Chapter 47:
[ for those who regularly, read this work thank you, really , and sorry for not updating as I was not feeling well from few days and caught fever.]
The kitchen light was already on when Kabir walked out. His mother was checking the milk pot on the stove, and Harpal was sitting at the table with his glasses on, looking at some invoice sheets from the Dadar shop. He didn’t say "good luck" or make a big deal out of the day. He just pointed his pen at the plate of soaked almonds.
"Take your wallet," Harpal said, not looking up from his papers. "And check your cycle tires. The main road had a lot of glass from a broken truck last night."
"I checked them yesterday, Papa," Kabir said. He knelt down to do the standard morning ritual, touching his father’s feet and then his mother’s. She just wiped her hands on a kitchen cloth and tapped his shoulder to tell him to hurry up.
"Keep the bag zipped properly on the main road," she said.
The ride to Churchgate was just cold wind and the heavy smell of ice and fish from the delivery trucks. The straps of his heavy canvas bag dug straight into his shoulders. Every time the bicycle hit a bump, the thick duckbill bats inside clattered together with a heavy, flat sound.
When Kabir rolled his bicycle through the Wankhede Stadium gates, the scene was a massive, unorganized crowd. Over a hundred and twenty boys from all four corners of Mumbai were crammed into the concrete courtyard outside the practice facility. The air smelled of cheap sunscreen, ironed cotton whites, and liniment oil. Boys were sitting on their heavy kit bags, some nervously adjusting their spiked shoes, while others huddled in small groups talking about which local clubs they represented.
Nitin was standing near the rusted drinking water cooler, waving his hand. "They haven’t opened the net gates yet," he said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Everyone is just waiting for the coaches to come out."
At exactly 8:15 AM, the iron gate rattled open. Two senior men wearing official Mumbai Cricket Association tracksuits walked out, followed by three older selectors in linen shirts carrying wooden clipboards. The crowd of children instantly fell quiet, pushing forward to form a large, ragged circle around them.
The head selector, a stern man with graying hair named Vasoo Paranjape, stepped onto a plastic bench so everyone could see him. He didn’t use a microphone. He just cleared his throat, his sharp voice cutting through the humid morning air.
"Listen carefully, all of you," Paranjape said, his eyes scanning the crowd of thirteen and fifteen-year-olds. "We have four separate turf pitches prepared today—Nets 1 and 2 are for the fast bowlers, Net 3 is for the spinners, and Net 4 is a rough track to test your defensive footwork. You have all been assigned a canvas bib number at the registration desk. When your number is called, you get exactly twelve deliveries. No warm-up balls. No second chances. If you play a lazy stroke, your trial ends right there. Coaches, open the nets."
The crowd broke apart into a frantic scramble as boys looked down at their numbered bibs. Kabir looked at his chest. He was white bib Number 42.
The atmosphere inside the net area was suffocating. The four pitches were separated by thick, heavy green netting that flapped every time the sea breeze blew from Marine Drive. The ground was hard clay, but the surface of Net 1—the primary pace net—looked pale and dry, with tiny, visible cracks running right down the good-length area.
"Batch two, move in," an assistant coach barked, pointing his plastic cone toward Net 1. "Number 42, get your pads on. You’re facing Joshi."
Joshi was a fourteen-year-old right-arm quick from the prominent Shivaji Park academy batch. He was tall for his age, with long arms and a lean, athletic stride. He wasn’t a twenty-year-old veteran; he was a genuine Under-16 prospect fighting for the same state cap as Kabir. He stood at the top of his fourteen-step mark, polishing the red SG leather ball against his trousers, his eyes fixed coldly on the batting crease.
Kabir walked into Net 1, pulling his blue helmet down. The strap was stiff, smelling of old sweat from last month. He took his guard at leg stump, tapping the thick, customized duckbill willow twice into the hard clay. Thud. Thud.
Joshi didn’t waste time. He turned, hit his stride, and ran in hard, his shoulder snapping violently as he slammed his front foot into the popping crease.
Ball 1: The ball was fast, pitching on a good length on the fourth-stump line and zipping straight through the air. Kabir didn’t push his arms out. He stayed balanced on his back foot, dropped his wrists close to his ribs, and blocked it right under his nose. The ball died in the dust. Under the canopy, Paranjape made a small pencil mark under the footwork column.
Ball 2: Joshi ran in faster, his boots making a loud thudding noise, and slammed the second ball short and wide as a clear bait to force an aggressive cut shot. Kabir saw the wider line early, kept his elbows tucked close to his ribs, and just lifted his arms. The ball hit the keeper’s gloves with a heavy smack.
