The zonal finals were over. The applause had faded. The bruises—both visible and hidden—had begun to heal. Nikhil was back in Chandpur, where the air smelled of earth and sugarcane, and the streets still echoed with the same old bicycle bells and temple chants.
He wasn't thinking about selection. Not yet. The list hadn't been released. And for once, he allowed himself to breathe.
At home, his father's health had stabilized. The tea stall was running again, modest but steady. Nikhil helped in the mornings—pouring chai, wiping tables, exchanging smiles with regulars who now looked at him with a little more pride than before.
But his afternoons belonged to cricket.
He returned to Coach Devraj's institute, the same dusty ground where it had all begun. The nets were still uneven, the matting frayed, but to Nikhil, it was sacred turf.
Devraj greeted him with a nod. "You're back early."
"Didn't want to rust," Nikhil replied.
They got to work. Batting drills first—Devraj feeding him balls with irregular bounce, forcing him to adjust, adapt, improvise. Then came the off-spin sessions. Nikhil's bowling had improved during the zonals, but Devraj wasn't satisfied.
"Your release is late. Arm speed's dropping. You want to be a part-time bowler or a real threat?"
Nikhil grinned. "A threat."
"Then bowl like one."
The days passed in rhythm—morning tea stall, afternoon training, evening reflection. Nikhil kept a journal, as always. He wrote about his footwork, his grip, his mindset. He wrote about Veer, his bat, and how it now felt like an extension of his body.
But the list still hadn't come.
On the third day, after a long net session, Nikhil was walking back home, Veer slung over his shoulder, shirt soaked in sweat. The sun was dipping low, casting long shadows across the narrow lanes.
His phone buzzed.
He stopped under a neem tree and checked the screen.
Notification: UPCA Official Communication "Dear Nikhil Srivastam, you are hereby instructed to report to Lucknow by Friday for the Vijay Hazare Trophy training camp. Further details will follow. Congratulations."
He read it twice. Then a third time.
His heart didn't race. It steadied.
He looked up at the sky, a soft orange now, and whispered, "Step by step."
When he reached home, his father was seated on the charpai outside, sipping tea. His mother was folding laundry nearby.
Nikhil stood in front of them, trying to keep his voice even. "I got the message."
His mother looked up. "From the academy?"
He nodded. "I've been called to Lucknow. For the Vijay Hazare Trophy training camp."
For a moment, there was silence. Then his father set down the cup and leaned forward.
"Vijay Hazare?" he asked, voice low.
"Yes," Nikhil said. "It's the one-day format. They think I'm better suited for it. I leave Friday."
His mother's eyes welled up. She wiped her hands on her dupatta and touched his forehead. "You'll need to pack properly. And eat well before you go."
His father didn't say much. Just nodded slowly, then said, "Make it count."
That night, Nikhil visited Rana Ji's shop.
"You'll need fresh grips," Rana Ji said, already pulling them from the shelf.
"I got the call," Nikhil said.
Rana Ji paused. "Vijay Hazare?"
Nikhil nodded.
Rana Ji smiled. "Good. That's where innings are built. Not blasted."
The next morning, Coach Devraj didn't say much. He just handed Nikhil a new pair of practice gloves and said, "You're not done. You're just starting."
As Nikhil packed his kit that evening, he paused to write in his notebook:
"Lesson: Silence is not absence. It's preparation. Fix: Keep the hunger, not the noise. Goal: Earn my place, not just wear it. Reminder: I'm not here to be noticed. I'm here to be needed."
Lucknow awaited. And with it, the next proving ground.