*Mumbai, India — May 2007*
The Mumbai sun was softer than Colombo's, but it felt no less scorching. As Ishaan stepped out of Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport, medal dangling from his neck, he was greeted by a crowd of family, neighbors, and reporters. Cameras flashed. Banners with his name waved. Even his old cricket coach from school had turned up, grinning ear to ear.
But amid the applause, Ishaan's eyes scanned for one figure.
His mother, Meera, pushed through the throng and wrapped him in a tight hug.
"He's waiting," she whispered into his ear.
Ishaan nodded. The cheering faded in his head. There was only one place he needed to go.
---
The ride home was quiet. Meera's knuckles turned white as she clutched the steering wheel. Ishaan sat beside her, his fingers nervously drumming on his bat case.
"How is he?" Ishaan finally asked.
Meera sighed, the breath trembling. "Worse. The doctors say the cancer's spread."
Ishaan stared ahead, unblinking.
They reached home. The house was clean, almost too clean, the way people overcompensate in the face of chaos. The hallway smelled of antiseptic. The air inside was heavy with silence.
His father, Rajeev Varma, lay on a hospital-style bed in the living room, thin and pale, but conscious. An oxygen machine hissed beside him. His eyes lit up as Ishaan entered.
"You did it," he croaked, voice raspy.
Ishaan knelt beside him, eyes misting. "We did it."
Rajeev managed a smile. "I saw\... every ball."
They didn't speak for a while. Just held hands.
That night, after everyone had gone to bed, Ishaan sat by his father, recounting each match, each delivery. He mimicked shots, chuckled at Rudra's jokes, and even described Kartik's sabotage — leaving out the darker details.
Rajeev listened with closed eyes, nodding faintly.
When Ishaan finished, Rajeev whispered, "You're not just playing cricket anymore. You're carrying a name. Make it a good one."
---
The next morning, doctors visited. Terms like "palliative care" and "non-operable" echoed in the air. Ishaan overheard hushed conversations between Meera and the oncologist. Words he didn't understand, but their gravity was clear.
In the days that followed, Rajeev's condition deteriorated. Ishaan's routine shifted from nets and field drills to medication schedules and wheelchair strolls.
He bathed his father. Read to him. Fed him soup.
In the silence between cricket dreams and real-world heartbreak, Ishaan grew.
---
One evening, Ishaan returned from the grocery store to find his childhood bedroom transformed. Posters of Tendulkar and Dravid were rearranged, a second bed now placed beside his.
"Why is Dada's bed here?" he asked Meera.
Her eyes welled up. "They said... he shouldn't be moved anymore. The stairs are too risky."
That night, Ishaan stayed awake, listening to his father breathe. Each labored inhale sounded like a clock ticking down. At 2 a.m., Rajeev stirred.
"Are you awake?" he asked.
"Yes, Dada."
"There's a letter... in the bookshelf. Behind the red almanac."
Ishaan found it in the morning. The envelope was old, sealed in his father's meticulous handwriting: *To Ishaan. Open when you're ready.*
He didn't open it yet.
---
May passed into June. The rains came, flooding the city but offering no relief. Ishaan stayed home, declining district matches, refusing interviews.
One day, Rudra came to visit.
"You okay?"
Ishaan nodded. "I will be."
"You haven't held a bat in weeks."
"Doesn't feel right."
Rudra didn't push. Just placed a brand-new pair of gloves on the table. "When you're ready."
---
It happened on a Thursday.
Rajeev was unusually quiet all morning. No jokes, no cricket commentary. Just silence.
At 3:47 p.m., as monsoon thunder cracked the sky, Rajeev Varma took his final breath.
Ishaan was by his side.
He didn't cry immediately. Just held his father's hand and whispered, "I hope you saw enough."
The funeral was small. Close friends, family, and some of Ishaan's early coaches came. Rudra stood beside him throughout, never letting go of his shoulder.
As the pyre was lit, Ishaan felt the earth shift under his feet. Not the world ending — just changing forever.
---
Days later, in the quiet of his room, Ishaan finally opened the letter.
*My dearest Ishaan,*
*If you're reading this, I'm probably watching from a better place, hopefully with commentary included. First of all — I'm proud of you. Not because of your scores, but because of your grit.*
*Life will bowl you bouncers you don't see coming. Some will hit you. Some will knock the wind out of you. But get up. Always. Get up, take guard again.*
*Love the game. But love life more.*
*Make mistakes. Learn. Forgive yourself.*
*Take care of your mother. She's stronger than she lets on, but even anchors rust.*
*And one last thing — when you score your first century for India, look up. I'll be there.*
*Forever cheering.*
*— Dada*
---
The next morning, Ishaan was at Shivaji Park.
The sky was still overcast, the ground wet. But he padded up, gloves worn, eyes sharp.
He took guard, felt the grain of the willow, and whispered, "This one's for you."
The first ball came in short.
He pulled it with fury — the sound of bat on ball slicing through the thick morning air.
Cricket had returned. But now, so had purpose.