The First Battle: When Training Meets Reality
June 13th, 2012. 9:00 AM. Tau Devi Lal Stadium, Panchkula. The Haryana State Women's Cricket Championship opening day.
The stadium wasn't large—capacity maybe 5,000, currently holding perhaps 300 spectators, mostly families of players and cricket enthusiasts interested in women's sport. The facilities were decent if not luxurious: proper pitch, electronic scoreboard, covered seating areas, basic amenities.
In the team preparation room, the DPS Sushant Lok girls' cricket team was going through final pre-match routines. Stretching, equipment checks, nervous chatter that attempted to mask anxiety.
Divya Yadav sat quietly in the corner, eyes closed, breathing controlled, running through mental visualizations exactly as Anant had taught her. She saw herself walking to the crease. Taking stance. Watching the ball. Playing perfect forward defense. Driving through cover. Pulling to the boundary. Each shot executed flawlessly in her mind's eye, building neural pathways that her body would follow when real balls came.
"Ten minutes," Mrs. Verma announced, clipboard in hand showing their batting order and field placements. "Divya, Priya—you're opening. Remember the game plan: see off the first three overs, get your eye in, assess the pitch and bowling. Then accelerate. We bat first, we want 180+ in our 35 overs."
Divya opened her eyes, and Mrs. Verma was struck by what she saw there: not nervousness but cold focus. The expression of an athlete completely centered, fear transformed into determination.
Anant's influence, Mrs. Verma thought. Six weeks ago, she would have been anxious. Now she looks like a warrior preparing for battle.
"We're ready, ma'am," Divya said, her voice steady. "We've trained for this. We're the best-prepared team here. Now we just execute."
The other girls nodded, feeding off their captain's confidence. They'd transformed over six weeks from a scrappy school team to something else—disciplined, focused, believing in their own excellence.
They walked onto the field to polite applause. Their opponents—a team from Ambala—looked confident, well-funded, wearing matching professional gear, clearly expecting an easy victory against what they perceived as just another school team.
That confidence would last approximately three overs.
Divya took strike, facing the opening bowler. The first ball was medium pace, slightly short. In the past, Divya might have played tentatively, feeling out the bowling. Now, with six weeks of facing Anant's merciless deliveries, this bowling looked almost slow-motion.
She went back and across—perfect footwork, weight transfer exactly as drilled ten thousand times—and pulled powerfully through mid-wicket. The ball raced to the boundary.
FOUR. First ball of the championship.
The Ambala team's expressions shifted slightly. That shot had been technically perfect, executed with confidence that suggested this was not a nervous school player but someone who knew exactly what she was doing.
The next ball: fuller, trying to york her after the short ball. Divya's front foot moved decisively, head over the ball, driving straight past the bowler. The timing was exquisite—the ball barely seemed to touch her bat before accelerating toward the boundary.
FOUR again.
By the end of the first over, DPS had scored 12 runs—an aggressive start that immediately put pressure on the opposition. And more importantly, it announced: we're not here to participate. We're here to dominate.
The match continued, and the dominance became more pronounced. Divya batted with authority that belied her age and experience, playing shots that required technique she shouldn't have possessed at school level. Priya at the other end provided solid support, rotating strike efficiently, capitalizing on loose deliveries.
But it was Divya who was extraordinary. She reached fifty in just 42 balls—not through wild hitting but through correct cricket shots executed with perfect timing. Every ball she faced, she seemed to know exactly what to do: which ones to defend, which to attack, which to leave alone.
In the stands, three men in BCCI blazers were watching with increasing interest. They were state-level selectors, present to scout for women's Ranji Trophy expansion. They'd been told about a promising DPS captain but hadn't expected this level of performance.
"Who is that opener?" one selector, Mr. Kapoor, asked his colleague, checking his roster sheet. "Divya Yadav? Seventeen years old?"
"Look at her technique," another selector, Mr. Rajesh, replied, his voice carrying genuine admiration. "That's not school-level cricket. That's proper batting technique. The footwork, the shot selection, the temperament—she's playing like someone with years of first-class experience."
"The entire team is impressive," the third selector, Mrs. Sharma, added. She was one of the few women in BCCI selection hierarchy, specifically focused on developing women's cricket. "See their fielding? Athletic, disciplined, coordinated. This isn't typical school-level training. Someone has coached them extremely well."
DPS finished their innings at 227 for 4 in 35 overs—a formidable total. Divya scored 104 not out, her first century in competitive cricket, playing with maturity that seemed impossible for her age.
When Ambala batted, DPS's dominance continued. Their bowling was accurate, their fielding sharp, their strategy intelligent. They defended the total easily, winning by 98 runs.
As the teams shook hands post-match, the BCCI selectors were already making notes.
