Dawn Warriors: When Dreams Wake Early
April 28th, 2012. 5:03 AM. The sky over Gurugram was transitioning from deep indigo to the softer blues of pre-dawn, stars still visible but fading as the sun prepared its entrance. The air carried that particular coolness that only existed in the brief window before India's heat asserted itself—fresh, clean, promising.
The DPS Sushant Lok cricket ground was technically closed at this hour. The main gates were locked, security guards stationed at entrances to prevent unauthorized access.
But there was a small side gate near the equipment shed that had a faulty lock, and the security guard who patrolled this section had a daughter who played cricket, and he'd developed a habit of looking the other way when certain students arrived before official hours.
Twelve girls moved across the dew-wet grass like shadows, carrying worn equipment bags, their footsteps leaving darker trails in the moisture-covered field.
They were dressed in mismatched athletic wear—some in proper cricket whites that had seen better days, others in modified PE uniforms, a few in simple track pants and t-shirts. Their gear told stories of economic constraint and determined improvisation.
At the center of this group, setting up the practice session with quiet authority, was Divya Yadav.
She was seventeen years old, same grade as Anant though they'd had limited classes together given different academic tracks. Where Anant had been science stream, Divya had chosen commerce, her family insisting that if she was going to waste time on sports, at least her education should prepare her for practical career in business or accounting.
Divya stood approximately 5'6"—tall for Indian women, advantageous for cricket—with an athletic build that came from years of training despite limited resources. Her skin was darker than what Indian beauty standards typically celebrated, made darker still by hours spent training under harsh sun.
Her hair was cut practically short, falling just past her shoulders when loose but always tied back in tight braided bun during practice. Her hands were calloused, her forearms showing lean muscle, her posture carrying the balanced readiness of an athlete.
But what defined Divya most wasn't physical—it was the fierce determination visible in her dark eyes. The set of her jaw that suggested she'd been fighting battles her entire life and had no intention of surrendering now.
The way she moved with purpose that defied the worn equipment, the early hour, the accumulated weight of social pressure that told girls like her that cricket wasn't "appropriate."
"Priya, you're on bowling duty first rotation," Divya called out, her voice carrying across the field with natural command. "Sneha, Ritu—fielding positions. Everyone else, warm-up stretches, then we rotate every twenty minutes. We have ninety minutes before school opens officially. Let's not waste a single one."
The team moved into position with practiced efficiency. They'd been doing this for six months—arriving before dawn, practicing in stolen hours, developing their skills in the margins that society allowed them.
Because this wasn't just practice. This was preparation for the Haryana State Women's Cricket Championship, happening in June. And this year was special—BCCI had announced that selectors would be attending, scouting for women's Ranji Trophy expansion.
It was an opportunity that might not come again, a chance to move from school cricket to state-level recognition to potentially—if they were good enough, if they were lucky enough—professional women's cricket.
Divya knew the statistics. Women's cricket in India was vastly underfunded compared to men's. The pay was fraction of what male cricketers earned. The media coverage was minimal. The social acceptance was conditional at best, hostile at worst.
But it was cricket. It was the sport she loved with everything in her. And if she could play at state level, if she could prove herself on that stage—maybe, just maybe, she could build a life around this passion instead of accepting the arranged marriage and housewife existence her family was planning for her.
I have to make the selection, she thought as she gripped her bat—a SS Ton model she'd bought three years ago with savings from tutoring work, now showing cracks in the blade that she'd tried to reinforce with careful stitching and layers of tape. I have to perform well enough that selectors can't ignore me. Have to hit boundaries they can't dismiss. Have to show them I'm as good as any male cricketer my age.
"Ready, Captain!" Priya called from the bowling mark.
Divya took her stance, feeling the familiar comfort of batting position despite the bat's deteriorating condition. The grip was worn smooth, the tape she'd wrapped around the handle coming loose in places. Her cricket whites—purchased secondhand from senior students who'd outgrown them—had been stitched and re-stitched in multiple places, the fabric faded from bright white to tired cream.
But none of that mattered when she faced the ball. In this moment, taking her stance, waiting for the delivery—she was just a cricketer. Not a girl facing discrimination. Not a daughter disappointing her family. Just someone who loved this game with pure, uncomplicated passion.