"Play something, re," the keeper muttered from behind the stumps. "Don’t just stand there."
Ball 3: Joshi tried to correct his line, pitching it full and searching for late swing on the middle-stump wire. Kabir took a short, neat stride forward. He didn’t swing hard; he let the thick sweet spot of his customized duckbill willow do the work. The bat made a clean tock sound, and the ball traveled straight past the non-striker’s stumps along the ground.
Paranjape leaned over to the selector next to him, pointing his pencil at the blade. "Look at the back of that blade. It’s scooped out at the bottom, but the face is thick. The boy’s hands are incredibly light."
The other selector didn’t look up from his tea sheet. "If he scores runs, he can play with a tree branch, Vasoo."
Ball 4: Joshi dug his fingers deep into the seam and unleashed a heavy bouncer right at Kabir’s chest. The ball rose fast off the dry cracks. Kabir didn’t duck blindly or flinch away. He shifted his weight to his back foot, rolled his wrists down over the top of the handle, and swatted the pull shot firmly into the dirt through square leg.
Ball 5: Joshi tried a fast yorker aimed straight at the base of the middle stump. Kabir brought his blade down with a quick, short drop of his arms, the toe end hitting the clay with a dry clack and stopping the ball dead in the crease.
Ball 6: The final ball of the pace stint. Joshi went flat on the leg stump. Kabir stayed balanced, closed the bat face at the last microsecond, and nudged it past short leg’s ankles into the empty grass.
The coach blew his whistle, pointing toward Net 3. "Spinners in. Move to the next deck, Number 42."
The spin net was even dustier, the surface already torn up by the previous batsmen. A left-arm orthodox spinner named Kulkarni—a completely different fourteen-year-old from the East Zone—was waiting at the crease.
Ball 7: Kulkarni tossed the seventh ball high, landing it in a rough, cracked patch outside off. It spun back sharply toward the ribs. Kabir took two quick steps down the track, smothering the spin on the half-volley to push it back to the bowler.
Ball 8: Kulkarni shortened his length, bowling a flat, quick delivery on middle. Kabir stayed deep, waited for the bounce to peak, and opened the face at the last microsecond to guide it past slip.
Ball 9: Kulkarni tried to cramp him on the pads by sliding a quicker delivery down the leg side. Kabir didn’t shuffle blindly. He cleared his front leg out of the way by an inch, creating a clean window for his arms, and punched it down to long-on with a straight bat face.
An off-spinner took the final three balls of the session.
Ball 10: He floated a slower one wide of off-stump. Kabir remained patient, waiting for the ball to complete its turn before soft-pushing it toward short cover with a relaxed grip.
Ball 11: The spinner tossed it up on the middle-stump line. Kabir leaned forward, his head locked over the ball, and executed a textbook cover drive that echoed loudly against the concrete net wall.
Ball 12: The final ball of the batting trial. The spinner permanently pulled his length down short, wide outside off-stump. Kabir shifted his weight entirely to his back foot, extended his arms, and cut it fiercely along the grass through point.
Paranjape closed his file with a short snap, gesturing for the next boy to enter the net. Kabir walked out, his forearms numb from the continuous vibrations, his white uniform covered in red clay dust.
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The second morning of the trials was hotter, the sea breeze off Marine Drive blowing thick dust across the outfield. The selectors hadn’t changed their positions under the canopy, but the stack of player files on Vasoo Paranjape’s lap was noticeably thinner.
"White bib forty-two," the assistant coach called out over the rattle of the nets. "Get the cherry. Six overs on the trot against the South Zone top order."
Kabir walked up to the bowling crease, holding the old, scuffed red ball. His shoulders felt loose after the morning stretches, but his joints still carried the slight hum of the five-day final at Wankhede. He stood at the top of his seven-step mark, checking his thumb placement along the seam.
[System Template: Wasim Akram — 35.5% Unlocked]
The blue prompt flashed and died.
Over 1.1
Kabir ran in with a smooth, fluid stride, his arm coming over with an upright, high release. He slammed the ball back-of-a-length on the off-stump line. The batsman, a fifteen-year-old named Mehta, poked his bat out tentatively. The ball hit a hard patch, lifted sharply, and thudded into the handle of the bat with a heavy smack. No run.
