Manoj Ojha
Chapter 1: The Girl with the Red Ball
The dawn in Mangaldoi wasn’t the kind that arrived in silence; it came humming with birdcalls, the hiss of kettles from roadside stalls, and the occasional bark of restless stray dogs. Yet, amid this subtle chaos, a different rhythm echoed through the empty school playground—thud… thud… thwack—the steady beat of a red cricket ball hitting a battered concrete wall. Arohi Nath, seventeen and barely five feet tall, stood poised like a coiled spring, the ball returning to her palm with ghostlike familiarity. Her fingers were calloused, her sleeves rolled to the elbows, and her hair tied in a tight plait that slapped her back with every aggressive step she took in her self-fashioned run-up. There were no spectators, no cheers—only a half-broken stumps outline drawn in chalk and a pile of plastic bottles used as fielding markers. The grass was still wet with dew, and her torn sneakers squelched slightly with each sprint, but she didn’t mind. This was her sanctuary. Every morning, while the rest of the sleepy Assamese town clung to their beds or gathered at tea shops with folded Dainik Janambhumi newspapers, Arohi practiced like her life depended on it—because, in her mind, it did. Her home, a rust-red two-room house just a street away, was not just cramped in space but in expectations. Her mother, Sharanya, stitched clothes through the day and stitched worries through the night. Her father, Biplab, barely spoke, weighed down by a loss they all tiptoed around. Her elder brother, Anup—once Mangaldoi’s pride and her only ally—had vanished into a cold funeral pyre two years ago, leaving behind only his bat, a pair of gloves too large for her hands, and the echo of dreams unfinished. And now, every delivery Arohi bowled was her way of keeping his memory alive, stitching her own future with each spin of the seam.
At school, she blended into the background. She wasn’t the class topper nor the rebellious loudmouth—just the quiet girl with scraped elbows and ink-stained fingers who often stared out the window. Most teachers dismissed her; a few knew she was “the girl whose brother used to play cricket,” as if her own name didn’t matter. But what set her apart wasn’t visible to them: it was the fire under her skin, the steel resolve she carried like a second spine. Still, she knew dreams like hers weren’t supposed to bloom here. Girls didn’t play cricket in Mangaldoi, at least not under the sun. They married early, cooked well, and if they were lucky, taught in schools. But that morning, as she stared at the State Trials poster hastily glued to the iron gate outside her school—“Assam U-19 Women’s Cricket Trials – Open Selections, Guwahati, Dec 4”—her breath caught in her throat. It was real. It was possible. Yet, it felt like a distant world, a door someone like her wasn’t meant to open. She folded the poster neatly and hid it inside her textbook before anyone could see. She didn’t even tell Jinti, her best friend and habitual secret-spiller. That night, under the flickering light of a mosquito coil and the creaking ceiling fan, Arohi took out her brother’s bat from under the cot. She wiped the edges lovingly and whispered to it like a prayer, “Help me cross just this one line, Dada.” Outside, the wind howled against the tin roof. Somewhere far away, a train passed. And Arohi, curling into a blanket stitched from borrowed dreams and stitched hope, made a decision that would change her life: she would go.
But going wasn’t simple. The next morning brought reality crashing in with the clink of breakfast plates and her mother’s clipped voice. “Guwahati?” Sharanya said, almost spitting the name like it were a bad word. “Who’ll go with you? Where will you stay? And what about your boards?” Arohi didn’t answer, just stared into her rice and black lentils, her knuckles white under the table. Her father sat motionless, sipping his tea as though the decision didn’t involve him. The silence felt heavier than the protest. That evening, after hours of mental tug-of-war, she stood outside Rehman Ali’s cricket coaching center—the one she had once only heard about from Anup. Rehman, a former Ranji player with a sharp temper and sharper eyes, almost laughed when she asked for coaching. “Girls from Mangaldoi want Instagram, not inswingers,” he said. But when she hurled his training ball back with a whip that cracked like bamboo, his smirk faded. He made her bowl again. And again. Then, without a word, handed her a form. “Be here Sunday. You’ve got grit. Let’s see if you’ve got game.” That night, as Arohi walked home with sore shoulders and a new fire in her veins, her phone buzzed. A message on Instagram. From an account she didn’t follow. @PitchSniper89: “Still chasing shadows, Nath? The boundary wasn’t your brother’s—don’t forget that.” Her breath caught. Only one person besides her family knew what that line meant. She didn’t reply. Instead, she deleted the message and stared out at the moonless night. The path ahead was dark. But for Arohi Nath, darkness had always been the first step to dawn.