Priya ran in, her action slightly awkward due to self-teaching but determined. She released—a medium-pace delivery, slightly short.
Divya went back and across, reading the length instantly, her body moving with the technical correctness that came from hundreds of hours of self-study, of watching videos of international players, of analyzing technique in books she'd borrowed from the school library.
She pulled, connecting sweetly despite the bat's compromised condition. The ball flew toward the boundary, sailing over the rope—
And directly toward the school building's second-floor windows.
"NO!" Divya gasped, realizing trajectory too late.
The ball was going to shatter a classroom window. That would mean disciplinary action, possibly suspension from school cricket program, definitely attention from administration that would inform her parents—
She closed her eyes, wincing, waiting for the sound of breaking glass that would signal disaster.
But the sound didn't come.
Instead, she heard something else: a soft thwap of leather on skin, the sound of a ball being caught cleanly.
Divya's eyes snapped open.
And there, standing beneath where the ball had been heading, holding it casually in one hand with a smile playing at his lips, was Anant Gupta.
The Return: When Legends Walk Among Friends
For a frozen moment, nobody moved. The entire girls' cricket team stood paralyzed, staring at the figure who'd appeared seemingly from nowhere to save them from disaster.
Anant wore the standard DPS Grade 12 tracksuit—navy blue with gold piping, the school crest over his heart. His long hair was tied back in a neat ponytail, still slightly damp from what must have been a morning shower.
The tracksuit fit him perfectly, showing the athletic build that had become famous, though the casual wear softened his appearance from the intense cricketer who'd dominated national attention.
He looked... normal. Like just another senior student arriving early for some activity. Except for the way he'd caught that ball—one-handed, without apparent effort, as if plucking it from the air was the most natural thing imaginable. And except for the fact that everyone present had spent the past week watching him become a national phenomenon.
"Good shot," Anant called out to Divya, his voice carrying that same warm friendliness it had always held. "Perfect timing, excellent connection. Just maybe pick a slightly different line next time—fewer windows that direction."
The joke broke the paralysis. Suddenly the girls were all talking at once, exclaiming, pointing, a few actually screaming in excitement.
"THAT'S ANANT GUPTA!"
"Oh my god he's actually here!"
"How did he catch that?"
"He's really back at school!"
Anant raised his free hand, laughing. "Good morning, everyone. Yes, I'm actually here. Yes, I'm really back at school—still have to finish Grade 12, after all. And I've always been pretty good at catching, so that wasn't as impressive as it looked."
He walked toward them, moving with that fluid grace that made athletics look effortless. As he passed the bowling crease, he stopped to greet the girls' team coach—Mrs. Anjali Verma, a PE teacher in her mid-forties who'd been the only staff member willing to coach the girls' cricket team despite mockery from some male colleagues.
"Mrs. Verma," Anant said, executing a respectful namaste with the ball still in his other hand. "Thank you for continuing to train them. I know it's not easy, coming this early, fighting for field time, dealing with all the resistance."
Mrs. Verma's eyes were slightly moist. She'd known Anant from his earliest days training on these same fields, had watched his transformation, had occasionally provided advice when he'd asked about technique variations. Seeing him return to acknowledge her felt significant.
"Anant," she replied warmly. "We're all so proud of you. What you achieved in the Ranji final—the whole school has been celebrating. You've become our greatest success story."
"I had great coaches," Anant said simply. "Including you, ma'am. Some of the fielding techniques you showed me two years ago—I used them in the final. So thank you."
Then he turned toward Divya, and his smile widened with genuine affection.
Divya was still standing at the batting crease, frozen, her mouth literally hanging open in shock. She looked almost comical—this fierce, determined captain suddenly reduced to wide-eyed disbelief.
Anant's eyes sparkled with amusement as he approached. When he reached her, still seeing her mouth agape, he gently reached out and placed his hand under her chin, pushing upward to close her jaw.
The gesture was familiar, casual—the kind of thing only close friends could do without it being strange. It spoke of history, of comfort, of relationship that transcended his new fame.
