CHAPTER 43: THE GRIND

Chapter 43: The Grind

The two days before the tournament were a whirlwind of logistics, not glory. Raghav’s last conversation with his father had been brief and strained.

Umesh had stood in the doorway of Raghav’s room, watching him pack his small, worn bag. He was showing his disapproval, his arms crossed, his face a mask of stern disappointment.

"This... hotel. The Association is paying?"

"Yes, Papa."

"You will be... away. For how long?"

"I don’t know," Raghav had replied, his voice quiet. He folded his last shirt. "It depends on if we keep winning."

Umesh had just grunted, a sound of deep dissatisfaction. "Do not," he said, his voice low, "ask me for any money."

"I won’t," Raghav said.

His father had just stared at him for a long, heavy moment, then turned and walked away. There was no "good luck." There was no "goodbye."

The bus ride to the hotel was a new lesson in team dynamics. Raghav sat alone, at the very back. The other boys, giddy with the freedom of their first "tour," were loud, telling jokes and bragging.

Raghav, however, saw the trip not as an adventure, but as a business trip. His perspective, seasoned by a lifetime he alone remembered, made him feel utterly detached from the childish joy around him. He just watched.

He watched Rajat, the fast bowler, holding court in the middle of the bus, his taped ankle propped up, his voice the loudest.

He watched Rohan Sharma, the captain, sitting near the front with Coach Sarma, discussing a notebook. He was serious, professional.

He watched the other boys, the reserves, who were already fetching snacks for the senior players.

Raghav was not one of them. He was not a reserve, and he was not truly a player. He was an anomaly, the 17th man.

They arrived at a simple, three-story government hotel in a busy part of Guwahati. It was not a place of luxury. The paint was peeling, and the air smelled of stale curry and disinfectant. But to the boys, it was heaven.

"My own room!" one of them yelled, running into the lobby.

"Silence!" Sarma’s voice bounced off the tiled walls. "You are not here on holiday. You are here to represent your district. Get in line. Get your keys. You are two to a room. The list is on the wall. Find your partner. Be in the dining hall at 7 PM for a team meeting. No exceptions."

The boys, chastened, scrambled to the notice board.

Raghav walked over, his bag in his one good hand. He scanned the list, his eyes searching. He saw Rohan and Rishi were roomed together. He saw Rajat was with Pawan.

Then he saw his own name, at the very bottom.

17. Raghav Roi / Aakash Biswas

Aakash, the wicketkeeper.

Raghav turned. Aakash was already there, his kit bag neatly at his feet. He was a small, thin boy with large, intense eyes behind a pair of glasses. He was the one who, during the net session, had been practicing his footwork, alone, while the others joked. He was a worker.

Aakash looked at Raghav, his expression not hostile, not friendly. It was neutral. Analytical.

"You’re Raghav," Aakash said. It was a simple statement of fact.

"You’re Aakash."

Aakash just nodded. "Right. Room 304. Let’s go."

Their room was small, with two hard, narrow beds and a single, buzzing fluorescent light. Aakash immediately began to unpack. He laid out his keeping gloves, his inner gloves, and a bottle of linseed oil, and began to methodically work on the leather of his gloves.

Raghav watched him for a moment. "You do that every night?"

"Every night," Aakash replied, not looking up. "The leather needs to be soft. If the leather is hard, the ball doesn’t ’stick.’ It pops out. It’s about the process."

Raghav understood. This boy was a technician, just like him.

Raghav said nothing more. He unpacked his own meager bag, took out his small red rubber ball, and sat on the edge of his bed.

In the silence of the room, there were only two sounds: the soft, rhythmic rubbing of Aakash’s cloth on his gloves, and the quiet, agonizing, relentless...

Squeeze... Release... Squeeze... Release...

Aakash paused his rubbing. He heard the sound. He looked at Raghav’s hand, at the ball. He looked at the boy’s pale, thin arm. He saw the flicker of pain that crossed Raghav’s face with every squeeze.

He didn’t say anything. He just... watched. Then, he went back to his work.

The two of them, the quietest, most focused boys on the team, worked in silence.

At 7 PM, the dining hall was loud, the boys clattering plates. Sarma stood at the front, a blackboard behind him.

"QUIET!" he roared.

The hall fell silent.

"Welcome to the Inter-District Championship," he said, his voice low and serious. "I will be blunt. This is not a ’fun’ tournament. This is a grind."

He turned and picked up a piece of chalk.

"There are 28 district teams," he wrote 28 on the board. "They are divided into four groups. A, B, C, and D. We are in Group C."

He wrote Group C and underlined it.

"In our group," he continued, "are seven teams. Us. Goalpara. Lakhimpur. Sivasagar. Nagaon. Jorhat. And Karimganj."

He looked at the sea of young faces.

"This is not a knockout. This is a round-robin. You will play every team in our group... twice."

A murmur went through the room.

Rohan’s head snapped up. He did the math. "Coach... that’s... that’s fourteen games."

"Fourteen games," Sarma confirmed, his voice like stone. "In three weeks. We play almost every single day. This is not about talent. This is about endurance. This is about who can survive."

