CHAPTER 37: THE GATEKEEPER

Chapter 38: The Gatekeeper

The two weeks that followed the semi-final loss were a blur of quiet, domestic routine. Raghav, for the first time in his two lives, became the perfect, model son.

He woke up. He ate. He studied.

The house, which had been tense with the unspoken conflict of cricket, settled into a peaceful, studious rhythm.

His father, Umesh, was visibly pleased. He would sit at the dining table reading his paper, and Raghav would sit across from him, his cast-bound arm resting on the table, his head buried in a science textbook.

Umesh saw an obedient son finally accepting the "real" world.

Raghav saw a necessary ceasefire.

He attacked his Class 8 final exams with the same cold, analytical fury he had used to plan the match against Spring Dale.

His 42-year-old mind, which had once grappled with advanced engineering concepts at IIT, found the 12-year-old’s syllabus almost insultingly simple.

Algebra was a joke. The history of the Ahom dynasty was just a set of facts to be memorized.

Priya, his older sister, was baffled. She watched him, day after day, not just studying, but consuming his books.

"What’s gotten into you?" she asked one afternoon, her own studies forgotten. "You’re... actually studying."

Raghav just turned a page in his geography book. "Have to pass, don’t I?"

"You’re acting weird," she decided, and went back to her own work.

It was the ultimate deception. By fulfilling his father’s every wish, he was silently, perfectly, preparing for his own.

He felt his father’s approval. It was in the extra ghee his mother put on his roti, a silent instruction from Umesh. It was in the way his father would clear his throat and say, "Good. Good," when he saw Raghav finish his homework.

This approval was a currency. He was earning it, saving it. He knew he was about to spend it all.

On the final day of his exams, he put his pen down. It was over.

That afternoon, he went to the local clinic.

"It’s a buckle fracture, beta," the old doctor said, tapping the plaster. "It’s healed well. You’re young."

He wrapped the plaster in a towel and, with a small, motorized saw, cut it off.

The sound was a high-pitched, terrifying whine.

When the cast fell away, Raghav’s arm was pale, thin, and covered in dead, flaky skin. It was weak. But it was free.

The doctor gave him a small rubber ball.

"Squeeze this. Every day. It will take a week or two to get your strength back. No cricket for at least another two weeks."

Raghav smiled. "Thank you, Doctor."

He paid the fee and walked out, squeezing the ball, the muscles in his forearm screaming, a dull, forgotten ache.

That evening, he waited.

Umesh came home, sat for tea. The mood was light. The exams were over. His son was healed.

"So," Umesh said, "Now you can rest. Enjoy your holidays."

Raghav placed his teacup down. The click sounded loud in the quiet room.

"Papa," he said, his voice level.

"Yes?"

"I’ve finished my exams. I believe I will do very well."

"Good. That is what I expect," Umesh said, nodding.

"And my arm is healed," Raghav continued, holding up his pale, thin arm.

Umesh’s eyes narrowed. The peace was ending. He felt the shift.

"And?"

"And Coach Sarma... from Shanti Vidya Mandir... he asked to see me. He wants to talk about the... the District Team."

Raghav showed his resolve. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t look away. He kept his voice calm, respectful. He was not a boy asking for a toy. He was a man stating a fact.

The air left the room.

He could see his father’s internal battle. The anger, the disappointment... and the promise. Raghav had been the perfect son. He had held up his end of the bargain.

Umesh’s lip trembled, just once. "This... this foolishness again?"

"I told you I would study," Raghav said. "And I did. This is... this is the next step."

"There is no ’next step’! The next step is Class 9!"

"Papa," Raghav said, his voice softening, "Just... let me go and listen. That is all. I am just... listening to what he has to say. He is my coach."

Umesh stared at him. He was trapped. To deny this, after Raghav had been so obedient, would make him the unreasonable one.

He let out a long, slow sigh. It was a sound of complete and utter defeat.

"Fine," he bit out, the word sharp. "Go. Listen to your ’coach.’"

He stood up, his tea unfinished, and walked into his bedroom, closing the door behind him with a final, quiet thud.

Rag-"He is my coach."

Umesh stared at him. He was trapped. To deny this, after Raghav had been so obedient, would make him the unreasonable one.

He let out a long, slow sigh. It was a sound of complete and utter defeat.

"Fine," he bit out, the word sharp. "Go. Listen to your ’coach.’"

He stood up, his tea unfinished, and walked into his bedroom, closing the door behind him with a final, quiet thud.

Raghav didn’t flinch. He had won. He had used his father’s own logic against him.

He had his permission.

The next morning, Raghav woke up before dawn. He left a note for his mother and walked the two miles to the Shanti Vidya Mandir school grounds.