"Divya," Anant said, his voice carrying gentle teasing. "You're going to catch flies if you keep your mouth open like that."
Whatever paralysis had gripped Divya shattered. She dropped her bat, and suddenly she was launching herself at Anant, wrapping her arms around him in a fierce hug that nearly knocked him backward.
"YOU'RE HERE!" she practically shouted into his shoulder. "You're actually here! When did you get back? Why didn't you tell me? I thought you'd be in Mumbai or with the BCCI or doing media appearances or—"
"Breathe," Anant laughed, returning the hug with equal warmth, his arms wrapping around her completely, demonstrating the considerable strength differential between them—she was athletic, but he was operating at a different level entirely.
"I got back to Gurugram yesterday evening. Came straight home, spent time with family. And I'm here now because I knew you'd be training, and I wanted to see how you're progressing."
When they finally separated, the other girls had formed a semicircle around them, all watching with expressions ranging from joy to curiosity to slight jealousy at Divya's obvious closeness with this suddenly-famous figure.
Anant acknowledged them all, making eye contact, nodding respect. "Everyone's form looks good. I could see you've been working hard even from distance. Mrs. Verma, you've been doing excellent work with them."
"They work hard," Mrs. Verma said with pride. "Harder than most of the boys' teams, honestly. They have to—they know they're not given the same opportunities, so they have to be better to even be considered equal."
Anant's expression grew serious, his jaw setting in that way it did when he felt strongly about something. "That shouldn't be true. But you're right—it is true. Which is part of why I'm here today."
He looked at Divya specifically. "I heard about the State Championships. June, right? With BCCI selectors attending?"
Divya nodded, finding her voice again. "Yes. It's our big opportunity. Maybe our only opportunity to be noticed for women's Ranji Trophy. I've been—we've all been—training as hard as we can."
"I can see that," Anant said, his eyes taking in details Divya had hoped weren't too obvious: the worn equipment, the stitched clothing, the improvised gear that spoke of passion operating despite economic constraints.
His gaze settled on the bat she'd dropped—his old SS Ton that she'd bought used. He bent down and picked it up, his fingers tracing the cracks, the careful stitching, the layers of tape trying to hold deteriorating willow together.
When he looked up, his expression carried something Divya recognized: determination mixed with sadness mixed with resolve.
"This bat," Anant said quietly, pressing it briefly to his forehead in a gesture of respect—the way one might honor a veteran soldier or a faithful servant—"has served you well. Better than it had any right to, given its condition. You've cared for it beautifully, kept it functional far beyond when most would have discarded it."
He looked at Divya directly. "But today is its last day of service."
"What?" Divya asked, confused. "Anant, I know it's old, but I've been reinforcing it, and I can't afford—"
"You won't need to afford anything," Anant interrupted gently. "Because you're getting new equipment. All of you are."
The Gift: When Heroes Provide
Before anyone could ask what he meant, a sound reached them from the access road behind the cricket ground—the distinctive rumble of a small truck engine.
Everyone turned to look. Through the early morning mist still clinging to the ground, they could see a white mini-truck approaching, navigating the narrow path that led to the ground's equipment shed.
And in the passenger seat, visible as the truck drew closer, was Coach Malhotra, waving enthusiastically.
The truck stopped near the boundary rope. Coach Malhotra jumped out with energy that belied his middle age, his face showing a broad smile.
"Good morning, ladies!" he called out. "Sorry for the early hour, but we needed to make this delivery before school officially opened. Didn't want to cause too much commotion during regular hours."
He moved to the truck's cargo area and began working the shutter lock. Anant walked over to help, and together they rolled up the metal shutter that enclosed the truck's bed.
And revealed what lay inside.
The entire girls' cricket team gasped collectively.
The truck was packed—and that was not an exaggeration—with cricket equipment. Professional-grade equipment. The kind they'd only ever seen in sports shops, behind glass, with price tags that made their parents pale.
Cricket bats—at least twenty of them, various weights and sizes, all new, all high-quality brands: SS, SG, MRF, Kookaburra. The stickers were still pristine, the willow grain visible and beautiful.
