CHAPTER 40: THE WATER BOY

Chapter 40: The Water Boy

The air on the Shanti Vidya Mandir field was cold and still.

Rohan Sharma, his new blue Kamrup District cap set perfectly on his head, stood at the front of his team. His laughter had died the moment he saw Raghav.

His eyes, sharp and analytical, swept over Raghav. He looked at the boy’s old, faded Shanti Vidya Mandir practice whites—a stark, impoverished contrast to the new, matching kits of the district team. He looked at the pale, thin, healed arm.

Then, he looked at Raghav’s eyes.

The boy who had broken his arm, the boy who had masterminded the semi-final trap, was standing here. On this field. It was an anomaly. It was... interesting.

Raghav just stood there, his kit bag at his feet. His face was a mask of calm.

His right hand, hidden from view, was a dense, aching knot of muscle. He didn’t make a fist. He just let it hang, the heavy, solid feeling of his new Iron Grip a silent anchor.

Coach Sarma, holding his metal bucket, broke the silence. His voice cut the morning air.

"Alright, listen up."

The district team, which had been chatting, instantly fell silent. They turned to Sarma, their posture respectful. This was his ground, and he was a district selector.

"Welcome to Shanti Vidya Mandir," Sarma grunted. "This ground is not the ACA stadium. It’s rough. It’s honest. It will test you. We have two weeks until the tournament."

He gestured, not at Raghav, but past him. "Nets are there. Gear shed is open. Warm-ups first. Laps. Five of them."

The team groaned, but it was a good-natured, disciplined sound.

"One more thing," Sarma said.

He pointed his thumb at Raghav.

"This is Raghav Roi, from this school. He is a... reserve. He’s here to learn."

The word "reserve" was a brand. Raghav saw the immediate shift in the team.

The polite curiosity vanished, replaced by dismissive smirks. He was no longer an anomaly. He was just a "nobody." A water boy.

A big, broad-shouldered boy at the front of the pack—Raghav identified him as Rajat, the team’s fastest bowler—actually laughed. He nudged the boy next to him.

"A reserve?" Rajat said, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. "From this school?" He looked at Raghav’s thin arm. "What’s he, a charity case, Coach?"

Rohan Sharma didn’t join in. He just watched, his expression unreadable.

Sarma’s eyes, cold and hard, snapped to Rajat.

"He’s a practice dummy, Rajat," Sarma said, his voice flat and brutal.

"He’s here to bowl so you real players don’t wear out your arms. Now, run your laps."

The insult, aimed at Raghav, was also a sharp rebuke to Rajat. The fast bowler’s smirk faded, replaced by a sullen scowl. He had been put in his place.

Sarma turned to Raghav. The coach’s face was a mask of indifference.

"Roi. You’re not a player. You’re staff. That means you get the nets ready. You set the stumps. You fill the water bottles. And you carry them. Now, get to work."

He tossed a heavy ring of keys at Raghav.

Raghav caught it with his left hand.

He didn’t say, "Yes, Coach." He didn’t complain. He didn’t show the sting of the public humiliation.

He just nodded, once.

He turned, his back to the entire, staring team, and walked to the gear shed.

For the next hour, Raghav was invisible.

He worked.

He unlocked the rusted shed, the 42-year-old mind cataloging the old, cracked pads and handle-less bats. He pulled out the heavy, wheeled crate of practice balls—a mix of new, bright red, and old, dark, scuffed ones.

He wheeled it over to the nets. The district team, jogging past on their second lap, ignored him.

He took out the stumps and, using a small mallet, hammered them into the hard, prepared pitch Sarma had been working on.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

His right arm, his "Iron Grip" hand, held the wooden stump. The impact of the mallet against the wood sent a dull, heavy shock up his forearm, but the grip itself was solid. It didn’t rattle.

Then, he went to the water tap and, one by one, filled the twenty blue water bottles, placing them in a carrier.

He was a ghost. The team, their warm-ups done, had broken into fielding drills. They were loud, fast, and good. Their throws were flat and hard. Their catches were clean.

Raghav just watched. He was collecting data.

He saw their arrogance. He saw their casual, privileged confidence. This was the power his father had lamented. This was the world of the fifty-thousand-rupee admission fee.

"Nets!" Sarma finally bellowed.

The team split.

Rohan Sharma and another boy—Rishi, the team’s vice-captain and a technically perfect batsman—were the first to pad up.

Rajat, the hostile fast bowler, was the first to bowl.

Raghav stood by the water carrier, ten feet behind the net, and watched.

Rajat was fast. Faster than Thomas from St. Louis. He came thundering in, his action a powerful, muscular explosion.

WHOOSH.

His first ball, a Short-Pitched delivery, climbed viciously.

Rohan, his movements fluid and economical, simply swiveled, his body a perfect coil, and Hooked the ball.

CRACK!

The ball smashed into the back netting. It was a shot of pure, disdainful dominance.

Rajat just scowled, marched back, and came in again..

This was a different level. This wasn’t a school team. This was a gathering of the best.

Raghav watched Rohan. He was a machine. His defense was impenetrable. His Drives were effortless. He had no weaknesses.