The sun was just beginning to turn the sky grey. The field was empty, covered in dew.

And there, in the middle of it, was Coach Sarma.

He wasn’t in his coach’s whistle and shorts. He was in a simple shirt and trousers, holding a metal bucket. He was using a small cup to pour water onto one of the practice wickets, tamping the mud down.

He was preparing the pitch. By hand.

Raghav stood at the edge of the field, just watching. He watched for five full minutes.

He saw the care Sarma put into the work. The focus. This wasn’t a job for Sarma. This was a ritual.

Finally, Sarma sensed him. He stood up straight, his back aching, and turned.

He saw Raghav, standing there, his thin arm free of its cast.

Sarma’s face was unreadable. "You’re early. Or you’re late. The trials were last week."

"I know, Coach," Raghav said, walking onto the damp grass. "I was... ineligible."

"Hmph." Sarma turned back to his bucket. "So you are. The Kamrup team is picked. They had their first practice yesterday. You missed it. The team is full."

He poured more water on the pitch. Splash.

Raghav’s heart sank. This was it? He’d missed it?

’No,’ his 42-year-old mind countered. ’This is a test.’

Raghav walked up to him. "Coach. The team that... that lost... to Spring Dale. You said you were proud."

"I was," Sarma grunted, not looking up.

"But we were weak," Raghav said.

Sarma stopped tamping.

"We were," he agreed, his voice low.

"I want to get stronger," Raghav said.

"I want to play for the district. I don’t care that the team is ’full.’ I want a trial. I want a chance."

Sarma turned, his eyes hard. "A chance? You want a chance? The "textbook" path is closed, boy. The forms are signed. The list is submitted. There are no more chances."

"You’re the gatekeeper," Raghav said, his voice quiet, using the system’s own word.

Sarma froze. His head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. "What did you just call me?"

"You are the coach of the school team. You are a selector for the District Association. You’re the one who found Parag. You’re the one who saw Rohan Sharma before he was a newbie batsman You’re the one who... who is respected. Even by them."

Raghav had done his research. Sarma wasn’t just a PE teacher. He was a low-level, but deeply respected, figure in the Assam Cricket Association.

Sarma stared at him, a new, dangerous light in his eyes.

"You’re smart," Sarma said, his voice a low growl.

"Too smart. That plan... that was all you. You cost those Spring Dale bastards their ’clean sheet.’ You embarrassed them."

"We lost."

"You lost that game," Sarma corrected, jabbing a muddy finger at him.

"But you made them show their power. You made them use the umpire. In their world, that’s a loss for them."

He paused, looking Raghav up and down, from his healed arm to his burning, intense eyes.

"The Kamrup team is full," Sarma said, turning back to his bucket. "Sixteen boys. The list is locked."

Raghav’s shoulders slumped.

"However," Sarma continued, tamping the dirt.

"The ACA, in its infinite wisdom, has allowed each district team to carry four ’reserve’ players. Net bowlers. Water carriers. Boys who are there to... learn."

Raghav’s pulse quickened.

"The three other selectors... they have already picked their boys. From the big clubs. Boys whose fathers pay for their kits."

Sarma stopped, and looked Raghav dead in the eye.

"I... have not submitted my name yet. I have one spot left."

He hefted his bucket. "The U-14 Kamrup team, led by their official captain, Rohan Sharma, will be practicing here. On my ground. Tomorrow morning. 6 AM sharp."

He started to walk away.

"Coach," Raghav called out, his heart pounding. "What do I... what do I have to do?"

Sarma stopped at the edge of the pitch. He didn’t turn around.

"You’re not on the team, Roi but you’re not out of the team....You’re a net bowler....A reserve... That means you get no glory. You get no respect. You just... work."

He finally turned, his face a granite mask.

"You show up... You see your arm is broken and you bowling might be effected the main team process so I put you on the substitute section...."

Coach paused for moment to see my reaction and continue" but I will give a chance, firstly you have to build up trust from your teammates and the best way is...you ball until Rohan Sharma and other batsman miss shot to strike.."

"Also until all of them... see you as more than a water boy."

"You want me to irritate them by bowling...is that what you mean?"

"I want you to break them, kid," Sarma said, his voice a low, terrifying growl.

"I want you to show them, and me, that what I saw in that semi-final was not a fluke. The team is full. But a spot... a spot can be earned by your efforts in this team."

He nodded once.

"6 AM. Don’t be late. And... don’t be weak."

Coach Sarma walked away, leaving Raghav alone on the dew-covered field, the sun just beginning to rise, his path, blocked and impossible, now suddenly, terrifyingly, clear.

(To be Continued)