Batting pads, wicketkeeping gloves, batting gloves, helmets—all in multiple sizes to fit different players.
Cricket whites—complete uniforms, properly sized, professional quality fabric that would actually wick moisture instead of just absorbing sweat.
Shoes—cricket-specific footwear with proper spikes, various sizes, branded and new.
Practice balls—boxes of them, both leather and synthetic, enough to last years of training.
Wicket sets, boundary markers, practice nets, fielding equipment.
The sheer volume of gear was overwhelming. This wasn't just "some new equipment." This was enough to outfit multiple teams. This represented investment in the tens of lakhs—money that could buy a decent used car, that could pay for years of education.
For a long moment, the girls just stared, unable to process what they were seeing.
Then Divya found her voice, though it came out choked. "Anant... what... how..."
"You need proper equipment to perform at your best," Anant said simply, as if he hadn't just transformed their entire situation. "You can't compete against well-funded teams while using broken bats and stitched clothing. It's not fair, it's not right, and it's fixable."
He gestured to the truck. "So I fixed it. Everything here is for the DPS girls' cricket team. Consider it investment in India's future women's cricket champions."
Mrs. Verma had her hand pressed to her mouth, tears streaming down her face. The girls were frozen between disbelief and overwhelming emotion.
"But this must have cost..." Sneha, one of the team's bowlers, tried to calculate out loud.
"It cost what it cost," Anant interrupted gently. "And it's worth every rupee if it helps you achieve your potential. If even one of you makes it to state-level cricket, to women's Ranji Trophy, to potentially national team—that's return on investment that transcends money."
Divya was crying now, not even trying to hide it. Her carefully maintained composure, her fierce determination that usually masked vulnerability—all of it crumbling in the face of this gesture.
Because she knew—they all knew—what this meant. Not just equipment. Validation. Someone believing in them enough to invest significantly. Someone saying "you matter, your dreams matter, your sport deserves support equal to what boys receive."
The dam broke. All twelve girls rushed forward simultaneously, converging on Anant in a mass hug that nearly knocked him over despite his strength and balance.
"THANK YOU!"
"I can't believe this!"
"How did you—"
"This is too much—"
"We'll make you proud—"
Anant laughed, his arms spreading wide to encompass as many of them as he could, becoming momentarily buried in grateful girls, all of them crying and laughing and thanking him simultaneously.
And watching from slightly outside the group hug, Mrs. Verma caught Coach Malhotra's eye. Both coaches shared a look that communicated volumes: This boy. This extraordinary boy with his enormous heart. How did we get so lucky to be part of his journey?
Eventually the group hug dissolved into chaotic excitement as the girls rushed to the truck, examining equipment with wonder, holding up cricket bats like treasure, trying on properly-fitting helmets for the first time.
Divya remained slightly apart, trying to compose herself, wiping tears from her face. Anant moved to stand beside her, his presence comforting and familiar.
"Why?" Divya asked quietly. "Anant, this is incredible, but why spend so much on us? You could have saved this money, invested it, used it for your own training—"
"Can I tell you a story?" Anant interrupted gently.
The Truth: When Money Reveals Character
They sat together on the boundary rope edge, slightly removed from the chaos of girls examining equipment, close enough to be private but not so far they couldn't supervise.
"I gave that one crore cheque to my mother," Anant began. "You probably saw—everyone saw, it was broadcast nationally and the video went viral. What people didn't see was what happened the next morning."
He smiled, remembering. "Maa called me into the kitchen. She had the cheque on the table. And she said, 'Beta, I appreciate the gesture. I appreciate the honor. But I didn't carry you for nine months and raise you for seventeen years just so you could give me money you earned through your own hard work. This is yours. You need to be smart with it, save most of it, invest it for your future. But some of it—use some of it for things that matter to you. For causes you believe in. For making the world slightly better than you found it.'"
Divya listened intently, her tear-streaked face showing complete focus.
"So we negotiated," Anant continued. "Very strict negotiation—Papa got involved, even Priya had opinions. Final agreement: the money gets split. Fifty lakhs goes into fixed deposits and mutual funds for family security and my education. Thirty lakhs goes to my parents for house improvements, Papa's medical checkups he's been postponing, Priya's tutoring and future education needs. That leaves twenty lakhs for me to use for what I called 'immediate investments in things that align with my values.'"