Chapter 2: Coach and Consequence
The journey to Guwahati was neither dramatic nor cinematic—it was dusty, cramped, and smelled of boiled peanuts, cheap talcum powder, and stale air. Arohi had told her mother she was going to a “school workshop,” and Sharanya hadn’t questioned her further, distracted as always by sewing deadlines and rice rations. She wore her school tracksuit to blend in, her kit bag tucked between her feet on the overcrowded Blue Hill Express bus. The road twisted and turned along the Brahmaputra, and with every turn, her stomach curled tighter. She had never traveled alone before. At every stop, she kept her head low, afraid someone from Mangaldoi would recognize her and report back. The city loomed ahead like an alien beast—honking, impatient, layered in exhaust fumes and concrete. She clutched the scrap of paper with Coach Rehman’s address written on it as though it were a map to freedom. The rickshaw dropped her in front of a rusting iron gate, beyond which stood a crumbling two-story building with a patchy field behind it. The so-called “academy” looked more like a forgotten school. Doubts swelled in her like monsoon floodwaters. But as she stepped onto the turf and saw half a dozen girls running drills under the sun, she felt something new—belonging.
Rehman Ali watched her approach with arms folded, sunglasses hiding his eyes, a clipboard clutched like a shield. He said nothing as she stood before him, panting from her nervous sprint across the field. “Late,” he finally muttered, glancing at his watch. She nodded, unsure of how to defend herself. Then he tossed her a ball. “Bowl. Five overs. Vary the pace.” The others stopped and turned—curious, mildly amused. Arohi felt every gaze sting her spine, but she set up her run-up like it was just another morning in Mangaldoi. Her first ball was wide. Second one short. Rehman scribbled something down. “Again,” he said. By the third over, something inside her clicked. Her line steadied, her wrist snapped with power, and a delivery clipped the top of off stump with satisfying precision. Silence. Then a soft “Hmph” from Rehman. “You’ve got raw stuff. But your footwork’s off, and your shoulders drop on release.” He turned to the others. “She stays. Partner her in nets.” Just like that, she was in. That evening, after training, she sat on the academy’s broken bench, nursing a blister. One of the seniors, Rhea, sauntered over with a smirk. “Mangaldoi girl, huh? Let’s see how long you last.” Arohi didn’t flinch. She knew where she came from. But the real test came later—when she checked her phone. Another message. @PitchSniper89: “Nice form today. Too bad it won’t help you hide what you did.” Her heart skipped. The troll hadn’t just found her—he was watching her.
She tried to shake it off. Nights at the academy were lonely. The other girls formed tight cliques, sharing inside jokes and music through Bluetooth speakers. Arohi stayed mostly by herself, whispering to Anup’s bat and replaying Rehman’s drills in her head. On the third day, during a team warm-up, she twisted her ankle slightly. Rehman barked at her to sit out, but she refused. “Again,” she insisted. Something about his no-nonsense authority reminded her of Anup—firm, unsentimental, but oddly protective. Rehman finally gave in, watching silently as she ran suicides till her legs trembled. “You’re stubborn,” he muttered. “You’ll need it.” That night, he handed her a copy of The Art of Fast Bowling and said, “Study the angles. Cricket isn’t just muscle—it’s memory.” She smiled for the first time in days. But the peace was short-lived. Arohi received a small envelope under her door—no stamp, no sender. Inside was an old photograph: her, age eleven, standing with Anup near the broken railing of a bridge in Mangaldoi. Written on the back, in scribbled ink: “The boundary wasn’t meant for you.” Arohi sat on the floor for a long time, gripping the photograph until the edges cut into her palm. She didn’t cry. She just stared at the wall, the shadows lengthening like questions. Someone knew. Someone was keeping score. But she wasn’t here to run anymore. She had come to bowl. And if someone dared to cross her boundary line—she was ready to deliver her fastest ball yet.
Chapter 3: The First Boundary
The air in Silchar felt different—heavy with mist, warmer, denser. It wasn’t just the climate; it was the weight of pressure. Arohi had been selected to join the zonal training camp with twelve other girls from across Assam. The train ride from Guwahati to Silchar, winding through forested hills and fog-laced bridges, gave her time to think—too much time. Rehman had nodded only once when handing her the selection letter, but that one nod carried the weight of a thousand words. Her mother hadn’t spoken to her since she’d told her the truth—just looked at her like she was disappearing down a road with no return. In the state-run hostel near the stadium, Arohi found herself roomed with Rhea Das, the senior fast-bowling all-rounder from Dibrugarh who barely concealed her disdain. Rhea spoke with the confidence of someone who’d been around media and selectors. “These camps are more about attitude than skill,” she said casually, painting her nails before lights out. Arohi responded only with silence. She wasn’t here to be liked. She was here to play. The next morning, under a blazing sun, the girls took the field. Warm-ups blurred into net sessions, sprints into drills, all of it under the watchful eyes of Assistant Coach Pallavi Borah and a quiet, observing selector from the Assam Cricket Association. When Arohi finally got the ball in her hand, her heartbeat outpaced her run-up. Her first delivery was decent; second, better. By the fourth, she bowled a dipping inswinger that hit middle stump and left the wicketkeeper blinking. The nets fell quiet for a second before someone clapped slowly—Coach Pallavi. “Mangaldoi,” she said, pointing her clipboard at Arohi, “you’ve got pace. Let’s see if you’ve got patience.”
