……. and the mother ?
The Under‑14 trials at Wankhede always began early, before the sun turned the concrete into a furnace. By 8 a.m., the practice pitches were alive … coaches barking instructions, balls thudding into gloves, boys stretching with the nervous energy of those who knew that Mumbai cricket didn’t forgive hesitation.
Aarav arrived alone, stepping out of Churchgate station with his kit bag slung over one shoulder. His father had dropped him off at Bandra earlier and mentioned he might come by later, if time permitted. Aarav had nodded without looking up.
He didn’t expect him to come.
He didn’t know if he wanted him to.
The last few months had been a blur of silence between them. Not anger. Not conflict. Just … distance. After his mother’s passing, the house in Goregaon had become a place where two people lived carefully around each other, like guests afraid to disturb the furniture.
Aarav padded up, helmet under his arm, waiting for his turn. The boy before him was smashing everything … clean drives, crisp pulls, the kind of batting that made selectors lean forward.
Aarav felt his stomach tighten.
“Next!” the coach called.
He walked in. The bowler ran up and sent down a sharp outswinger. Aarav’s feet froze. The ball kissed the edge and rattled into the side netting.
“Head still!” the coach snapped.
Aarav nodded, jaw clenched.
Another ball. Another mistake. His timing was off, his mind elsewhere. He could feel the weight of something pressing on his chest … not fear, not nerves, but a kind of loneliness he didn’t know how to name.
A short ball rose awkwardly. Aarav mistimed the pull, the ball thudding into his ribs. He winced.
“Take a breather,” the coach said, softer this time.
Aarav stepped out of the nets, chest tight, throat burning. He walked toward the stands, past the parents’ enclosure, past the water cooler, until he found an empty row of seats overlooking the ground.
He sat down, helmet beside him, staring at the pitch as if it might offer answers.
A few minutes later, someone sat down two seats away.
Aarav didn’t need to look. He knew the way his father breathed … slow, deliberate, as if measuring each inhale.
His father had changed clothes. No uniform. Just a simple shirt and jeans. He looked almost unfamiliar.
“I came,” his father said quietly.
Aarav nodded.
“You didn’t tell me you were struggling,” his father added.
Aarav kept his eyes on the ground. “You don’t ask.”
His father exhaled. “I don’t know how to ask.”
Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t hostile. Just… fragile.
His father looked at the pitch. “Your coach called me last night.”
Aarav’s head snapped up.
“He said you’ve been off. Not in technique. In… presence.”
Aarav swallowed hard.
His father continued, “He said you play like someone who’s carrying something heavy.”
Aarav blinked rapidly. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” his father said gently. “And neither am I.”
Aarav looked at him then … really looked. His father’s eyes were tired, but not from driving. From holding himself together.
“I thought,” his father said slowly, “that if I stayed busy, I wouldn’t feel the empty space she left. But the more I worked, the more it grew.”
Aarav’s throat tightened. “I thought… if I played more, I wouldn’t feel it.”
His father nodded. “We both chose the wrong medicine.”
Aarav let out a shaky breath. “I miss her.”
“I miss her every day,” his father whispered.
They sat there, two people cracked open by the same loss, finally admitting it.
After a long pause, his father nudged him. “Show me.”
Aarav frowned. “What?”
“How are you supposed to play that pull shot?”
Aarav laughed despite himself. “There’s no bat.”
His father shrugged. “Use your hands. I want to see.”
So Aarav stood in the empty aisle of Wankhede, took his stance, and shadow‑pulled. His father watched every movement with the quiet intensity of someone learning a new language.
When he finished, his father clapped once … soft, but full of pride.
Aarav felt something loosen inside him.
His father stood. “Go back in. Not for selection. For yourself.”
Aarav nodded, eyes burning. “Will you watch?”
His father smiled, small but steady. “I came for that.”
They walked back toward the nets together, side by side, the morning sun stretching their shadows across the concrete.
Aarav stepped in again. The bowler ran up. This time, Aarav’s feet moved. His head stayed still. The ball met the middle of the bat with a sound that felt like truth.
From the stands, his father sat straighter.
And for the first time in months, Aarav felt like he wasn’t playing alone.
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