Ayaan's hands were slick with sweat as he gripped the bat. His heart pounded, but his focus was absolute. The world around him, the dusty village pitch, the unkempt stands filled with a handful of spectators, faded into the background. All that mattered was the ball—a shiny red blur speeding toward him from the bowler's hand. His stance was perfect. His mind, clear.
He swung, not with brute force, but with precision. The ball connected with the sweet spot of the bat with a satisfying thwack. For a brief moment, everything stood still.
The crowd erupted. The ball soared high over the boundary line. Ayaan had hit his first six of the match, but to him, it wasn't just a boundary. It was a statement. A promise to himself that he would never let his talent be wasted.
The umpire raised his finger, signaling the shot had crossed the line. Ayaan didn't celebrate. He never did. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy the game—it was just that he'd seen too much. Too much of the politics, the corruption that ran deep through the sport. And he had no illusions about what it took to get noticed in the world beyond his village.
"Good shot, Ayaan!" his captain called from the sidelines. But Ayaan wasn't listening. His mind was already running, already calculating his next move.
As the match went on, it became clear that the other team wasn't up to par. Ayaan's side was far superior in skill, but the real test lay ahead. The local district selectors were in the stands, watching. They always came for the final match of the village tournament, looking for fresh talent to recruit—talent they could mold into the next big star, or so they said.
The truth, though, was far more cynical. Ayaan had heard the whispers. The selectors didn't care much about skill. They cared about favors, connections, and—most of all—bribes. Talent, in this world, was secondary. The game was played with money and power, not cricket balls and runs.
Ayaan had always been different. His family had nothing. No money, no influential connections. Just raw talent. And that was supposed to be enough.
At least, that's what he had thought before.
As the game drew to a close, Ayaan stood at the boundary, keeping his eyes on the men in suits. One of them—Kamal Kumar—was the most powerful selector in the region. Ayaan had heard the stories. If you wanted a chance at a professional career, you had to go through him. But there was a price. Every young cricketer knew it. Money changed hands, and the selectors didn't care who had the best skills. They only cared about who could pay.
"Ayaan!" his captain shouted again. "Get ready. We need you in the final over."
He snapped out of his thoughts, focusing on the present. He was the best on the field, and it was time to prove it.
But as he took his position, his mind couldn't shake the feeling that this match—this small village game—wasn't just about winning. It was a test. A test of whether he could survive in a system that didn't care about his talent.
The bowler ran in. Ayaan's grip tightened on the bat. He had to hit another boundary. He had to prove that he wasn't just another young boy with big dreams. He had to prove that talent could, in the end, triumph over corruption.