For the first time in her life, Arohi felt seen. Not as Anup’s sister, not as a girl out of place, but as a bowler. Over the next few days, she grew into her rhythm. Her wrists grew sharper, her eyes more calculating. She learned how to hide her reverse swing behind a subtle shuffle of the seam. In one practice match, she took three wickets in five overs, including Rhea, who walked back muttering under her breath. That night, as the girls celebrated with cold mango lassi in the mess, Arohi sat alone, rewatching her deliveries on her phone. Her inbox pinged again. @PitchSniper89: “Nice middle stump today. But that bridge photo? I wonder what would happen if it leaked.” She froze. The image still haunted her. It wasn’t just a childhood photo—it was taken the day Anup had gone missing for hours. She remembered the rumors, the whispered conversations she was never allowed to hear. Something happened on that bridge that no one ever explained. Shaken, she showed the message to Jinti, who had been keeping tabs on the troll from her end. “This guy’s no random hater,” Jinti said on a call. “He’s watching you, probably from inside the cricket circuit. Someone who knows that photo. Someone close.” Arohi’s fingers trembled as she deleted the message, but this time, fear didn’t paralyze her. It hardened her. She requested extra practice under floodlights and stayed back after everyone left, hitting a hundred yorkers into the stump. Every bounce off the concrete sounded like a vow.
Then came the inter-district practice match—North Assam vs South Assam—a simulated contest arranged to impress the final selectors. Arohi wasn’t in the starting XI at first, but a last-minute injury put her on the list. She opened the bowling under cloudy skies, heart hammering, sweat already trickling down her spine. The first over was nervous; the batters stole easy singles. But in the second, something clicked. The ball spun just right. She sent the opener back with a searing in-cutter that knocked the bails clean. In the fourth over, she pitched a perfect short ball that rose into the batter’s glove and was caught at point. The field lit up. Even Rhea gave a slow, reluctant clap. But it wasn’t just performance. For Arohi, it was rebellion. It was defiance packed into each delivery. After the match, Coach Pallavi looked at her for a long moment and said, “You’ve crossed your first boundary, Nath. But the game gets harder now.” That evening, Arohi finally called home. Her mother answered but said nothing. Then came her father’s voice, trembling and unsure. “We saw your name in the paper,” he said. “Your mother made payesh.” Arohi blinked hard. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had cooked something sweet for her. As she sat on the rooftop that night, watching the clouds drift like broken kites, she realized she was no longer the girl hiding her red ball under the mattress. She was on the pitch now. And every delivery was a step further from the past—and closer to the truth.
Chapter 4: Bowling Shadows
The stadium in Jorhat, where the zonal finals were being held, was larger than any ground Arohi had ever stepped on. The stands, though mostly empty, still loomed with the quiet weight of expectation, like ghosts watching a reckoning unfold. Early morning fog drifted across the field like slow smoke, curling around the pitch as the players stretched and strategized under Coach Pallavi’s sharp gaze. Arohi was now firmly in the playing XI—no longer the backup girl from Mangaldoi. Her name was printed neatly on the squad sheet, her jersey number stitched in fresh white. But with growing recognition came a deeper unease. Her bowling had sharpened—five wickets in three matches—but her nights were restless, her focus fractured by the persistent digital phantom that was @PitchSniper89. After a particularly strong match, where she had dismissed two senior batters and assisted in a brilliant run-out, the messages changed tone. Not threats now—taunts. “Keep pretending you didn’t know what he did. Truth doesn’t vanish with wickets.” She didn’t know whether to scream or crumble. Because the message—though twisted—cut close to a part of her memory she had long suppressed. That bridge, that photo, the bruises on Anup’s wrists that she’d once noticed and never asked about. Questions swirled like monsoon clouds in her mind, casting shadows even over the brightest moments on the field.