Raghav’s 42-year-old mind filed this away. ’He’s a "textbook" batsman. He’s perfect. But "perfect" means "predictable." He expects the ball to do what it’s supposed to do.’

For an hour, the main bowlers—Rajat and two other quicks—bowled themselves to exhaustion. The batsmen, Rohan and Rishi, were magnificent.

Finally, Sarma blew his whistle.

"Alright. Break. Water. Rajat, you’re done. Good spell."

Rajat, his face beet-red and drenched in sweat, nodded, grabbing his towel.

The other bowlers groaned, rubbing their shoulders.

Sarma, his arms crossed, watched them for a moment.

Then, his head turned.

"Roi."

The field went quiet.

Raghav, who had been standing, waiting, put the water bottle he was holding back in the carrier.

"You’re up," Sarma said.

Rohan, who was taking a drink, paused. He looked at Sarma, then at Raghav, a flicker of... something... in his eyes. Curiosity?

"Coach?" Rohan said, his voice polite. "Rishi and I are done. We should let the others bat.".

"You’re not done," Sarma said, his voice flat. "You’re batting until I say you’re done." He jerked his head at Raghav. "Get a ball, Roi. Bowl at your captain."

This was the test.

Raghav could feel the entire team’s eyes on him. The smirks were back. The "practice dummy" was being wheeled out..

He walked to the crate of balls.

He didn’t take a new one. The new ball was for "real" bowlers like Rajat.

He reached deep into the crate and pulled out an old, dark red, scuffed-up ball. The seam was half-gone. It was a "nothing" ball.

He walked to the top of the bowling mark. His heart was not pounding. His 12-year-old adrenaline was silent. All he felt was the 42-year-old’s cold, quiet focus.

He stood there, twenty-two yards away.

Rohan Sharma, the golden boy, the district captain, was in the net. He looked bored.

He retook his perfect stance, tapping his expensive bat on the crease. Tap. Tap.

He looked up at Raghav, his expression not unkind, but deeply, deeply patronizing.

"Alright, then," Rohan called out, his voice echoing in the quiet. "Let’s see what you’ve got."

Raghav looked at him.

He thought of his father, sitting alone in the dark.

He thought of the umpire’s "Not out."

He thought of his uncle’s sneer: "Just... playing."

He closed his right hand around the old, scuffed ball.

The Iron Grip engaged. The ball felt as if it were fused to his fingers, an extension of his own solid, aching bones.

The system was silent. This was all him.

He took a deep breath.

And began his run-up.

Raghav’s run-up was not a run-up. It was a glide.

It was not the thundering, sixteen-pace charge of Rajat, the fast bowler.

It was a short, economical, eight-pace approach. He didn’t waste energy. His movements were rhythmic, his head perfectly still, his eyes locked on a single, imaginary spot on the pitch.

Rohan Sharma, waiting in his perfect, relaxed stance, watched him. He felt a flicker of contempt. There was no power in this. No speed. This was a nothing ball.

Raghav’s arm came over, a fluid, repeatable motion. His body was a simple lever.

But at the last possible second, his wrist—the wrist he had spent all night transforming into a knot of iron—snapped.

It was not a normal delivery. He was not trying to swing the old, scuffed-up ball.

He was cutting it.

His fingers, locked by the Iron Grip, ripped down the side of the ancient seam.

The ball flew, flat and fast, at a medium-pace. It was aimed not at the edge, but dead-on at the Middle Stump. It looked... simple.

Rohan, the textbook captain, saw the line. His 12-year-old opponent was just bowling a straight, defensive ball.

His front foot moved into position, a perfect, automated Forward Defensive Block. His bat and pad, as always, came together in a flawless, impenetrable wall. He was going to stop this ball, dead, and stare this "water boy" back into his place.

He was ready for the ball he saw.

He was not ready for the ball that arrived.

The ball, buzzing with the revolutions from Raghav’s Iron Grip, hit the "honest" pitch that Sarma had so carefully prepared.

It didn’t just "turn."

It kicked.

It spat off the rough, dusty surface like a cobra.

It jagged, violently, in towards Rohan’s body.

The perfect, textbook block was now aimed at empty air. The ball was no longer there.

It was too fast. Too sharp.

It beat his bat.

It beat his pad.

THWACK.

The ball slammed, hard, into his front thigh, just above the protective pad. It was a direct, punishing, unprotected hit.

A dead, stinging, vibrating pain erupted from the impact.

Rohan let out a sharp, involuntary gasp.

The field went silent.

The district players, who had been lounging and smirking, stopped.

Rajat, the fast bowler, who was toweling himself down, stopped smiling..

Rohan Sharma—the golden boy, the district captain—had just been hit. He had been made to look clumsy. He was not out, but he had been beaten. Cleanly. Painfully.

He stood there, frozen, for a long second, his thigh screaming.

He looked down at the spot on the pitch, his face a mask of sudden, sharp, humiliated focus.

He looked up, and his eyes... his eyes were

different. The bored, patronizing glaze was gone. He was seeing Raghav for the first time.

Raghav just stood there.

