Mumbai, 2010 — A Fork in the Road
The morning sun filtered through the thin, cream-colored curtains of the Verma household. Ishaan sat on the floor of the living room, his back resting against the old wall fan. His new bat—the one donated through the trust—lay across his knees. He wasn't shadow-practicing. He wasn't reading. He was just staring blankly at the floor.
A letter lay open on the carpet.
To: Ishaan Verma
You have been selected to represent India U-14 in the Youth Asia Invitational Tournament held in Sri Lanka.
Camp begins in Bengaluru on March 18th. Report by 7:00 AM sharp. Travel and stay will be arranged by the BCCI.
It was the letter every aspiring cricketer dreamt of. A gateway to the big league. The first stamp of international recognition.
And yet, Ishaan wasn't smiling.
From the bedroom, he could hear his mother, Meera, talking softly on the phone.
Her voice was shaky. The words indistinct.
But he caught one phrase:
"...yes, he fainted again. The doctor says it's serious now."
His hands clenched around the bat.
Raghav Verma had never been a man to complain. His fingers were often calloused, his back arched from years of manual labor fixing electric meters and rigging wires for tiny apartment buildings. But he never said no to work. Never stopped smiling.
Except now, that smile had thinned. And his body, always upright and humming with energy, seemed slower. He coughed more. He didn't eat as much. When he sat down, he winced without realizing it.
Two days ago, Raghav had collapsed while returning from a job. Passersby helped bring him home. The local clinic ran tests. Results were still pending. But the doctor had used the word Ishaan feared the most:
Chronic.
That evening, Meera called Ishaan into the kitchen. She was making his favorite—moong dal khichdi.
She didn't speak right away.
"I got the letter," Ishaan said, softly.
"I know," Meera replied.
"BCCI. Big honor." Silence.
"But your father—"
"I'll stay," Ishaan interrupted quickly.
Meera turned to him, ladle in hand. Her eyes were sharp, but soft.
"Listen to me. Your father lives for two things—this family and your cricket. If he finds out you gave this up for him, he won't forgive himself. And I won't either."
"But what if he needs me here?"
"Then come back. We'll find a way."
"I don't want to go and come back to..."
Ishaan couldn't finish the sentence.
Meera placed a warm hand on his cheek.
"You'll play. And you'll carry him with you. Every shot, every run. Don't doubt that."
That night, Raghav sat upright in bed for the first time in a while.
He asked for his diary.
Ishaan brought it.
Raghav scribbled a short note and handed it to Ishaan. His handwriting had always been angular, but now it was shakier.
"Beta, champions don't run from fear. They carry it with them, like armor. So go. Win. And bring me stories."
Ishaan folded the paper and kept it inside his own diary, beside the page where he had first written: One day, they'll remember me.
March 18th — Bengaluru Camp
The airport was loud, but Ishaan felt a strange stillness inside. He had never flown before. As the plane lifted off, he looked out of the window and whispered, "I'll make it count, Papa."
The Bengaluru National Cricket Academy was a world unto itself. Fields manicured like chessboards, nets that never ended, dorms buzzing with players from every state.
Ishaan found himself roomed with a boy from Ranchi—tall, lean, talkative.
"Rudra Singh," he said, offering a handshake. "Fast bowler. You?"
"Ishaan. Batter."
"Cool. Let's get to work."
Over the next week, the camp ran like a military operation. Wake-up calls at 5 AM. Fitness drills by 6. Nets by 8. Strategy sessions by noon. Afternoon matches. Mental conditioning by evening.
Ishaan stood out early. His technique was crisp. His judgment precise. His temperament, unshakable.
One day, during a simulation match, he scored 82 not out chasing 160 against a deadly pace trio from Punjab. Selectors began circling his name.
Rudra clapped him on the back. "You're not just playing. You're dictating. That's rare."
But even as his game soared, his thoughts often drifted home.
He called every night.
"Papa's okay," Meera would say. "Little better today."
Ishaan would smile, but doubt lingered.
One night, Meera hesitated before handing the phone over. Then Raghav's weak voice came on.
"You better score a century next match, or I'll drag myself there and show you how it's done."
Ishaan laughed and cried at the same time.
The final selection for the Youth Asia Invitational was made a week later.
Fifteen names. One spot for opener.
They called his name first.
Ishaan Verma — Opening Batter, India U-14
The room clapped. Coaches nodded. Rudra whooped.
Ishaan just folded his hands and whispered, "Thank you."
That night, under the dormitory fan, Ishaan opened his diary and wrote:
I chose the path where both love and duty were heavy. But the bat doesn't lie. The runs don't lie.
The heart doesn't either.
Next stop: Sri Lanka. For Papa. For India. For me