Chandpur had changed.
Not in sweeping ways. Not in headlines. But in the quiet, meaningful details that only Nikhil noticed as he walked home from the station.
The tea stall at the corner—his father's pride—had a new tin roof and a fresh coat of green paint. The benches were sturdier. The kettle hissed with confidence. Customers now lingered longer, chatting over steaming kulhads.
And their house—once cramped and weathered—had been renovated. The walls were smooth, the windows replaced, and the small courtyard had been swept clean. A new bulb hung above the entrance, glowing like a quiet promise.
The Contribution
In the last year and a half, Nikhil had played for his zonal team, earning a modest but steady stipend from the District Cricket Association, under the UP Cricket Board. It wasn't much, but it was consistent—match fees, travel allowances, and a three-month camp payment that had come through after the academy stint.
He hadn't spent much.
Most of it had gone home.
And now, the family finances were stable. The tea stall ran smoothly. The house stood proud. And for the first time, Nikhil felt like more than just a dreamer.
He felt like a provider.
Back to the Nets
Three days after returning, Nikhil walked to the local ground with Veer slung over his shoulder. The pitch was cracked, the nets frayed, but the rhythm was familiar.
Waiting for him was Coach Devraj.
A former district-level player with a sharp eye and a quiet voice, Devraj had trained Nikhil since he was ten. He didn't ask about the camp. He didn't ask about the list.
He just said, "Show me your stance."
And the session began.
The Grind Resumes
They worked on footwork first—tight pivots, quick recoveries, balance drills. Then came the off-spin reps. Devraj watched every release, correcting finger pressure, seam angle, and follow-through.
"You're rushing the loop," he said. "Let the ball breathe."
Nikhil nodded, adjusted, bowled again.
Then came the batting machine—an old, sputtering device that Devraj had repaired himself. It spat out uneven deliveries, but Nikhil treated each one like a challenge. He drove, pulled, ducked, and swept until his shirt clung to his back.
After every session, he walked to the local clinic for checkups. The medic there didn't ask questions. Just cleaned his blisters and handed him a protein bar.
The Evening Light
That evening, Nikhil sat outside the tea stall, sipping a light brew his father had made just for him.
The sun dipped behind the fields. The air smelled of cardamom and ambition.
He didn't know what came next.
But he knew where he stood.
On solid ground.
With rhythm in his wrists.
And roots that ran deep.