"Twenty lakhs is still enormous money," Divya pointed out.
"It is," Anant agreed. "Which is why I had to think carefully about how to use it. And I realized something: I have advantages. I'm male in a country that privileges males, especially in sports. I have BCCI support, Coach Malhotra's mentorship, facilities access, opportunities. I didn't earn those advantages—I was born into them or stumbled into them through luck."
He looked directly at Divya. "But you? You have equal talent, equal dedication, equal love for cricket. Yet you practice with broken bats and stitched clothing at 5 AM because that's the only time you're allowed field access. You fight your family's disapproval. You face mockery from boys who think cricket is only for males. You train despite knowing the pay and recognition in women's cricket is fraction of men's."
"That's just how things are," Divya said quietly.
"It doesn't have to be," Anant countered firmly. "Not entirely. I can't change all of society's attitudes. I can't single-handedly fix cricket's gender pay gap. But I can do this—I can ensure you have equipment equal to what any boys' team has. I can make sure that if you don't get selected for Ranji, it's not because you lacked proper gear. It's using money to remove one barrier, even if I can't remove all of them."
"How much did all this cost?" Divya asked, gesturing toward the truck.
"About eight lakhs," Anant admitted. "Including having it all delivered this morning. That leaves me twelve lakhs for other things—some savings, some for additional training equipment I need for my own preparation. But mostly, that eight lakhs becomes an investment in proving women's cricket deserves equal support."
Divya was quiet for a long moment, processing everything. Then she said, very quietly, "You know what you are, Anant Gupta? You're proof that good people can succeed. Usually success requires being ruthless, selfish, focused only on yourself. But you're succeeding while staying kind. While lifting others. While actually caring about making things better."
"Or maybe I'm just privileged enough to afford kindness," Anant replied, demonstrating the self-awareness that made him genuinely humble rather than falsely modest. "Easy to be generous when you just received a crore rupees. The real test is whether I maintain these values when I'm struggling, when I'm facing setbacks, when helping others costs me something I desperately need."
"You will," Divya said with absolute conviction. "I've known you for two years. I watched you when you were still overweight, still struggling, still figuring out cricket. You brought water bottles for us even then, when you had nothing extra. You practiced with us when boys mocked you for 'wasting time on girls' team.' Character doesn't change with success—success just reveals character that was always there."
Anant felt embarrassed warmth in his chest. "I just hate seeing talented people held back by circumstances beyond their control. It bothers me. Makes me angry. So I fix what I can fix."
"Well, you fixed a lot today," Divya said, gesturing at her teammates who were excitedly trying on new cricket whites, checking sizes, laughing with pure joy. "You have no idea what this means to them. To us. It's not just equipment—it's belief. Someone believing we're worth investing in."
The Complicated Truth: When Friendship Navigates Attraction
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the team's joy. Then Divya, with characteristic bluntness that Anant appreciated about her, said: "So. You're India's national crush now. How does that feel?"
Anant groaned, covering his face with his hands. "Please don't."
"No no, I'm serious!" Divya was grinning now, her emotional moment shifting to teasing that spoke of genuine friendship. "You've seen the social media, right? The hashtags? #AnantTheHeartthrob, #CricketsCutest, that ridiculous article ranking you as 'India's Most Eligible Bachelor Under Twenty'? Girls are losing their minds over you."
"That's not—that's ridiculous," Anant protested. "I'm just a cricket player. The attraction is temporary, based on success and—"
"And being objectively gorgeous," Divya interrupted. "Come on, Anant. I have eyes. You transformed from overweight awkward boy to... well, to whatever you are now. The physique, the long hair, the face that could model for magazines. Add in the cricket success, the character shown when you honored your mother—you're basically constructed to make girls fall for you."
"I don't want girls falling for me based on appearance and fame," Anant said seriously. "That's not real. That's projection, fantasy. They don't know me—they know a public persona."
