50 were war.
Murali placed three cones at extra cover. Precision targets. No mercy.
"Middle of cone. Or it doesn't count."
Each mistimed shot brought instant correction.
"Too early."
"Elbow down!"
"Stop dragging it!"
The ball dug into his palms. Blisters formed under his gloves.
By Ball 94, Arjun connected clean.
That pure, sweet click—the kind that echoed deep in your bones.
Murali didn't praise.
He just gave one, brief nod.
"Okay. Break. Three minutes."
Arjun leaned against the net pole, panting. Shirt soaked. Thighs twitching.
But something had shifted.
That feeling of failure?
It was beginning to fade.
Phase III – Ball 101 to 200: Dance of the Sweep
Murali returned with a new challenge.
"Now sweep. Deep, low, and clean."
He called in Naveen, a left-arm spinner.
Arjun's memory flashed—sweeping across rooftops, tennis balls flying into the neighbor's compound.
But this wasn't gully cricket.
This was exacting. Demanding. Brutal.
He crouched low. Spread his stance. And swept.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The red dirt rose in clouds with every stroke.
The ball stung his pads, thudded into his gloves.
One even cracked his forearm.
Murali didn't flinch.
He just kept count.
"138… 154… 179…"
Arjun's entire body was caked in dust by Ball 200.
He dropped to one knee, chest heaving. But in his eyes—
There was steel.
Phase IV – Ball 201 to 300: The Ghost of the Duck
A longer break. Five minutes.
Murali tossed him a bottle.
"Electral. No frills. Hydrate."
Then, with his back half-turned, he muttered:
"One ball ruined your match."
Arjun froze.
"You were scared of full length. You were out before you were out."
A new ball landed at the crease.
"Now, every ball from 201 to 300—treat it like the first ball of your innings."
Arjun's heart thudded.
That first ball...
That nightmare.
But he nodded. He understood.
He took guard.
Ball 201. Tap. Breathe. Forward press. Defend.
Ball 212. Foot late. Corrected. No noise from Murali.
Ball 237. He hesitated.
He hesitated.
Murali didn't yell.
He just walked away.
That was worse.
By Ball 300, Arjun's defense was a wall. Not flashy. But solid. Grounded.
A fortress.
Phase V – Ball 301 to 400: Chaos, Improvisation, and Pressure
Murali's voice barked.
"Now face both spinners. Different angles. No rhythm."
Two bowlers. One from each end.
No predictability. No pattern.
One over the stumps. The other around the wicket.
Murali simulated a field—three cones close on the leg, two boys holding plastic batons like short-leg and silly point.
"You want to shine under lights? Learn to find calm inside chaos."
Ball 321. Arjun danced down. Lofted safely.
Ball 330. Quick hands. Back foot punch.
Ball 337. He crouched. Switched grip. Reverse sweep.
Crack.
Murali froze the net.
"Who taught you that?"
Arjun wiped his forehead.
"Watching KP. And... AB."
Silence.
Murali's jaw clenched.
"Don't borrow genius. Make it yours. One day, maybe... it'll be your signature."
Then he turned. "Continue."
Ball 356. Back foot punch.
Ball 368. Paddle sweep around leg cone.
Ball 389. Loft over mid-off.
Ball 400 came quietly.
No celebration. Just tired breath and a soaked shirt.
Phase VI – Ball 401 to 500: Finding Flow
Final stretch.
Murali didn't say much.
He just stepped in and gently lobbed the ball.
"No rules. Just play."
Freedom.
For the first time, Arjun didn't think.
He just reacted.
Drives flowed.
Flicks whispered.
Pulls cracked.
Legs moved like they belonged to the pitch.
He wasn't chasing form anymore.
He was living it.
Ball 450.
Ball 472.
Ball 486.
Each one smoother. Calmer. More... inevitable.
Murali, now silent, stood behind.
"Still thinking about the duck?" he asked.
Arjun looked up.
"No."
"Good."
Ball 499. Soft push past mid-on.
Final one.
Murali stood with folded arms.
"Last one. Make it count."
The bowler ran in.
Arjun stepped forward. Weight balanced. Head still.
Crack.
The cleanest drive of the day.
Middle of the bat. No force. Just timing.
It echoed in the quiet.
Murali picked up the ball, turned it in his hand, then tossed it to Arjun.
"You're ready."
The Walk Home – Reforged by Fire
10:18 AM.
The sun now glared down. The world had woken up.
Cycle vendors yelled. Honking blared. The Bengaluru chaos returned.
Arjun slung his kit bag across his back.
The gifted ball in his pocket.
He didn't call a rickshaw.
He walked.
Each step hurt. Every muscle burned.
But the ache was earned.
It wasn't failure anymore. It was investment.
Each limp felt like a page turned—not away from failure, but through it.
Like stitching a scar shut.
The duck wasn't gone.
But it didn't define him.
Not anymore.
Evening – Rooftop Ritual, Reborn
That evening, the rooftops were quiet again.
But Arjun didn't shadow-bat.
He just sat.
The ball in hand.
The same one Murali had tossed him at dawn.
He turned it slowly.
The scratches. The mud stains. The weight.
It wasn't just a ball.
It was a ledger.
It carried the ghosts of 500 deliveries.
The missed shots. The drives. The sweeps. The fatigue.
The discipline. The stubbornness. The resolve.
The city lights blinked below, uncaring.
But Arjun sat high above it, legs folded, the wind brushing his sweat-dried shirt.
"The ball doesn't care about your feelings. So get over it."
Murali's words echoed again.
But this time, Arjun smiled.
Because he had.