The glow from the streetlight outside the academy gate flickered like a dying candle. It was well past midnight. The city of Bangalore lay half-asleep, its night punctuated by the occasional rickshaw sputtering through the main road. But inside the Basavanagudi Cricket Academy's old net facility, something stirred.
A single shadow moved under the soft amber hue of a halogen bulb screwed into the corner post of the roofless net area.
Not a coach. Not a guard.
Just a boy and his ghosts.
Arjun Desai.
His school bag lay open on the side of the turf pitch, filled not with books, but with an old bat, a pair of cracked gloves, two red balls softened by repeated use, and a weathered notebook. Its cover, smudged with sweat and fingerprints, bore the words:
"Shots. Strategies. Soul."
He gripped the bat—an SS Kashmir Willow with a chipped handle and sweat-darkened grip—and took guard before the worn-down stumps. His mind wasn't quiet. Not tonight. It hadn't been since the match earlier that day.
Earlier That Day...
"You need to start asking yourself... where do you fail? Not the bowler. Not the fielder. You, Arjun,"
Coach Murali had said, his voice calm but razor-edged. Arjun had trudged back to the pavilion, dismissed cheaply again.
"He bowled leg-spin," Arjun had murmured, head down.
Murali didn't blink. "He bowled it into your head. He didn't beat your bat. He beat your belief. So I ask again—where did you fail?"
That silence had stung more than any bouncer.
At dinner, his plate sat untouched. The sambar cooled, the chapati hardened, but Arjun just stared blankly at the rice, as if it held the answers. His mother looked at him once, then turned back to the kitchen, sensing the storm inside him but knowing not to press.
Upstairs, he sat on the floor, legs crossed, the chipped bat beside him. The digital clock on the wall blinked silently: 11:41 PM. He exhaled slowly, unzipped his kit bag, and began packing. No noise. No thoughts. Just motion. When the zipper finally closed, it felt like sealing away doubt.
Midnight: Rebuild in the Shadows
Now, in the stillness, Arjun crouched into stance. The halogen buzzed faintly above.
He shadow-batted. Again. And again.
Rehearsing. Reimagining. Rebuilding.
Beside him sat a white plastic bucket, filled with old taped tennis balls. Scrawled across its side in black permanent marker:
"LEG SPIN ONLY."
Facing another phantom delivery, he murmured the name of the counter-shot under his breath.
"Flighted outside off... sweep."
"Quicker one middle and leg... backfoot flick."
"Short and wide... cut late."
"Wrong'un pitching leg... cover block."
He was mapping the battleground of his mind. Creating a private war room in the dead of night.
Each delivery wasn't just practice. It was a memory exorcised. He imagined the boy who had bowled him out two days ago — thin frame, floppy hair, the lazy loop of a deceptive leggie. Arjun replayed that ball, again and again. But this time, he didn't charge blindly. This time, he waited. He stepped inside the line. He swept. Not just a shot — a correction, a reclaiming.
Murali's Blueprint
A week ago, Murali had handed him a diary. It was cracked at the spine and smelled of old leather and dust.
"These aren't shot charts," Murali had said. "They're instinct triggers."
The pages were hand-drawn grids—zones, lines, arrows. Notes jotted beside each:
"Short of length on leg stump — Commit or perish. Decide early."
"Off-spin drifting in — Trust the drive, not the eye."
"Wrong'un outside off — Don't guess. Watch the wrist."
Those words haunted him. Anchored him.
Tonight, Arjun was building his own version.
He turned to the final section of his notebook. Handwritten grids. Each box marked with zone numbers. Arrows. Shot choices. Even his own confidence cues.
Zone 5 – Leg stump, short of length
Primary: Pull to deep midwicket
Alternate: Step inside flick
Fear: LBW or top edge
Cue: Head over ball. Arms loose.
The handwriting was a mix of scratchy pencil and bold ink. Some boxes neat, others slashed in frustration. This wasn't a training manual. It was a battlefield journal.
Bowling Entries: Spin Control Blueprint – Arjun Desai
Flatter one outside off – Powerplay onlyHigh looped delivery middle – Use after dot ball pressureUnder-cutter – Save for left-handers in middle oversDrifting in – Hide seam, disguise with wrist turn
These were not notes.
They were declarations.
The Voice of Doubt
The past two games gnawed at him. Dropped catches. Reckless strokes. Blind charges. He had started to feel it—the tightening of expectations, the creeping weight of self-doubt.
"You're not good enough," the voice whispered.
Louder each night.
But under this halogen moonlight, he learned to respond.
Not with anger.
Not with denial.
But with repetition.
With rituals.
The Midnight Ritual
This wasn't routine. It was ritual. The footwork shuffle at 12:05 AM wasn't just for balance — it was how he silenced the world outside. The slow bat rotation wasn't warm-up — it was meditation. He wasn't training. He was cleansing.
