The Cricket Fire: Aarav's Unyielding Pace

March 2016.

The campus buzzed with a different kind of energy—the T20 World Cup had gripped the nation. Even the most academically obsessed students were glued to their phones or laptops. Group chats exploded with memes, hot takes, and commentary. Common rooms turned into impromptu stadiums.

Aarav was no exception. But unlike others, he watched not just with fandom—but with memory. Each match stirred something dormant in him. The clutch moments. The pressure. The chaos. And the calm he used to feel right in the middle of it.

Then came the semi-final.

India batted first and posted a respectable total. But it was the bowling that unraveled everything.

The opposition openers—Chris Gayle and Johnson Charles—came out blazing. Charles, in particular, was rampant, piercing gaps and lofting shots with swagger. Gayle, measured but menacing, settled in. And when Marlon Samuels joined them, the collapse felt inevitable. India's bowlers faltered—no swing, poor lengths, ineffective variations. The margin for error vanished.

When Virat Kohli was forced to take the ball, a part-time bowler stepping in during the biggest match of the tournament, it wasn't just desperation—it was helplessness.

Aarav sat frozen, the roar of the crowd on screen drowned by the storm in his chest.

This is where a bowler turns it around, he thought. A spell. One breakthrough. That's all it takes.

But no one delivered.

And that's when it hit him.

He wasn't just watching a match. He was reliving every moment he had once imagined for himself—the pressure, the chaos, the moment to rise. It wasn't fantasy. It had been real. He had done it. In his own small arena, in the college final, he had turned the game.

And now?

He was sitting in silence. His body healed. His mind clear. And a fire inside, no longer wild, but undeniable.

That night, he tossed in bed. Sleep evaded him. His mind buzzed not with fear—but questions.

Had I given up too soon?

Was this really the end, or just a pause I took too early?

By morning, the turmoil hadn't settled. If anything, it burned brighter.

He picked up his phone. Scrolled to a contact he rarely called for emotional things.

Appa.

He hesitated. Then dialed.

"Appa," he said, voice soft, "can I… talk to you?"

There was a pause on the other end. Then, "Of course, beta. Everything alright?"

Aarav exhaled.

"It's about… yesterday's match. And about something I haven't told you before."

He took a deep breath and began.

About how he had played cricket at college. Not gully cricket—real cricket. With nets, coaches, tournaments. About how he had hidden it from them because he didn't want them to worry. About the final. The win. The loss. The collapse in the exam. The doctor. The decision to step back.

There was silence on the other end. Long, thoughtful silence.

"You were playing all this time?" his father asked, voice low. "And you never told us?"

"I didn't want to disappoint you. I thought if I failed at cricket and at college, I'd break your trust. I just... wanted to do something big. Something that mattered."

Another pause. Then his father said quietly, "Beta… during holidays, we always thought you were just tired from studies. But your eyes... they looked empty. We didn't know it was because you were carrying this burden."

Aarav's throat tightened. "I don't know what to do, Appa. I'm at peace now, yes. But watching that match... it awakened something. I don't want to go back to the madness. But I do want to try again. Properly. Thoughtfully."

His father was silent again. Then finally said, "Come home this weekend. Let's talk face-to-face. No arguments. Just… talk."

Aarav smiled, eyes stinging.

"Okay, Appa."

As he ended the call, he felt it—not just a rekindled flame, but the beginning of something stronger. A dream reimagined. With balance. With support. With clarity.

This time, he wouldn't chase it recklessly.

This time, he would walk the path—with eyes wide open.