Mumbai, 2009 — Age 10.
It wasn't a bat. Not really.
It was a broken piece of plywood, salvaged from a carpenter's scrap pile, wrapped in layers of red electrical tape to give it grip. Its blade was rough and uneven, with a nail sticking out near the toe. Its handle was the
cardboard tube from a used-up roll of cling film, reinforced with kitchen cloth and ambition.
But in the hands of Ishaan Verma, it might as well have been the MRF Genius.
He didn't care what it looked like.
In his mind, he wasn't in a narrow alley behind a crumbling apartment in Dadar West. He was in the Wankhede Stadium.
The laundry lines overhead were gallery seats. The tin sheets stacked against the wall were the stands. And the dust-covered scooter parked at silly mid-off? That was the bowler's end.
Chintu, the neighborhood quick, pulled his shirt tight and yelled, "Last ball! Match point! Six needed!"
The other kids stopped arguing over whose turn it was to bat next. All eyes were on Ishaan.
Ishaan didn't respond. He never did when he was batting. Talking broke the rhythm. He tapped the bat twice. His toes aligned instinctively on the cracks of the concrete.
Then, he waited.
Chintu bowled a fast, short one. Ishaan stepped back and flicked—the wrist work was glorious. The ball soared past the washing machine turned wicketkeeper, ricocheted off a paint bucket, and disappeared into the neighboring building's garden.
"SIX!" screamed three voices at once.
Ishaan raised the bat in mock salute. His teammates rushed to high-five him, one nearly knocking over a glass of buttermilk set out to cool on a windowsill.
A slow clap echoed down the stairwell.
Raghav Verma, electrician by day and cricket romantic by heart, stood with folded arms, a lunchbox hanging from one hand and a smile tugging at his lips. He wore his dusty blue overalls and a crooked badge from the Maharashtra Electricity Board.
"Test match shot," he said, walking toward his son.
Ishaan grinned. "You saw that?"
"Of course I saw it. That ball had more timing than my last paycheck."
They laughed.
Raghav bent down, ruffled Ishaan's hair, and whispered, "You keep playing like this, son, and the world will remember your name."
"I want to play for India, Papa."
"You will. But first, finish your homework."
Back inside their one-bedroom flat, Meera Verma, Ishaan's mother, had just finished cooking dinner. The aroma of moong dal, ghee, and fried onions filled the cramped space.
She was a librarian at a municipal school, a quiet woman with a steel spine. Her love of books had infected Ishaan early on. Comics, biographies, even old newspapers—he devoured them all. But his favorite was a
tattered autobiography of Sachin Tendulkar, gifted to him by a school teacher. He'd read it at least thirty times.
That night, after dinner, Ishaan took out his schoolbooks but left the bat by his side. It wasn't just a tool anymore. It was a promise.
Meera smiled when she saw it. "Still here?"
"It helps me think," he mumbled.
Outside, a sudden gust of wind slammed the window shut. Monsoon season was coming.
The rain would make playing difficult. But Ishaan didn't mind. Rain or shine, he would train.
Raghav sat on the floor, cleaning his toolkit.
"Your school's cricket trials are next week, right?"
Ishaan nodded. "I'll make it this time."
Raghav looked at him for a long moment.
Then he said, "I used to play too, you know.
Back in the 80s.Dadar Union. Opened the batting."
"You never told me that!"
"Knee injury. Slipped during a rainy match.
That was that. Never even got to the zonals."
There was a long silence.
Then Ishaan said, "I'll go where you couldn't."
Raghav smiled, a little wet around the eyes.
"I know you will."
Three days later, the alley turned into a war zone.
Word had spread that a local coach, Pramod Kulkarni, was scouting young players for his academy. He was old-school, known for yelling, but also for producing talent that went on to wear Mumbai colors. Everyone
wanted a shot.
Ishaan knew this was his chance.
He woke up at 4:30 a.m., wore his only pair of sports shoes—one size too big—and jogged three rounds of Shivaji Park before dawn. When the tryouts began, over thirty kids stood in line.
One by one, they batted. Some flashy. Some scared.
Then came Ishaan's turn.
Kulkarni watched closely. He noticed the grip, the backlift, the balance. He also noticed the frayed pads and
mismatched gloves.
First ball: flicked through mid-wicket.
Second: driven straight down the ground.
Third: he left it.
Fourth: swept with ease.
After ten balls, Kulkarni blew his whistle.
"What's your name, boy?"
"Ishaan. Ishaan Verma."
"You play like someone twice your age. But your stance is wrong. Your bat's too light.
Your feet are lazy."
Ishaan stared at the ground.
Kulkarni continued, "Still… I see something."
And that was the beginning.
Later that night, as thunder cracked and rain danced on the balcony grill, Ishaan sat in bed, notebook open.
He drew three columns: - What I need to improve - How to improve it - Deadline
He listed everything Kulkarni had said.
At the bottom, he wrote: "Play like no one's watching. Train like the world depends on it."
And then, just below that, he scribbled in the corner: Emma Watson - Hermione - Goblet of Fire - Yule Ball scene.
Because earlier that day, in the building's community center, they had screened the movie.
And in that moment, as Emma descended the stairs in that periwinkle dress, something shifted.
It wasn't a crush. Not yet. But something delicate. A whisper.
He didn't know why he remembered her face while facing bouncers.
But he did.
Maybe dreams needed dreams.
The next morning, the alley was flooded.
Play was impossible.
But Ishaan, now fully dressed in his kit, stood in the rain, shadow-batting against invisible bowlers. Each shot crisp. Precise.
Raghav stood by the window, sipping tea.
Meera joined him. "He's not going to stop, is he?"
"No," Raghav said.
"He's only ten."
Raghav smiled. "He's already ten."
Down in the alley, Ishaan looked up at the sky, drenched, determined, and said under his breath:
"One day, I'll play at Lord's."
The bat felt heavier than ever.
But for the first time… it felt real.