Arjun's world expanded the day his father took him on a scooter ride past the wholesale market.
Lorries lined the road. Men shouted prices. Deals were struck in murmurs, not handshakes. No signs. No branding. Just flow.
"Everything passes through here," his father said casually. "Chillies, rice, cotton. You name it."
Arjun looked around, eyes sharp.
Goods moved like runs in an innings—timed, paced, redirected.
That night, he lay awake again, not thinking about cricket.
He imagined roads as veins. Fiber cables as nerves. Money as oxygen.
He remembered the future clearly now.
Telecom would boom.Internet would come late but violently.Cities would choke on their own growth.
And Guntur would be ignored.
Perfect.
The next morning, he picked up his bat and walked to the lane.
The kids were already there.
"Arjun, play today!" someone shouted.
He nodded and took guard.
This time, he didn't hide everything.
Just enough.
A straight drive. Clean. Precise.
The ball raced past the bowler and thudded into a wall.
Silence.
Someone whispered, "When did he learn that?"
Arjun lowered his bat and smiled faintly.
Not because he was proud.
Because the board had just shifted—by one square.
And no one noticed yet.