"True," Divya agreed. "But that doesn't mean the attention isn't real. You're going to have actresses, models, socialites interested. Cricket groupies—yes, that's a thing. Wealthy families trying to arrange introductions. It's coming, Anant. In waves. How are you going to handle it?"
Anant was quiet, considering. Then he reached over and took Divya's hand—the one not holding her new bat, the one that was free.
Her hands were rough. Calloused across the palms where bat grip had worn skin hard. Small scars from balls that had jammed fingers, from falls during fielding practice, from the thousand small injuries that came with serious athletic training. Healing wounds on knuckles. Nails cut short and practical.
They were working hands. Hands that told stories of dedication and discipline and refusing to surrender despite obstacles.
"This," Anant said quietly, his thumb tracing across her callouses, "is what I value. Evidence of work. Of dedication. Of choosing difficult things because they matter to you. Soft hands that have never struggled—those don't interest me. Hands that have fought for something, earned something—those are beautiful."
Divya's breath caught. She felt her face heating, felt her heart accelerating. Because there was something in Anant's tone, in the way he held her hand, that suggested...
But then he continued, and the moment clarified. "You're one of my closest friends, Divya. You saw me at my worst—overweight, struggling, feeling like I didn't belong anywhere. You never mocked me. You encouraged me. You were real with me when others were either hostile or fake-nice. That friendship—that genuine connection—is worth more than any romantic attention from people who only know my public image."
He squeezed her hand gently, then released it. "So no, I'm not going to forget you as I become more famous. I'm not going to abandon the people who knew me before success. You're not someone I leave behind—you're someone I bring forward. And that's a promise."
Divya felt tears threatening again, but she fought them back. She smiled instead—a slightly complicated smile that held affection and slight wistfulness and acceptance all at once.
Because she'd wondered, sometimes. Hoped, occasionally. Whether Anant might see her as more than a friend. Whether his support might develop into romantic interest but she will wait.
But she understood now—clearly, definitively—that it wouldn't. That he valued her deeply but platonically. That she was friend, teammate in his mental categorization because Anant is a man of focus and right now he wants to win World Cup.
And weirdly, that clarity was almost freeing. Because it removed ambiguity. She knew where she stood. Could appreciate his friendship without hoping for more. Could support his success without the complicated emotions of unreciprocated attraction making things messy.
"You're kind of ridiculously good at communicating," she said, her tone light but genuine. "Most teenage boys are terrible at navigating these conversations. But you just stated things clearly, honestly, without being cruel. That's rare."
"I hate misunderstanding," Anant said simply. "Hate games, hidden meanings, people not saying what they mean. Life is complicated enough without adding artificial complexity. So I try to be clear, even when it's uncomfortable."
"Well, for what it's worth," Divya said, "you're absolutely right that you're made for greater things than high school romance. Some girl—someday, when you're ready—is going to be extraordinarily lucky. But for now, having you as friend and supporter is more than enough. It's everything, actually."
She hesitated, then added with slight mischief, "Though I reserve the right to tease you mercilessly when you eventually do fall for someone. Fair warning."
"Noted," Anant laughed. "Though that's unlikely to happen soon. I have Under-19 World Cup in August, then probably India A duty, eventually senior team if things go well. My schedule for the next several years is going to be brutal. Romance would be distraction I can't afford."
"Brahmacharya," Divya said, using the Sanskrit term. "You're really committed to that path? The celibacy, the energy retention, all of it?"
"Until I achieve what I need to achieve," Anant confirmed. "Maybe longer. I don't know yet. But for now, yes. It's not just about physical celibacy—it's about directing all energy, all focus, toward mastery. Toward becoming the best version of myself. Toward fulfilling the promise I made."
"Win the World Cup for India," Divya recited. She knew about his promise—everyone who was close to Anant knew. "You'll do it. I genuinely believe you'll do it."
"I hope so," Anant said quietly. "But there's work between here and there. So much work. And part of that work—" he looked at her seriously, "—includes making sure you achieve your own version of success. The State Championships, Ranji selection, building toward women's national team. That's important to me, Divya. Not just you specifically—women's cricket generally. Because India needs cricket heroes who aren't all male. We need girls like Priya—my little sister—to have role models who look like them, who prove that cricket is for everyone."