He didn’t appeal. He didn’t celebrate. He didn’t ask "How’s that?"

He just... waited..

His face was calm, his expression unreadable. He was a machine, running diagnostics.

He walked, slowly, back to his mark.

Rohan took a deep breath, the pain in his thigh a hot, spreading bloom. He re-settled his stance. He tapped his bat. Tap. Tap.

The taps were harder now. Angrier.

"Good ball," he called out. His voice was tight.

Raghav began his run-up. The same, quiet, rhythmic glide.

[Ball 41.2]

Rohan’s mind was now racing. ’It was a cutter. It jagged in. He got lucky with the pitch. I’ll wait for it. I’ll play it off the back foot.’

He set himself, his weight shifting back, ready to Cut or Block the "trick" ball.

Raghav’s arm came over. The same action. The same Iron Grip.

But this time, he saw Rohan’s back-foot preparation.

Raghav didn’t cut it.

He just pushed this one through, faster. He released it like a normal, straight delivery. It didn’t grip. It skidded.

Rohan, who was playing for a ball that would cut in, was now cramped. The ball was on him too quickly.

He was forced into a clumsy, jammed, defensive chop. His wrists, his "textbook" timing... all of it was gone

He just barely got his bat down in time. The ball thudded into the inside edge and dropped at his feet.

He was safe. But he looked, again, like a beginner.

Rohan’s face, which had been focused, now showed a flicker of... confusion.

[Ball 41.3]

Raghav glided in.

Rohan was a mess. ’It’s not just a cutter. It skids, too. What’s he doing? Is he a spinner? A pacer?’

Raghav’s arm came over.

This time, he used the Outswinger—the "textbook" delivery.

The ball pitched on Middle Stump and, instead of cutting in or skidding on, it just held its line, moving away with the angle.

Rohan, his mind now completely poisoned, was expecting a trick. He was frozen. His feet were stuck in cement.

He didn’t move. He just watched as the ball passed his Off-Stump by the width of a coat of paint.

He hadn’t even offered a shot.

He flinched, a half-second too late.

He had been beaten. For the third time.

A dead, profound silence fell over the entire practice.

The smirks were gone.

The jokes were gone.

Rajat, the fast bowler, was now standing at the back of the net, his arms crossed, watching.

This "charity case"... this "water boy"... was... weird.

[Ball 41.4]

Raghav ran in.

Rohan’s front foot was "sticky." He was terrified to commit, afraid of the cutter. He was terrified to stay back, afraid of the skid.

Raghav, seeing this, bowled the simplest ball in the book.

A fast, straight, Good Length ball. No tricks. Aimed at the stumps.

Rohan, his feet stuck, just jabbed his bat down. A stiff, panicked, vertical-bat block.

He looked ugly. He felt ugly.

[Ball 41.5]

Raghav, relentless, went back to the Off-Cutter.

The ball pitched. It gripped. It jagged back in.

Rohan, who was expecting the straight ball, was beaten again.

THWACK.

It hit him again. This time, on the inside of his pad.

A muffled appeal, "Aah!" from the keeper, but Raghav was already turning, walking back.

[Ball 41.6]

Rohan was furious.

He was the district captain. He was the "golden boy." And this... this nobody... was surgically dismantling him. He was being made to look like a fool in front of his entire team.

His technique was gone. His calm was gone.

All that was left was rage.

Raghav knew it. He saw the red flush on Rohan’s neck. He saw the death-grip on the bat handle.

Raghav ran in.

And he bowled, by far, his worst ball.

It was a deliberate, slow, loopy, gentle Full Toss.

It was a "gimme." A "hit me" ball.

It was a stress test.

Rohan’s eyes lit up. His humiliation, his anger, his frustration... it all coalesced into one, violent impulse.

He was going to punish this ball. He was going to hit it so hard it would tear the netting.

He went for a massive, booming Cover Drive.

But he was angry.

His perfect, "textbook" technique was gone, replaced by pure, emotional spite.

His feet were still sticky. His head pulled away. He swung, not with his body, but with his arms. He was too hard. He was too fast.

He missed the middle of the bat.

THOCK.

He hit the ball with the inside edge.

The ball thudded, pathetically, into his own pads and rolled to a stop at his feet, not two inches from the stumps.

A half-run. A swing-and-a-miss, disguised as contact.

The over was finished.

A maiden.

The golden boy, the district captain, had faced six balls from the "water boy."

He had been hit twice.

He had been beaten, clean, three times.

And he had failed, miserably, to put away the worst ball of the over.

Rohan Sharma stood there, his chest heaving. He refused to look at Raghav. He just... stared.

He began to furiously jab the crease with his bat. Jab. Jab. Jab. He was showing his humiliation to the world

A dead, profound silence had fallen over the entire team.

The "charity case" was a problem.

Raghav said nothing.

He turned, his face a mask of calm, and walked back to his mark, tossing the old ball in his hand.

At the edge of the field, Coach Sarma, who had not moved, who had not spoken, watched the boy.

And then, he did something.

He nodded.

A single, almost imperceptible dip of his chin.

It was all the confirmation Raghav needed.

He had passed the first test.

(To be Continued)