Each act had meaning. The net was his temple. The notebook, his scripture. And every drop of sweat — an offering to a future self he had not yet become.
🕛 12:01 AM – Enter nets quietly, latch gate, no lights but halogen
🦶 12:05 AM – Footwork shuffle, bat grip rotation, 30 shadow strokes
🎾 12:20 AM – 50-ball leg-spin simulation
📓 12:45 AM – Notebook session: log shot errors, reaction times
🧠 1:00 AM – Bowling simulation: 24 balls, mix of variations
🎯 1:20 AM – Visualization: 3 match chases, scenario-based response
🧘 1:30 AM – Stretch, pack, leave without trace
Every night now had this spine.
He hadn't told his mother.
He hadn't told Murali.
Not even Varun.
This was his crucible.
A Flicker of Conflict
Halfway through the session, a phone buzzed in his school bag.
He froze.
He fumbled it open.
"Ma calling..."
He let it ring.
Heart thudding.
The phone buzzed in his pocket again. Arjun didn't look at it immediately. He didn't need to — he knew it was her. He could almost picture her face: tired but trusting, wrapped in her faded cotton dupatta, waiting by the balcony window, hoping he'd be asleep.
His thumb hovered over the green button. But then he imagined her voice: "Where are you, kanna?" And that question terrified him more than any yorker.
A memory flickered — her stitching his torn glove last month by candlelight, fingers pricked from the needle, eyes still smiling. He clenched the phone and slid it back into his bag. Not tonight, Ma. I have to fix this alone.
She never called this late. Had she woken up? Did she suspect?
The ringing stopped. He stared at the screen.
One missed call. No message.
The night seemed louder suddenly.
He knelt, breathing shallow, unsure whether to call back or vanish into silence.
For a moment, his finger hovered over the call icon.
Then, he put the phone down.
"Next ball," he whispered.
Conversations in His Mind
Memories didn't knock. They barged in.
"You think this is talent? Talent dies in daylight. It's what you do with your 3 AMs that makes you dangerous."
—Murali again.
Or his mother, laughing as she swatted him for holding a bat while brushing.
Then came the question.
The one he hated most.
"What if I fail anyway?"
But then he'd strike one clean. A crisp thud echoing off the net poles like affirmation.
"Then fail better tomorrow."
Hidden in Shadows
On some nights, the academy guard walked by. Arjun had learned to hide between the curtain mesh and the net wall.
He even left a slipper outside the gate once, to make it look like a forgotten item—just in case someone grew suspicious.
This wasn't rebellion.
It was resurrection.
Hard work wasn't loud.
It was silent.
Secret.
Sacrificial.
The Final Ball of the Night
His shirt clung to his back. Sweat trickled into his eyes. His fingers were raw, tingling. Eighty-five balls down. The sane choice was to stop. But sanity had nothing to do with it anymore. His legs screamed for rest. His heart whispered just one more.
Ball number 86.
A tossed-up leg-spinner.
He lunged.
Pulled.
The ball cracked off his bat and sailed high into the Bangalore sky, over the netting, thudding against the academy's far wall before rolling back.
It felt like a symbol.
The ball had come back to him.
Tamed.
He dropped to one knee. Breathing heavy. Looking up at the moon.
"This isn't just practice anymore," he whispered.
"This is who I'm becoming."
🗒️ Arjun's Midnight Practice Log – Day 4
Focus Area: Countering leg-spin
Backfoot Shot Timing: 8/10
Sweep Mechanics: 2/10 (Needs improvement)
Shot of the Night: Inside-out cover drive to a full off-spinner
Bowling Highlight: Sharp turner that clipped top off in simulation
Mental Note: "Don't react. Anticipate."
Quote of the Night: "Your doubt is the only fielder in the mind."
Focus Area: Leg-spin sweep mechanics
Best Shot: Inside-out cover drive to full off-spinner
Bowling Highlight: Top-spin leggie that beat off stump
Mental Note: "Don't react. Anticipate."
Quote of the Night: "Your doubt is the only fielder in the mind."
Confidence Rating: 6.5/10 — improving, but still shaky vs wrong'uns
Mental Trigger: Lock wrists early when sweeping
Coach's Echo: "No chaos. Just clarity."
As he zipped his notebook and tiptoed barefoot down the cracked pavement, the moonlight caught his silhouette. Not a prodigy. Not a failure.
Just a boy chasing the shape of his future in silence.
It wasn't glory.
It wasn't even revenge.
It was the will to become something more.
And tonight, that will had a name—Arjun Desai.
A dog barked somewhere near the temple. A milkman pedaled past on his creaking cycle, eyes half-shut. Bangalore yawned toward morning. And as Arjun faded into the city's silence, barefoot and invisible, he carried with him the quiet weight of one more secret night — and the quiet promise that tomorrow, he'd return stronger.