He let that sink in. The giddy, holiday atmosphere was gone, replaced by a cold dread.

"Only one team from our group," Sarma said, holding up a single, thick finger, "will qualify for the semi-final. The team with the most wins. There is no second place. There is no ’wild card.’ You finish first... or you go home."

He put the chalk down.

"This is a war of attrition. You will be tired. You will be sore. You will be homesick. I do not care. All I care about is the ’Win’ column. Understood?"

"Yes, Coach!" the team replied, their voices now a single, subdued, serious unit.

"Good. Curfew is 9 PM. Our first match is tomorrow. 9 AM. Nehru Stadium. Be in the lobby, in your whites, at 7:30 AM."

One of the players, Pawan, raised his hand. "Who are we playing, Coach?"

Sarma looked at his notes.

"Our first opponent," he said, "is Sivasagar."

The meeting was over. The boys stood up, the room now filled with a low, nervous murmur.

As Raghav stood, he felt a body slam into his shoulder, hard, knocking him off balance.

"Watch it, reserve," a voice growd.

It was Rajat. The fast bowler was limping, his ankle still taped, but his eyes were full of venom. He had used the old, dead nickname on purpose.

Before Raghav could even react, Rohan Sharma’s voice cut in.

"Rajat. Enough."

Rohan was standing right there. His voice was quiet, but it was the voice of the captain.

"He’s on the team. He’s in the eleven. That makes him one of us. Are we clear?"

Rajat’s face darkened. He showed his insubordination, his lip curling. "He’s in your spot, Chinmoy," he said to another boy, an all-rounder who was standing next to him, looking at the floor. "He took your place."

Chinmoy, the boy who had been bumped for Raghav, just looked at Raghav, his face a mask of quiet, burning resentment. This was the sub-plot. Raghav hadn’t just gained a spot; he had taken it.

"That was the coach’s call," Rohan said, his voice final. "And it’s done. Back off."

Rajat held Rohan’s gaze for a long, hostile second, then turned and limped away.

Rohan watched him go, then turned to Raghav. He was showing his frustration, the burden of leadership.

"Don’t... don’t mind him," Rohan said, his voice awkward. "He’s just... angry."

"I know," Raghav said.

"Just..." Rohan paused, trying to find the words. "Just be ready tomorrow. Sivasagar isn’t Spring Dale. They’re tough. We need you."

He was not a friend. But he was a captain. He was offering an olive branch.

"I’ll be ready," Raghav said.

Rohan nodded once, then walked away.

Raghav stood there for a moment, the resentment of Chinmoy and the hatred of Rajat like a physical weight on his back.

He went back to his room. Aakash was already in bed, reading a book on wicketkeeping techniques.

Raghav sat on his own bed. He didn’t turn on the light.

He just sat in the dark. And in the silence, he picked up the red rubber ball.

Squeeze. Release. Squeeze. Release.

He had fourteen games.

It was, as Sarma had said, a grind.

The next morning, the bus was quiet. It was a 7:30 AM ride, and the players were nervous, focused.

They arrived at Nehru Stadium. It was a massive, old, concrete bowl, far bigger than the ACA ground.

Coach Sarma gathered them at the gate.

"This is it," he said. "Sivasagar. They are a tough team. They are scrappers. They will not give you anything. We have to be clean. We have to be ruthless. Rohan. You and I. For the toss."

Raghav, his heart beating a low, steady rhythm, watched his captain and coach walk out to the center of the vast, green field.

He saw the Sivasagar captain, a tall, broad-shouldered boy (let’s call him Akhil), meet them. The umpire was there.

He couldn’t hear, but he could see the ritual.

The umpire showed the coin. Akhil, the Sivasagar captain, called.

The umpire tossed it. It spun, a silver speck in the morning sun.

It landed.

The umpire looked at it, then pointed at Akhil.

Sivasagar had won the toss.

Akhil spoke to Rohan, his expression confident.

Rohan nodded, his face unreadable, and walked back with Sarma.

The team crowded around him. "What is it? What did they pick?"

Rohan looked at his team, his eyes scanning each face.

"They’ve chosen to bat."

A sigh of relief went through the Kamrup team. They were a strong bowling side. This was a good start.

Sarma grabbed Rohan’s arm. "Good. Good. This is our strength. Rajat... your ankle?"

Rajat, who was testing his ankle, grimaced. "It’s not 100%, Coach. I can bowl... but I’ll be slow."

Sarma cursed under his breath. He looked at his bowling lineup.

"Fine," he said. "Sahil, you take the new ball. Utpal, from the other end. I want spin and swing. I want them confused."

Then he turned, and his eyes found Raghav.

"Roi. You’re first-change. You’ll be on in the eighth over. Be ready. I want that ’trick’ of yours. I want you to break them."

"Yes, Coach."

The team ran onto the field, their blue caps bright against the green.

Raghav took his position at Fine Leg, his new "safe" spot.

The Sivasagar openers, Akhil and Bikash, walked to the crease. They looked tough, confident, their bats swinging.

The umpire called, "Play!"

The first match of the grind had begun.

(To be Continued)