Over 1.2
Kabir hit the exact same length spot. He released the leather with a slightly scrambled seam this time. Mehta stayed back, expecting another sharp bounce, but the ball skidded low off the clay, passing under the bat and hitting the front canvas pad with a dull thud. No run.
Over 1.3
Kabir ran in smoothly, his wrist cocked backward. He delivered a fast, full outswinger that shaped away late through the air. Mehta lunged forward to defend, the ball whistling past his outside edge into the keeper’s gloves.
Over 1.4
By the fourth over, the dry outfield dirt had scuffed one side of the leather completely, leaving the opposite half smooth and dark. Kabir rubbed his sweat into the shiny side, angling the prominent seam slightly toward the slip cordon. He ran in and released it.
Through the air, the ball started to drift outward, looking identical to the previous delivery. Mehta lunged forward to drive it through the covers. But halfway down the pitch, the ball caught the reverse-swing friction on the rough side. It jagged violently inward, sneaking right through the gap between bat and pad.
Clack.
The off-stump was ripped cleanly out of the dry clay, flying backward into the netting.
"Reverse swing," the junior selector beside Paranjape whispered, leaning forward over his evaluation sheets. "At thirteen? The wrist position at release is completely constant. Look at his bowling arm, Vasoo. It didn’t drop by a single degree even in his fifth over."
Paranjape didn’t answer. He just watched Kabir gather the ball from the keeper and walk back to his mark without a single celebration, his breath remaining completely steady under the heat.
By 3:00 PM on the third day, the coaches moved the surviving trialists out onto the main Wankhede outfield for the fielding crucible. The assistant coaches stood along the thirty-yard circle with heavy bats, launching high, swirling tower catches straight into the strong sea breeze coming off the coast.
The wind made the leather drift unpredictably in the air. Two fifteen-year-olds from the East Zone batch ran blindly, their heads shaking as they tracked the trajectory, before dropping the ball into the grass.
"White forty-two, get under it!" the coach yelled, cracking the ball high into the blue sky.
Kabir didn’t panic. He didn’t run haphazardly; he tracked the ball with short, rapid foot adjustments, keeping his knees bent low to stay balanced against the wind. He took three consecutive high catches cleanly, his fingers giving slightly to absorb the sting of the dropping leather.
Next came the reflex drill. The coaches threw rapid, low deflections off a wet catching board toward the slip cordon. Kabir reacted instantly, diving horizontally to his right to grab a low edge just centimeters above the grass.
Under the canopy, the selectors watched him throw the ball back to the keeper.
"He’s still bending his knees properly," Paranjape muttered to the junior selector as they checked their sheets. "The other boys are bending from the waist because they are exhausted. Look at their shins. They are lazy. This kid’s physical conditioning is the highest in the entire batch."
Late that evening, the selection committee gathered inside the small, air-conditioned committee room behind the Garware Pavilion. The long wooden table was cluttered with tea cups, player files, and handwritten assessment sheets.
A traditional selector sitting on the left side threw Kabir’s file onto the table, causing a plastic cup of water to rattle. "He is only thirteen and nine months old. The Under-16 Vijay Merchant tier is a physical league for fifteen and sixteen-year-olds. He’ll get broken by the fast bowlers from the West Zone schools. Why are we rushing him? Let him play another regular season in the Under-14s."
"We aren’t rushing anyone," the junior selector argued, tapping his clipboard. "Did you look at his fitness grid? He ran a six-over spell in the afternoon heat without his pace dropping by a mile. He’s fitter than half the fifteen-year-olds we selected last year."
"Fitness is one thing, match maturity is another," the traditional selector retorted, leaning forward. "He’s a kid. He hasn’t faced a senior bowler in a three-day format yet. If he gets a shoulder injury now, his career is over before he turns sixteen."
Vasoo Paranjape pulled the evaluation grid to the center of the table, tapping his blunt pencil firmly against the numbers. The room went quiet.
"He faced Joshi’s raw pace from eighteen yards without his head shifting an inch," Paranjape said, his voice flat, stubborn, and cutting through the debate. "He bowls a six-over spell with reverse swing that clean-bowled Mehta, and his fielding metrics are at the top of the entire batch. If we leave him out because of his birth certificate, we are failing as scouts. The boy is ready for the next level."
The traditional selector frowned, looking down at the handwritten numbers on the sheet. It was plain, clean, and completely undeniable.
Paranjape took his pencil and made a heavy, definitive checkmark next to Kabir’s name on the master list. "Put him in the sixty-man selection matches. Let’s see how he handles a proper three-day game under the sun."