Coach Rehman, who visited the camp briefly during a selection review, noticed her unease. During a quiet moment, he called her aside beneath the neem tree near the practice nets. “What’s weighing you down, bowler?” he asked, eyes scanning her as if trying to read the tremors beneath her stillness. She opened her mouth but said nothing. How could she explain the paralysis of being stalked not just by a troll, but by the fragments of a brother’s death she didn’t fully understand? Rehman didn’t press. Instead, he picked up a ball and handed it to her. “There are shadows in every game. Bowl through them.” It sounded too simple—but maybe that’s what made it feel like truth. That night, Arohi logged into the troll’s page again—not to block it, but to trace it. She noticed something new: the language in the captions, the rhythm of the jabs, and one phrase—“Out of form like you were that day in Duliajan”. Only one person had bowled with her in Duliajan that winter, during a minor district camp—Siddharth Kashyap, a sullen, sidelined bowler who had once mocked her run-up and vanished after being dropped from the squad. Jinti, who had been cross-referencing IP trails and archived forum threads, called her that night: “Arohi, I think it’s him. He’s using a ghost profile, but it’s laced with his ego. He’s bitter. And he knows you.” Arohi sat in silence, pulse rising. It was no longer paranoia. It was war.
In the final trial match—a make-or-break contest for state selection—Arohi was told she would open the bowling against Upper Assam’s most seasoned batters. As she stepped onto the pitch, the sky overhead turned gray, and the wind picked up. The conditions were ideal for swing, but her mind was stormier. Her phone, tucked away in the locker room, buzzed with another DM before kickoff: “Break today, like your brother did.” That was it. The line she wouldn’t forgive. She ran in, teeth clenched, and delivered a screaming inswinger that cut through the defense like a blade, sending the middle stump flying. The umpire didn’t even hesitate. Out. Her teammates erupted. Even Rhea, usually aloof, high-fived her without hesitation. In four overs, she took three wickets. But her moment of greatest victory came not on the field, but in the post-match interview. A regional journalist asked her how it felt to silence critics. She looked straight into the camera and replied, “Sometimes, silence isn’t fear. It’s focus. And that’s all I’ve got for anyone trying to break me.” It wasn’t a callout—it was a declaration. Later that night, Jinti sent her a screenshot. Siddharth had deleted the account. But Arohi knew this wasn’t over. Shadows don’t disappear in one spell. But they do fade when met with light. And now, she was learning to carry her own sun.
Chapter 5: The Match Within
The semi-final match of the Assam Women’s Zonal League was set under a relentless noon sun, the kind that made leather balls crack and resolve melt. For Arohi, it wasn’t just a semifinal—it was a furnace. The night before, the squad list had been posted on the locker room door, and for the first time, her name appeared not just as a bowler—but as Vice-Captain. Rhea had been promoted to captain, and though her congratulations sounded polite, her narrowed eyes said otherwise. Arohi stood in front of the squad sheet for a long time, half proud, half panicked. It was everything she had wanted. And yet, the pressure now felt like a second skin—tight, unbreathable. Before she could fully process the promotion, she noticed her phone screen lighting up on the bench behind her. It was a message notification. No name, just a line from an unknown number: “They’ll know soon. About the bridge. About why you never told anyone.” Her fingers tightened. Her breath stopped. This was no longer just about sledging from a digital ghost. This was blackmail. Or confession. Or both. She thought about telling Coach Pallavi, but something inside her recoiled. No one likes drama in a team before a big match. Instead, she tucked the phone under her towel, laced her boots, and stepped out to the field. The crowd today wasn’t large, but among the handful of cheering parents, scouts, and press, she spotted a face that jolted her spine—Siddharth Kashyap, sunglasses and hoodie on, slouched in the fourth row. Watching.
The toss was lost, and they were sent in to bowl first. The pitch was dry, favoring spin, but Arohi knew she’d be called in early to break the rhythm. As the field set up, her teammates whispered with growing confidence, using her name with authority: “Arohi, where should deep midwicket be?” “Arohi, think we should push cover wider?” And just like that, her voice began to matter. She tightened the field with quiet precision. On her second over, she took a textbook wicket—an off-cutter that foxed the batter into an early shot. The ball looped and crashed into the stumps with the neatness of revenge. The team cheered, the coach clapped, but her eyes were fixed on Siddharth. His face didn’t move, but his hand gripped the railing tighter. Over the next hour, Arohi took two more wickets and saved at least ten runs with sharp field placements. When they came back to the dugout, Rhea slapped her back with a grin that, for the first time, wasn’t tinged with bitterness. “You’ve got match sense,” she said simply. The words stayed with Arohi longer than the applause. They batted slow and steady, and in the final over, needing six runs off four balls, their youngest player sliced a boundary followed by a scrambling two. Victory. The team erupted. But Arohi’s relief was brief. As she returned to the locker room, her phone pinged again. A video file. A blurry clip of the bridge. The same one from the photo. Only this time, a faint voice could be heard—“Let go, Dada. Please. Let go before it gets worse.”
