Cricket wasn't just a game in the dusty, sun-baked lanes of a quiet village nestled deep in the heart of India. It was a language—a belief. A dream passed down like stories around a fire.
And for Aki Surya, it was everything.
As a boy, Aki never needed a reason to play. He played because he had to—because it was stitched into his soul. A stick became his bat, a worn-out rubber ball stolen from the school storeroom was his prized possession, and broken bricks transformed into stumps. He didn't care about gear or grounds. His joy came from the rhythm of the ball bouncing on the dusty earth, the echo of laughter, and the weightless freedom in every shot.
His movements were poetry—instinctive, sharp, effortless. Graceful footwork. A sharp eye. That raw fire.
His school coach once looked at him with a smile that held both hope and sadness and said,
"Aki, if life ever gives you a real chance, you'll shine brighter than the morning sun on a cricket field."
Those words stayed with him. They clung to his dreams during sleepless nights when the world seemed quiet but his heart thudded loudly.
But life didn't hand out chances. It handed out burdens.
By seventeen, Aki's world began to shift. His bat, once an extension of his arm, felt heavier—and so did everything else. His father, a humble farmer, fell seriously ill. The family's small income vanished with the crops. There were bills, medicines, mouths to feed. The playground turned into a distant echo, a place he could no longer afford to visit—not with time, and certainly not with dreams.
Cricket was the first thing to go.
Every morning, Aki walked past the open field where his childhood lived. He'd glance at it—just for a second—as if to check whether the dreams were still there, buried in the dust. He could still hear the faint echo of cheers and the sound of bat meeting ball. But then he'd look down, tighten his grip on the heavy bag of tools slung over his shoulder, and move on.
Now twenty-nine, Aki sat on the edge of his crumbling rooftop, the scent of rain mingling with the warmth of earth. A rusted water tank leaned beside him, and a flickering old TV hummed with life.
The IPL was on. The stadium lights burned bright on the screen, illuminating players who swung their bats with ease and power. The crowd roared. Fireworks lit the sky.
And Aki watched it all in silence.
The batters played shots he had practiced hundreds of times—in his childhood, and later in his dreams. His lips curved into a weak smile.
"That could've been me," he murmured. "I should've fought harder…"
But no one heard. The wind carried his words into the emptiness.
A drizzle began, soft and cold. It felt like the sky was weeping with him. The TV signal stuttered. Annoyed, Aki stood up quickly and climbed onto the slanted rooftop to adjust the satellite dish. The rain had made the surface slick. His bare feet slipped slightly as he reached out and grabbed the nearest rod to steady himself.
It was rusted.
Crack—Zzzzzz!
A violent jolt of electricity surged through him like a bolt from the heavens. His body froze, muscles locked in agony. His eyes widened as the world around him twisted. He couldn't scream.
The drizzle paused in midair. Time stood still.
His vision went black.
And then—
darkness.
Deep. Silent. Final.
The world vanished.