"That's the DPS Sushant Lok school tag," Mr. Kapoor observed, checking the team roster again. "Why does that sound familiar?"
Mrs. Sharma's eyes widened with recognition. "DPS Sushant Lok. That's Anant Gupta's school. The Ranji Trophy champion. The boy Sachin Tendulkar called a future legend."
The three selectors exchanged meaningful glances. Suddenly, everything made sense.
"He trained them," Mr. Rajesh said with certainty. "That level of technical excellence, that discipline, that confidence—that has Anant Gupta's fingerprints all over it. He must have coached this team during his time back at school."
"If that's true," Mrs. Sharma said slowly, "then we need to watch this team very carefully. Because if Anant's standards are anything like his own performance, these girls are going to be exceptional."
They weren't wrong.
The Tournament: When Dominance Becomes Statement
The Haryana State Women's Cricket Championship ran for five days—group stage matches on days 1-3, semi-finals on day 4, final on day 5. Twelve teams competing, dreams of Ranji selection motivating every player.
DPS Sushant Lok's progression through the tournament was less a competition and more a demonstration.
Match Two (June 14th): DPS vs. Hisar
DPS batted first again. This time Divya scored 87, Sneha contributed 62, and they posted 241 for 5. When Hisar batted, they faced bowling that was relentlessly accurate, fielding that gave them nothing easy. DPS won by 117 runs.
The BCCI selectors watched again, this time taking detailed notes on multiple players.
"The wicketkeeper—Ritu something," Mrs. Sharma pointed out. "Very athletic. Quick hands, good anticipation. She could develop into quality keeper at higher levels."
"Their medium pacer—Neha—has excellent line and length control," Mr. Kapoor added. "Not express pace, but disciplined bowling that builds pressure."
After the match, Mr. Rajesh approached Mrs. Verma.
"Excuse me, Coach Verma? I'm Rajesh Mehta, BCCI selector. Could I ask—has your team received any specialized coaching recently? The technical quality is exceptional, beyond typical school standards."
Mrs. Verma smiled, pride evident in her expression. "We've had extraordinary support this season. Anant Gupta—yes, that Anant Gupta—spent six weeks training them intensively before he left for Under-19 duty. Five hours per day, six days per week. The most rigorous training program I've witnessed in thirty years of teaching."
"He trained them personally?" Mr. Rajesh's eyebrows rose significantly. "A Ranji Trophy champion took time to coach a school girls' team?"
"He didn't just coach them," Mrs. Verma corrected. "He transformed them. Bought them all professional equipment—his own money, around eight lakhs. Designed comprehensive training that integrated physical conditioning, technical refinement, tactical education, even yoga and dance for flexibility and body awareness. These girls have been forged through discipline that most professional athletes never experience."
The selector was quiet for a moment, processing this. "That's remarkable. And it explains everything we're seeing. They're not just talented—they're properly trained. That's rare in women's cricket, especially at school level."
"Anant believes women's cricket deserves equal respect and equal investment," Mrs. Verma said simply. "So he invested. The results speak for themselves."
Match Three (June 15th): DPS vs. Rohtak
Rohtak was the group's strongest team, featuring three quality spinners who'd dominated previous opponents. The BCCI selectors were particularly interested in this match—how would DPS handle genuine quality bowling?
The answer: effortlessly.
Divya and her teammates played spin like they'd been doing it for years—using their feet to get to the pitch, sweeping and reverse-sweeping with confidence, reading variations easily. Anant had spent hours bowling spin at them, his analytical mind breaking down each spinner's variations, teaching them exactly what to watch for.
DPS scored 208 for 6. When Rohtak batted, they folded against DPS's intelligent bowling and razor-sharp fielding, all out for 142.
After this match, the selectors' notes were extensive:
Divya Yadav - DEFINITE RANJI SELECTION. Quality opener, technically sound, excellent temperament. Could develop into India prospect with proper coaching.
Priya Sharma - Strong consideration. Solid batting, good fielding.
Sneha Patel - Promising all-rounder. Batting needs work but bowling is quality.
Ritu Malhotra - Talented keeper. Quick hands, athletic.
And so on through half the team. The DPS girls had made such strong impressions that six of them were being marked for Ranji consideration—unprecedented for a school team.
The Semi-Final: When Pressure Tests Preparation
June 16th. Semi-final day. DPS faced Faridabad, a well-funded team backed by a wealthy private academy, featuring several players who'd represented Haryana at age-group levels previously.
This was the first match where DPS was not clearly the stronger team on paper. Faridabad had experience, resources, institutional backing that school teams typically lacked.
In the preparation room before the match, Divya could feel tension among her teammates. This was different—this was facing legitimate opposition that might actually beat them.