The voice was hers. And it wasn’t a memory—it was proof. Arohi sat on the locker bench, shaking. Her legs felt hollow. It all returned—the summer she’d walked with Anup across the broken bridge, the fight they’d had about cricket, about family, about his withdrawal from tournaments. He had snapped at her that day, told her to stop dreaming, said that “girls don’t get to escape like boys do.” She’d shouted back, told him he was weak, that she’d succeed where he failed. She hadn’t meant it. But that was the last time they spoke. Later that evening, he was found drowned near the riverbank—ruled as an accident, but surrounded by silence. The family never spoke of it again. Not once. And now, someone had resurfaced the moment, warped it into accusation. Was it suicide? Guilt? Neither? She didn’t know. All she knew was that she had carried it like a locked box inside her chest for two years, and now it had burst open. But then, something shifted. Instead of collapsing, she stood up. She opened her phone camera, stared into it, and hit “record.” No script. Just breath. Then words: “There are some truths I don’t have answers for. Some memories I wish I could change. But I will not be held hostage by them. I am not hiding anymore. And if this is the game you want to play—know that I’ve trained for shadows.” She sent the video to Jinti, asking her to publish it if anything ever happened to her. Then, calmly, she tied her ponytail, zipped up her kit bag, and walked to the press desk for the post-match conference. Arohi Nath, Vice-Captain of the Assam U-19 women’s team, was no longer running. She was bowling. Through pain. Through fear. Through everything.
Chapter 6: Unmasked
The next morning broke with pale gold sunlight creeping through hostel curtains, but Arohi didn’t sleep at all. She sat on the floor beside her bed, fingers clasped around her phone like it was both a shield and a curse. The video from the bridge had been replaying in her head—not the visuals, but the voice. Her own words, raw with adolescent rage, echoed louder than any troll’s message ever could. Guilt twisted inside her, but it no longer had the power to silence her. The silence had lasted long enough. After brushing her teeth with robotic precision, Arohi walked into the common dining hall, only to find Jinti already waiting for her. Jinti had taken the first bus from Guwahati after seeing the video. She didn’t say anything immediately. She just placed a printed sheet on the table. It was a thread of IP traces, timestamps, and anonymous account recoveries—all pointing to one user: Siddharth Kashyap. Former under-17 all-rounder. Dropped from the academy squad two years ago—the same season Arohi joined. “He’s been stalking you since the Mangaldoi selection days,” Jinti said softly. “He must’ve taken the photo from the old district group chat. And he’s been feeding off your silence.” Arohi stared at the paper, then nodded slowly. “Then we stop feeding him.”
Confronting Siddharth wasn’t cinematic. It wasn’t a yelling match in a corridor or a teary confrontation under stadium lights. It happened quietly—during the next official practice session when Siddharth showed up as a “visiting analyst,” volunteering with the assistant trainer. Arohi spotted him immediately, pacing near the nets with a clipboard, smirking at her like nothing had happened. The nerve. But she didn’t break stride. Instead, she walked straight up to Coach Pallavi and said, “I need five minutes. Alone. With that boy.” The request was so uncharacteristic, so direct, that the coach just nodded. In the equipment storeroom, surrounded by bats and pads, Arohi faced Siddharth. “Why?” she asked, voice sharp but steady. “Why go this far?” Siddharth shrugged, peeling off his hoodie. “Because you took my place. Because you became what I was supposed to be. And you got away with it—after what happened with your brother.” His eyes sparkled with venom. “I just made sure people saw the real you.” Arohi didn’t flinch. “No, Siddharth. You made sure people saw a version of me built from your resentment.” Her voice dropped. “You could’ve been better. You could’ve played. But you chose shadows.” She didn’t shout. She didn’t cry. And when she turned and walked away, it was Siddharth who looked small—suddenly, absurdly so. That evening, Jinti posted a thread online with evidence. It was picked up by a local cricket journalist and shared widely. Siddharth was quietly removed from his volunteer position, and a formal inquiry began. The troll was unmasked—not by drama, but by truth.
In the aftermath, something strange happened. People stopped whispering and started listening. Arohi’s phone filled with messages—not from trolls, but from young girls across Assam. Girls who played cricket in backyards and village roads. Girls who had been told to stop. Girls who had secrets, too. One message read: “You make me feel like I can fight.” Another said: “Your silence was strength. But your voice is fire.” She didn’t respond to them all. She couldn’t. But she read every word. During the next team huddle, Coach Pallavi announced, “We’re going to Kolkata for the East Zone Trophy. Final selection happens there. Make it count.” The girls cheered. Rhea bumped shoulders with Arohi in camaraderie, no trace of the old bitterness. Later that night, Rehman called. His voice was low but warm. “You’ve done what many don’t. You didn’t just bowl through the shadows. You turned them into light.” Arohi sat quietly after the call, holding her brother’s bat, the one that had always been a talisman of memory and burden. This time, it felt lighter. Not because the grief was gone—but because she was no longer carrying it alone. She stared out the window at the night sky above Jorhat. Stars blinked faintly above the floodlights. Somewhere deep in the silence, a boundary had been broken—not just on the pitch, but inside her. And the game, finally, felt like her own.
