CHAPTER 38: UNCLE!

Chapter 38: Uncle!

Raghav walked home. The sun was a hot, heavy blanket on his neck.

His mind was a locked room, echoing with Coach Sarma’s final, terrifying words: "I want you to break them, son."

In his left hand, the small, red rubber ball was already becoming an extension of his body.

Squeeze.

A sharp, radiating burn, a signal of dormant muscles waking in agony.

Release.

He flexed his pale, thin fingers, the skin slick with sweat.

Squeeze.

He looked at the arm. It was a pathetic, weak thing. He had less than twenty-four hours to turn it from a patient’s limb into a bowler’s weapon.

’System,’ he thought, his steps not faltering. ’Status.’

[Host: Raghav Roi]

[Age: 12]

[Stamina: 17]

[Strength: 13.5]

[Batting Technique: 12]

[Bowling Skill: 10]

...

[System Points (SP): 300]

Three hundred points. He could, in theory, buy +3.0 Strength for 300 SP. It was a tempting, immediate fix.

But the 42-year-old mind knew it was a fool’s move. It was a shortcut.

The system had rewarded his analysis of the loss, his resilience. It didn’t just reward victory; it rewarded work.

’I don’t buy my way out. I earn it.’

He squeezed the ball again, harder, his teeth gritting. The pain was a good, sharp, grounding reminder.

’You are weak. Get stronger.’

He arrived at his house. The front door was open to let in the breeze, but the house itself was unnaturally quiet. His father would be at the government office. His sister, Priya, would be at her college classes.

He walked in, and the feeling of the house was wrong.

His mother, Nirmala, was in the kitchen. He could see her back. She was washing rice, but her movements, usually smooth and practiced, were stiff, short, angry. She wasn’t humming.

"Mother?"

"They are here," she said. Her voice was a low, tight whisper. She didn’t turn around, her knuckles white as she scrubbed the rice.

Raghav’s blood ran cold. He knew that tone.

From the small living room, he heard a man’s laugh. It was too loud for the small space, an oily, obsequious sound.

"Ah, but my big brother always kept the best accounts! He knows where every last cent is!"

Raghav walked out of the kitchen.

His father’s younger brother, his Uncle Ramesh, was sitting on their best sofa, his weight making the old springs sigh. Beside him, his wife, Aunt Bina, sat perched on the very edge of the cushion.

She was a hawk, her sharp eyes darting from the faded curtains to the small, boxy television, to the crack in the ceiling. She was not visiting; she was appraising.

"Raghav!" Uncle Ramesh boomed, his smile wide and false. "There he is! Look at you!"

Aunt Bina’s thin, reedy voice cut in. "My goodness, the cast is off. Finished with your... game... for the day?" She let the word "game" hang in the air, a mild, curable disease.

"Uncle. Aunt," Raghav said, his voice flat. He nodded, but he did not smile. He hated these visits.

"Nirmala," Aunt Bina called out, her voice sharp, not even turning her head toward the kitchen. "Some tea. And not the everyday biscuits. The ones in the blue tin."

Raghav saw his mother’s back stiffen in the kitchen. He felt the vibration of her humiliation.

"Umesh isn’t home," Nirmala said, her voice tight, emerging from the kitchen. "He is at work."

"We know!" Ramesh said, laughing it off, patting the sofa. "We will wait. It is lunchtime, after all. He must come home for his meal."

They weren’t visiting. They were staging an ambush.

Raghav, the 42-year-old, understood. This was a shakedown. He sat at the dining table, a few feet away. He picked up the red rubber ball. And he just... watched.

And squeezed.

Squeeze. Release.

An hour later, Umesh Roi walked in.

He was tired, his shirt damp with the humidity, his shoulders slumped from the workday. He walked in, saw his brother and sister-in-law on his sofa, and he froze.

The weariness on his face vanished, replaced by a rigid, controlled mask. His shoulders, which had been slumped, straightened into a stiff, formal posture. It was a shield.

"Ramesh." His voice was flat. He nodded, once, at Bina. "What a... surprise."

"Big brother!" Ramesh jumped up, all false sincerity. "We were just in the neighborhood! We thought, why not stop by for lunch!"

Umesh’s eyes flicked to his wife, who was standing in the kitchen doorway, her face like stone. His gaze then slid to Raghav, who was sitting at the table, methodically squeezing the ball. Squeeze. Release.

"We’ve already eaten," Umesh said, his voice cold. He walked to the sink to wash his hands.

The lie was a slap. Aunt Bina flinched, her thin smile tightening.

"Oh," she said, her voice losing its sweetness. "Well. We can just talk, then."

Umesh dried his hands, his back to them, taking his time.

"Big brother," Ramesh began, the false smile gone, replaced by a nervous, wheedling tone. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his trousers.

"It’s... well, it’s about our Ritesh. You know, my son."

Umesh just stood there, his back a rigid wall.

"He is so smart, brother. So smart. Top of his class. He... he has a chance... to go to Spring Dale International."

Raghav stopped squeezing.

He looked up. Spring Dale. The place with the air-conditioned bus. The place with the power.

"That is a fine school," Umesh said, his voice dangerously quiet, still not turning around. "It is also... expensive."

"Yes, yes," Ramesh said, rushing his words. "That is the thing. A school like that... they have so many ’fees.’ We... we are just a little short. For the admission... ’donation.’"