She called the team together, forming their habitual circle, hands joined in the center.
"Remember what Anant told us," Divya said, her voice carrying across the quiet room. "The training was harder than any match we'll face. If we could survive his sessions—the running until we vomited, the drills until we collapsed, the standards that never accepted anything less than perfect—we can handle this."
"I hated him sometimes during training," Priya admitted with slight laugh. "Thought he was a monster. Impossible to satisfy. But now—"
"Now we love him," Sneha finished. "Because we understand. He wasn't torturing us. He was preparing us for exactly this moment. For facing quality opposition when everything matters. For proving we belong at higher levels."
"So we do what he taught us," Divya said firmly. "We execute. We trust our training. We play with confidence because we've earned that confidence through suffering. And we win."
"FOR ANANT!" someone shouted.
"FOR ANANT!" the whole team echoed, and walked onto the field with the energy of warriors entering battle.
The match was tight—genuinely competitive in ways previous matches hadn't been. Faridabad bowled well, fielded sharply, put DPS under pressure. When DPS batted first, they struggled initially, losing two early wickets, scoring slowly.
But then Divya settled. And once she settled, everything Anant had drilled into her activated. She began playing proper cricket—defending good balls, attacking anything loose, running aggressively between wickets, reading the game situation and adapting her approach accordingly.
She scored 78 off 89 balls in a masterclass of situation awareness and technical correctness. DPS posted 192—not huge, but competitive.
When Faridabad batted, they found DPS's bowling and fielding relentless. Every run required effort. Every boundary needed a perfect shot. The pressure built incrementally until batters started making mistakes.
Faridabad was all out for 174. DPS won by 18 runs and advanced to the final.
As the team celebrated, the BCCI selectors were having intense discussions.
"That Divya girl is special," Mrs. Sharma said definitively. "Under pressure, facing quality bowling, she adjusted her game and led her team to victory. That's not technique—that's cricket intelligence. That's what you can't teach, except apparently Anant Gupta can teach it."
"We need to fast-track her," Mr. Kapoor agreed. "Women's Ranji Trophy immediately, potentially state team within a year, India A consideration within two years if development continues. She's seventeen now—by twenty she could be pushing for India selection."
"Let's watch the final tomorrow," Mr. Rajesh suggested. "If she performs against quality opposition in a pressure situation, we make it official. She's marked for immediate Ranji selection, along with her teammates who've shown quality."
The Final: When Dreams Crystallize
June 17th. Championship Final Day. DPS Sushant Lok versus Panchkula, the host team with home advantage, featuring several players with district-level experience.
The stadium was more crowded than previous days—word had spread about the quality of cricket, about the DPS team that was dominating everyone, about this extraordinary captain who played like she was possessed by cricket gods.
Nearly 800 spectators filled the stands. Local media present. BCCI selectors in prominent seating. The atmosphere carried weight that previous matches hadn't.
In the preparation room, Divya was going through her visualization routine when she felt something—a presence, familiar and comforting, like someone was watching over her with fierce pride.
She opened her eyes and looked around. Just her teammates, Mrs. Verma, the normal pre-match environment. But the feeling persisted: Anant was here somehow. Not physically—he was in Gurugram taking exams. But spiritually? Energetically? Some part of him was present, supporting them.
Don't be silly, she told herself. You're nervous and imagining things. Focus.
But the feeling didn't fade. It intensified. As if Anant's will, his belief in them, his invested energy over six weeks had created something that persisted even in his absence.
The match began with DPS batting first. The Panchkula bowling was quality—the best they'd faced, accurate and aggressive. DPS lost an early wicket, then another. At 28 for 2, the match could have tilted either way.
Divya walked to the crease, and the moment she took her stance, everything else faded. The crowd noise, the pressure, the anxiety—gone. What remained was pure cricket. Ball and bat. Challenge and response. The eternal dance that she'd practiced ten thousand times under Anant's merciless standards.
She played an innings that would be remembered. Not for big hitting or flashy shots, but for technical perfection under pressure. Every ball received appropriate response—good balls defended with textbook technique, poor balls punished with clinical efficiency.
She built partnerships. Rotated strike. Accelerated when opportunities arose. Read the game situation with maturity that seemed impossible for seventeen.
When she reached fifty, she didn't celebrate—just tapped her bat, acknowledged the applause, focused on the next ball. When she reached seventy, she actually accelerated, sensing her team needed a strong finish.
She was eventually out for 94—caught on the boundary attempting a big hit in the final over. As she walked off, the crowd gave her a standing ovation. The BCCI selectors were on their feet applauding. Even the opposition team members clapped respectfully.
DPS finished at 218 for 7—a strong total built primarily on Divya's innings and supporting contributions from others.