Chapter 7: Home Ground, New Game
When the train pulled into Mangaldoi station, the air smelled of boiled peanuts, rain-soaked tracks, and something unfamiliar—anticipation. Arohi hadn’t been home in nearly two months, not since the trials began. She stepped onto the platform not with dread, but with a strange calm, her kit bag slung over one shoulder, her brother’s bat wrapped in cloth and tied to the side like a sacred relic. The town hadn’t changed—rickshaw bells still rang too loud, shopkeepers still shouted names like gossip—but something in the way people looked at her had. The cycle shop uncle, who once dismissed her cricket as childish, nodded respectfully. Two teenage girls followed her at a distance, whispering her name with reverence. When she reached home, the front gate creaked just the same, but the door opened before she knocked. Her mother, Sharanya, stood in the doorway—not smiling, not crying, just still. Then, slowly, she stepped aside and said, “Come in. Rice is on the stove.” That evening, as steam curled from plates of dal and squash curry, her father—silent as ever—placed something on the table: Anup’s old cricket gloves. The leather had cracked, the stitches worn thin, but they had been cleaned. Polished. Restored. “They’re yours now,” he said, eyes on the floor. Arohi reached out, touched them, and for the first time in years, felt her family start to knit itself back together—threaded by pain, perhaps, but sewn by love.
News of her return spread quickly. The local school, which had once refused to let her practice on the main field, now offered it for a “friendly exhibition match” between district girls. Posters were stuck on lamp posts. The principal even requested Arohi to give a short speech to students about “perseverance and passion.” The irony didn’t escape her, but she agreed. On match day, the ground buzzed like a festival. There were families sitting on plastic chairs, uncles sipping tea from paper cups, and little girls with cricket bats too big for their hands waiting along the boundary rope for autographs. Arohi wore her state jersey, walked out to toss with a straight back and steel in her eyes. And when the umpire handed her the new ball, she ran in like she was home—not just physically, but finally, emotionally. Her first over was flawless. Two maidens, a wicket, and not a single wide. Cheers erupted from every corner. But the most meaningful applause came not from the crowd, but from her mother, standing under a gulmohar tree with arms folded and pride etched quietly into her face. After the match, when local reporters swarmed her, asking about the troll scandal, the state team, and the “bridge video,” Arohi simply said, “This game has never been about proving anything. It’s about playing anyway.” Her words weren’t perfect, but they didn’t need to be. They were hers.
That evening, as the sun dipped low and Mangaldoi turned amber with dust and memory, Arohi found herself back at the school wall where she had once practiced alone at dawn. She placed a single stump upright, drew a chalk crease, and began to bowl—not for selectors, not for cameras, but for herself. The rhythm returned—the thud of the ball, the slap of her feet, the pull of muscle memory. After a few deliveries, she heard footsteps behind her. A small girl—maybe ten, maybe eleven—stood holding a plastic bat, wide-eyed. “Can I try?” she asked shyly. Arohi smiled. She picked up the red ball, handed it to her, and knelt to adjust her grip. “It’s not about being strong,” she said. “It’s about holding your line. Even when no one else believes in it.” The girl nodded, ran up awkwardly, and bowled a wobbly full toss. Arohi clapped. Somewhere in the far distance, a train rumbled. The same platform, the same town—but a different game entirely. Arohi stood quietly for a moment, letting the wind brush against her face. In Mangaldoi, under a crimson sky, she wasn’t just a cricketer anymore. She was proof. That dreams could begin on cracked pitches. That boundaries weren’t meant to contain, but to challenge. And that sometimes, the loudest victories come from the silence we break.
Chapter 8: City of Spikes and Screens
Kolkata hit like a storm—its noise, its size, its impatience. The air smelled of petrol, jhalmuri, and monsoon humidity trapped between flyovers. As the Assam U-19 Women’s Team stepped off the train at Howrah station, camera flashes greeted them—not a red carpet, but still, eyes that were watching. Arohi stood among them, her shoulders squared under the weight of her kit bag, though this time, it felt more like armor than baggage. The East Zone Trophy was no longer a dream. It was printed on banners and plastered on LED scoreboards, with live-streamed matches, press boxes, and scouts from national academies hunched behind laptops. This was a different battlefield. At the team hotel, Rhea—now captain, fully owning the title—came to Arohi’s room with a plan. “You take the opening overs. I’ll close. No drama. Just impact.” It was an offering. A truce. Arohi nodded. This wasn’t about ego. It was about execution. But even as she tried to focus, her phone kept lighting up—not with trolls anymore, but with press requests, podcast invites, and a message from a national sports brand interested in a sponsorship. The fame she’d once feared was now flooding in. Jinti texted: “This is it. You’re not just being watched. You’re being followed.” But Arohi wasn’t chasing followers. She was chasing the game.