Aunt Bina, seeing her husband fumbling, took over. Her voice was practical, sharp.

"We need fifty thousand, Umesh. For the fee."

Click.

Umesh, who had been putting a cup away, set it down on the counter. The small sound was as loud as a gunshot in the silent room.

Nirmala, in the kitchen, let out a tiny, involuntary gasp.

Fifty thousand. It was a king’s ransom. It was a house deposit. It was a daughter’s wedding fund. It was everything.

Umesh turned around. He looked... old.

"Fifty... thousand." He didn’t ask. He just repeated the number, the sound a hollow breath

.

"You... you have savings, big brother," Ramesh said, his voice now a desperate whisper.

"For the children. For Priya’s wedding, maybe. We will pay it back! With interest! This is... this is Ritesh’s future."

Aunt Bina stood up, her eyes glinting. "It’s an investment, Umesh. A real one."

She took a breath, and delivered the killing blow.

"It’s not as if you’re using your savings.

Priya is in that little state college. And Raghav..." She glanced at Raghav, who was watching her, his hand frozen around the ball.

"He’s just... well." She gave a small, dismissive shrug. "He has his hobbies."

The knife. She had twisted it.

The implication was clear: You are wasting your money on a daughter with no prospects and a son who plays games. My son... my son is a real investment.

The room was vibrating with unspoken, ancient resentments.

Umesh, finally... spoke.

His voice was not loud. It was a low, ragged, dangerous growl. The voice of a man pushed beyond his limit.

"Get. Out."

"Brother, we just—"

"I SAID, GET OUT!"

Umesh roared. The sudden explosion of sound was a physical force. It made everyone flinch. He was shaking, his finger pointed at the door, his face a dark, terrifying red.

"Do you see this house? Do you see me? I am a clerk, not a bank! Every single bit of money I have... every last bit... it is for my children! For my family! That I... that I cannot even..."

He couldn’t finish. He was showing his shame. He was a man who, at his core, felt he had failed because he could not produce fifty thousand.

Nirmala rushed to his side.

"Umesh! Your heart... please, calm down..."

Ramesh and Bina, their faces pale, scrambled for the door. This was not the defeated, quiet man they had planned to bully. This was a cornered animal.

"You... you will regret this, Umesh," Ramesh stammered, his pride stung.

"I already do!" Umesh bellowed, his voice cracking.

The door slammed. They were gone.

The house was left in the ringing, awful silence of the aftermath.

Umesh stood there, breathing in huge, shuddering gasps.

"Fifty thousand... for Spring Dale..." he muttered, his voice breaking. He looked at his own hands, as if they were useless. "Fifty... thousand..."

He sank into the chair at the dining table, right across from Raghav.

He didn’t yell at Raghav. He didn’t even look at him.

He just... sat. He put his head in his hands, his shoulders slumped. He was a man who had won the battle, but had just been shown, in the cruelest way possible, that he had already lost the war. He was a man who could not provide.

Raghav watched his father.

And the 42-year-old mind finally, completely, understood.

This was the fear. This was the terror that drove his father. It wasn’t that he hated cricket. It was never about cricket.

It was about this. This... humiliation. This... powerlessness.

The feeling of being poor. The feeling of having his "useless" son’s hobby thrown in his face by his "successful" brother.

Umesh was not a tyrant. He was a terrified man, trying to protect his son from this exact, humiliating pain.

Raghav’s heart, the 12-year-old one, ached for his father.

His mind, the 42-year-old one, went cold.

He looked at his uncle’s half-drunk teacup. He looked at his father, broken, at the table. He looked at his own pale, weak arm.

’Power,’ he thought. ’Skill. Discipline. And power. The kind Rohan Sharma has. The kind that comes from a place like Spring Dale. The kind that comes... from fifty thousand.’

He made a promise to himself. A cold, hard vow.

’My father will never feel this way again. And I will never be the one to make him feel this way.’

He stood up. His father didn’t look up.

Raghav walked to his room and quietly closed the door.

He sat on his bed in the dim light.

He looked at the small, red rubber ball.

6 AM. Coach Sarma. Rohan Sharma.

He thought of the umpire’s "Not out." He thought of his uncle’s sneer. "Just... playing."

He picked up the ball.

Squeeze.

His forearm screamed in protest.

’This is not a game,’ he thought, his eyes cold and hard in the dimness.

Squeeze.

’This is the price.’

Squeeze. Release. Squeeze. Release.

He would not stop.

The system, silent until now, flashed in his vision.

[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: ’The Weight of Money’]

[You have analyzed a core conflict. You understand the true stakes. Your resolve has been forged in family pressure.]

[NEW QUEST: ’The Squeeze’]

[Objective: You cannot be a ’Net Bowler’ if you cannot hold the ball. Your arm is weak. Your time is short. The gatekeeper will not wait.]

[Goal: Perform 1000 Squeeze-Reps before 6 AM.]

[Rep Count: 112 / 1000]

[Reward: +0.2 Strength (Permanent), 1x [Minor Skill: ’Iron Grip’]]

Raghav didn’t even look at the reward. He just squeezed the ball.

Squeeze.

His arm was on fire.

Release.

He could hear his father, still sitting in the living room, letting out a long, quiet, broken sigh.

Squeeze.

’6 AM,’ he thought. ’I’m coming.’

(To be Continued)