The Plan: Training and Transformation
Coach Malhotra and Mrs. Verma approached, having given the girls adequate time to explore new equipment.
"Anant," Coach Malhotra said, "we need to discuss schedule. You're due in Bangalore in July for Under-19 team assembly and training. World Cup is in Australia in August. But you're also still a student—Grade 12 final term doesn't end until mid-June. How are you balancing all this?"
"Carefully," Anant replied with slight grimace. "BCCI has approved modified schedule. I'll attend school regularly until June 15th—need to be present for final projects, some exams, graduation requirements. After school ends, I have two weeks at home before reporting to Bangalore on July 1st. Then intensive training with Under-19 squad through July. Team departs for Australia on July 28th. World Cup runs through August. I'll be back in India by late August or early September, depending on how far we advance."
"That's incredibly compressed," Mrs. Verma observed. "How are you planning to maintain your own fitness and skill while also supporting the girls' training?"
"Integrated practice," Anant explained. "I'll arrive at school by 5 AM most days—same time the girls are training. I can do my own conditioning work, then dedicate an hour to working with them. Practice some batting or bowling myself while also providing coaching, feedback, tactical guidance. It's efficient—I need to train anyway, they need coaching, doing it together serves both purposes."
He looked at Divya directly. "I want you selected for Ranji, Divya. Genuinely. You have the talent—you just need refinement, tactical development, the kind of advanced coaching that women's cricket doesn't usually get. So for the next six weeks, before I leave for Bangalore, I'm going to train you specifically. Technical adjustments, mental game, physical conditioning beyond what school PE provides. We're going to transform your batting from 'very good school level' to 'undeniable Ranji standard.'"
Divya felt emotion swelling again. "Anant, you don't have to—"
"I want to," he interrupted firmly. "This matters to me. And honestly, coaching someone else sharpens my own understanding. Teaching technique forces you to analyze why things work, which improves your own execution. So it's mutually beneficial."
"What about the rest of the team?" Sneha asked, having overheard. "Can you help train all of us?"
"Group sessions for general skills," Anant confirmed. "Bowling technique, fielding drills, fitness training—that benefits everyone. But Divya gets additional one-on-one focus because she's the most advanced, most likely to make Ranji selection. You build a team by developing your best players to their absolute maximum, then having them lift others. Divya succeeds, she validates the whole program, opens doors for everyone."
Mrs. Verma was nodding approvingly. "That's sound coaching philosophy. And having someone of your caliber working with them—even briefly—will accelerate their development tremendously."
"There's one condition," Anant said, his tone becoming serious. "This training is going to be hard. Not casually difficult—genuinely hard. The kind of training I do, the kind that transformed me, requires pain. Pushing past comfort, embracing exhaustion, wanting to quit but refusing. I won't accept half-effort. If you commit to this, you commit fully. Understood?"
The entire team nodded, their faces showing determination that matched his own.
"Good," Anant said, satisfaction in his voice. "Then let's start tomorrow. 5 AM, this field. Bring the new equipment—start getting used to proper bats, proper gear. We have six weeks until your State Championships. That's enough time to make dramatic improvement if you work hard enough."
He looked at Divya specifically. "And you—we're doing extra sessions. 5 to 7 AM with the team, then you and me alone from 7 to 8 AM for specialized batting training. Can you handle that schedule?"
"Yes," Divya said immediately, without hesitation. "Whatever it takes. I'm ready."
"We'll see," Anant said, but his tone was warm, almost proud. "Talk is easy. Tomorrow morning, when your body is screaming and you want to quit—that's when we'll discover if you're ready. But I think you are. I've watched you fight through obstacles most people can't imagine. If anyone can handle my training, it's you."
The Departure: Promises and Possibilities
The sun was fully above the horizon now, the school beginning to wake. Other students would start arriving soon, regular school day beginning, this private early-morning session needing to conclude before attracting too much attention.
The girls helped Coach Malhotra and Mrs. Verma unload the equipment from the truck, storing it carefully in the team's equipment shed. Each piece was handled like treasure—these bats and pads and uniforms that represented not just gear but belief, investment, hope.