Their first match was against Bengal, known for its seasoned all-rounders and a reputation for steamrolling smaller states. The stadium at Salt Lake wasn’t packed, but it echoed. Arohi stood at the top of her run-up, the new ball in hand, the pitch firm beneath her shoes. The opposing batter—a tall, poised girl from Siliguri—looked unbothered. Arohi inhaled, tuned out the noise, and ran in. First delivery: a clean, dipping in-swinger. Dot ball. Second: short of length, slight edge, nearly caught. Third: perfect yorker—bold. The crowd roared, and so did something inside her. Every over she bowled that day built not just numbers on a scoreboard, but layers on her selfhood. By the end of the match, she had taken four wickets and earned “Player of the Match.” The camera crew hovered around her, and when the mic was placed near her face, the announcer asked, “You’ve had quite a journey. What would you say to young girls back in Assam watching this?” She paused, glancing at the faraway floodlights as if seeking her brother’s eyes in the sky. “Start anywhere. Even if it’s with a broken bat and one chalk line on a wall. But start.” The words were simple, but the stadium went still, then erupted in applause. It wasn’t rehearsed—it was real. And it came from the only place she knew to speak from now: the truth.
Later that night, she stood on the balcony of her hotel room, watching the yellow-lit streets of Kolkata below, where rickshaws still moved like insects and voices blurred into a citywide murmur. Her phone buzzed again—this time with a message from the National Cricket Academy. Arohi opened it slowly. “Shortlisted for final evaluation. Report to Bengaluru next month.” She blinked. Then read it again. And again. The moment felt too large to hold in her hands. She had been playing to silence doubt, to fight ghosts, to answer a voice that kept telling her she didn’t belong. And now, the world was answering back. Behind her, the door creaked, and Rhea stepped in, handing her a soft drink and a smirk. “Looks like you’re not going home soon.” Arohi raised her can. “Neither are you, Captain.” They clinked. A quiet, earned celebration. But before bed, Arohi pulled out her brother’s bat and placed it upright near the window. She didn’t need to whisper to it anymore. She knew what he would say. You made it. Not out. Still in the game. And this? This was just the beginning.
Chapter 9: The Scorecard of Silence
Bengaluru was different. It didn’t roar like Kolkata or hum like Guwahati. It buzzed—silicon-slick, precise, and restless. The National Cricket Academy, nestled amid eucalyptus trees and concrete pavilions, felt like a temple of order, where careers were sculpted under shadows of data screens and biomechanics labs. Arohi had never trained anywhere so silent yet so loud. Every net session was filmed, analyzed, and dissected. Every throw measured in angles, force, and intent. She was one of the ten shortlisted fast bowlers—each brilliant, each terrifying. The girls here weren’t just talented; they were hungry, polished, coached since age ten. Arohi arrived with no nutritionist, no personal trainer, no English fluency polished by private school corridors. She brought only her rhythm, her fire, and the memory of concrete school walls she once bowled against in Mangaldoi. On the first day, a trainer asked her about her grip and she froze—not out of ignorance, but language. He repeated, slower, then asked, “You’ve had no academy?” She shook her head. He blinked. Then said quietly, “Let’s work with that.” No judgment. Just work. That night, in her dorm room, she couldn’t sleep. She pulled out her diary—not for words, but to sketch the outline of a field. She labeled positions. Memorized angles. Taught herself what others had been taught for years. Because that was her game now—learning while sprinting.
As the days wore on, Arohi found her rhythm within the chaos. She learned how to bowl under motion sensors, how to adjust wrist flicks based on digital projections, how to recover between spells with ice buckets and protein packs. But the mind game was harder. Her past had quieted—the troll banished, the bridge no longer a bleeding scar—but a new silence loomed. Who was she, if not a story of struggle? If the world now saw her as “inspirational,” what did she do once inspiration ran dry? On the fifth day, during a simulation match, she bowled a spell that was technically near-perfect—but she felt disconnected, mechanical. Afterward, Coach Meera Sethi, one of India’s first women pacers, pulled her aside. “You’re bowling from memory, not soul,” she said. “Technique matters, yes. But your edge—your real one—is in how you feel the game. Don’t lose that to labs and lenses.” That night, Arohi sat outside the dorm, watching the Bengaluru sky dim into a neon haze. She missed the stars in Mangaldoi. She missed knowing who she was. In the quiet, her phone buzzed—a voice message from Jinti: “You don’t owe anyone perfection. You owe yourself joy.” Arohi closed her eyes and let those words settle into her. Maybe this wasn’t about proving herself anymore. Maybe it was about reclaiming the part of the game that had once made her feel like she could fly.
The final assessment day arrived with very little fanfare—no press, no cheering squad. Just selectors with clipboards and stopwatch apps. Arohi tied her laces slowly, like a ritual. Her name was called. She stepped onto the turf. The sun was harsh, the wind dry. She touched the seam of the ball, muttered a quiet “Ami ready”—her voice, her dialect, her defiance. She ran in and bowled a spell that wasn’t flawless—but it was free. She mixed her pace, swung from instinct, and pitched a slower ball so cunningly it clipped the leg bail in slow motion. The coaches nodded. No applause. Just notes. But she didn’t need claps. After her spell, she sat alone near the bleachers, sweaty, shaking, yet calm. One of the senior coaches passed by and said, “You’ll hear from us in two weeks.” Then added, almost smiling, “Good rhythm. Heart in the ball.” Arohi nodded, whispering only to herself: “That’s enough.” She pulled out her phone, scrolled through unread messages, and stopped at one that simply read: “Anup would’ve been proud.” It wasn’t signed. No sender ID. Just that. She smiled faintly. Because it didn’t matter who sent it. She knew it was true. And as she zipped up her kit bag once more, she realized something powerful. The game no longer defined her. She defined the game.
Chapter 10: Boundary Line
Two weeks passed like slow-drifting clouds—full of waiting, pacing, rereading old texts and news alerts. Arohi had returned to Guwahati temporarily, staying at a rented hostel near Nehru Stadium while continuing to train solo. The national call hadn’t come. Yet. But strangely, she wasn’t panicking. Instead, she began helping out with local camps—coaching younger girls from villages who had never held a real cricket ball before. She saw herself in them—the hesitation, the rawness, the eyes that searched for permission to believe. She taught them to grip, to swing, to fail. Her story had begun in a place like this—with borrowed gloves and concrete walls—and now she was giving pieces of it back. One morning, as she returned from the field, drenched in sweat and chalk dust, a courier waited at the hostel gate. Inside was a single white envelope. No fanfare. No certificate. Just a folded letter on official letterhead: “Selected for India A Women’s Development Squad. Report to Pune for national camp.” She read it twice, then folded it neatly and placed it beside Anup’s gloves on the bed. She didn’t cry. She didn’t cheer. She just sat quietly and let the silence soak her skin like sunlight.
Before leaving for Pune, she returned to Mangaldoi once more—this time not as a visitor, but as a symbol. The district organized a felicitation at her old school. The same field where she was once forbidden to bowl during morning assembly was now decorated with marigolds and flex banners bearing her name. Sharanya, her mother, arrived in a pastel blue saree, sitting near the front. Her father, never fond of crowds, stood at the edge under the banyan tree, clapping with eyes that refused to meet hers—but hands that couldn’t stop. When Arohi took the mic, she didn’t prepare a speech. She simply looked around at the children watching her, then said: “Don’t let people shrink your dreams because they can’t measure them. I started with one stump, one chalk line, and no place to belong. But I didn’t stop. And that’s all I ask of you. Don’t stop.” The applause wasn’t thunderous. It was respectful. Earned. Later, as she packed for Pune, she added one more item to her kit bag—Anup’s old gloves. Not as a burden, but as a promise kept. When she hugged her mother goodbye, Sharanya whispered, “I still don’t understand cricket. But I understand courage. That part I got from watching you.”
The train to Pune cut through dawns and dust, rivers and towns, all familiar and strange. Arohi sat by the window, scribbling field placements in her notebook, her head resting against the rattling pane. She had crossed many boundaries—of geography, gender, fear, silence. But the biggest one she’d crossed was within herself: the line between doubt and belief. The moment she stepped onto the national camp turf, she didn’t see herself as the underdog from Mangaldoi anymore. She was a player. A bowler with wrist-fire and field sense. A voice among equals. As practice began, the sky opened with light rain, and the turf glistened under floodlights. Arohi held the new ball, kissed it gently, and ran in—not chasing a dream, but carrying one. Her foot landed just outside the crease. Her hand followed through clean. The ball curved like memory, dipped like grief, and crashed into the off stump with a crack that echoed across the nets. Behind her, someone muttered, “That’s the line.” Arohi smiled. Because yes—this was her line now. The boundary line. And from here on, everything beyond it was hers to claim.
-End-