Anant was preparing to leave, needing to attend his own classes, when Divya caught his arm.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For everything. The equipment, the training commitment, the friendship. You didn't have to do any of this. You don't owe us anything. But you're doing it anyway, and that means everything."
"You'd do the same if positions were reversed," Anant said simply. "That's what good people do—they help when they can, support where they're able, lift others because lifting others is the entire point of having strength."
He paused, then added, "Your family still giving you trouble about cricket?"
Divya's expression darkened slightly. "Papa wants me to stop after Grade 12. Says cricket is fine as hobby but not as career. There's already talk of marriage proposals—boys from 'good families' whose mothers have seen me at school events. Traditional setup where I'd quit everything to be housewife."
"Will you let them stop you?" Anant asked directly.
"No," Divya said, her voice carrying steel. "I'm going to make Ranji selection. I'm going to prove I can succeed at state level. And I'm going to make enough noise that stopping me becomes harder than accepting my choice. I know it won't be easy. I know I'll face resistance. But I'm not surrendering my dream to make others comfortable."
"Good," Anant said with fierce approval. "That's the spirit that makes champions. And when you make that selection, when you prove yourself—I'm going to be the first person celebrating. Even if I'm in Australia, even if I'm across the world, I'll find out and I'll celebrate."
"Win your World Cup," Divya countered. "Lead India to glory. Fulfill that promise you made. And then come back and help revolutionize women's cricket too. Use your platform, your influence, your fame—make people pay attention to female cricketers the way they pay attention to males."
"Deal," Anant agreed, extending his hand formally.
They shook, and the gesture felt significant. Like a pact being made. Two young athletes from different circumstances but shared passion, promising to fight their respective battles while supporting each other's wars.
As Anant walked away across the dew-wet field toward the main school building, Divya watched him go. This boy who'd arrived like salvation in the dawn, who'd given them tools to chase their dreams, who'd promised training that might transform possibility into reality.
The morning sun caught his profile, illuminated the athletic grace in his movement, made his long hair shimmer slightly in the golden light.
India's national crush, Divya thought with slight amusement. They have no idea. The appearance is just surface. It's the character underneath that makes him truly remarkable. The heart that chooses to help. The values that guide every action. That's what makes him special—not the cricket, not the looks, but the goodness.
And I'm lucky, she realized. Lucky to know him as a friend. Lucky to receive his support. Lucky to witness his journey. Whatever happens in my own cricket career, I got to be part of his story. Got to receive his kindness. That's a gift I'll carry forever.
She turned back to her team, who were holding their new equipment with expressions approaching reverence.
"Alright," Divya called out, her voice carrying command. "This is incredible. This changes everything. But equipment alone doesn't make champions—work makes champions. So we thank Anant by justifying his investment. By training harder than we've ever trained. By earning every rupee he spent on us."
The team gathered around her, forming a tight circle, hands joining in the center.
"State Championships," Divya declared. "Ranji selection. Women's national team. That's the path. That's the goal. And we start tomorrow at 5 AM, where the real work begins. Everyone ready?"
"READY!" they shouted in unison, their voices carrying across the field, announcing intention to the dawn itself.
And somewhere in the school building, hearing that shout through an open window, Anant smiled.
Good, he thought. That's the fire that transforms dreams into reality. That's the determination that refuses to accept limitations.
They're going to be special. Divya especially. I can feel it and I have feeling for her but I can't make her distracted and we both have to achieve our dreams.
And when she succeeds—when they succeed—it'll be one more proof that cricket isn't about gender. It's about will, about work, about refusing to surrender despite every obstacle.
That's the cricket I believe in. The cricket I'm fighting for.
And every small battle won—like twelve girls getting proper equipment, like one talented captain getting specialized training—is progress toward the larger war.
Progress toward cricket that includes everyone. That honors everyone. That gives opportunity to anyone willing to work for it.
That's worth fighting for.
That's worth every rupee, every hour, every ounce of effort.
Because in the end, cricket is just a game.
But the values it can teach—discipline, dedication, equality, excellence—those are eternal.
And those are worth everything.
[END OF CHAPTER EIGHTEEN]