When Panchkula batted, they fought valiantly. But DPS's bowling was relentless, fielding was athletic, and most importantly, their belief was unshakeable. They'd been trained to win. Trained to dominate. Trained to accept nothing less than excellence.
Panchkula was all out for 189. DPS won by 29 runs.
Haryana State Women's Cricket Champions.
The Moment: When Victory Becomes Sacred
The presentation ceremony was emotional chaos. The DPS girls were crying, laughing, hugging each other and Mrs. Verma, their joy so pure and overwhelming that everyone watching felt it.
When Divya was called forward to receive the trophy as captain, she walked to the presentation area with legs that barely supported her—not from exhaustion but from overwhelming emotion.
The trophy was handed to her—a silver cup, not huge but beautiful, representing everything they'd worked for, everything Anant had invested in them, everything they'd proved about women's cricket deserving respect.
Divya lifted it high, and the tears came—unstoppable, cathartic, years of fighting against stereotypes and mockery and discrimination finally validated in this single glorious moment.
And then she saw him.
Not physically. But spiritually, energetically, somehow present despite absence. In the stands, in the area where VIPs and selectors sat, she saw Anant's silhouette—a shape that looked like him, standing, clapping with what seemed like fierce pride and joy.
The image was translucent, shimmering like heat haze, not quite solid but undeniably there. And Anant—this spiritual projection—was crying. Just a single tear running down his otherwise composed face, his expression showing pride so intense it approached pain.
He's here, Divya realized with absolute certainty. He came. He's watching. He's crying for us.
She wanted to call out to him, to point him out to her teammates, but when she blinked, the silhouette was gone. Just empty space and normal spectators.
Did I imagine that? she wondered. Was it just emotion making me see what I wanted to see?
But it had felt so real. So present. As if Anant's will to witness their victory had been strong enough to manifest somehow across distance.
She closed her eyes briefly, lifting the trophy higher, and whispered: "Thank you, Anant. This is yours as much as ours. Thank you for believing in us. Thank you for making us champions."
Around her, her teammates were chanting her name, celebrating wildly. But Divya remained in this quiet space of gratitude and connection, feeling that somehow, somewhere, Anant heard her.
And she was right.
The Witness: When Pride Transcends Presence
In a shadowed corner of the stadium's upper deck, far from the main seating, hidden by a structural pillar and wearing a simple black face mask that concealed his identity, Anant Gupta stood watching the celebration.
He shouldn't be here. He was supposed to be at school taking his Grade 12 mock examination—special session arranged by Principal Kapoor to ensure he was academically prepared before leaving for Under-19 duty.
But the mock exam had finished at noon—he'd completed 75% of the Grade 12 syllabus in three hours, his answers so comprehensive that his teachers had stopped reading halfway through, just accepting that Anant's academic excellence was consistent regardless of his cricket schedule.
"Take the rest of the day off," Principal Kapoor had said, her expression showing that mix of pride and bewilderment that Anant seemed to inspire in everyone. "You've more than proven your academic standing. Rest before you leave tomorrow."
But Anant hadn't rested. He'd calculated that the women's championship final would be happening in Panchkula, approximately 40 kilometers away. He'd borrowed Coach Malhotra's car—the coach was busy with school duties and had handed over keys with knowing smile—and driven there.
He'd arrived during DPS's innings, had found this secluded viewing spot, had watched Divya bat with growing pride that felt almost overwhelming.
She's transcended, he'd thought as Divya played shot after perfect shot. She's not just executing what I taught her. She's made it her own. Integrated the techniques into her natural style. That's not student copying teacher—that's athlete achieving mastery.
When DPS won, when Divya lifted the trophy, Anant felt something crack inside him—some barrier he'd maintained, some emotional discipline that he'd used to stay focused and driven.
A single tear formed in his left eye—the first tear he'd cried in over a year, since before his transformation began. His training, his focus on Brahmacharya and emotional control, had made him almost incapable of crying. Tears were seen as weakness, as loss of discipline.
But this wasn't weakness. This was overwhelming pride. This was witnessing something you'd helped create achieving the exact success you'd envisioned. This was validation that investing in others, that using your gifts to lift others, produced results that transcended any personal achievement.
The tear rolled down his cheek, absorbed immediately by the face mask. Anant didn't try to stop it. This moment earned that tear. These girls earned his emotional response.
He wanted desperately to go down there, to congratulate them properly, to join their celebration, to be acknowledged as part of their victory.
But he knew he couldn't. Because if he revealed his presence, the narrative would change. Media would say: "DPS wins because Anant trained them." The credit would flow to him rather than to the girls who'd actually done the work, who'd actually endured the suffering and executed under pressure.
They need this to be their victory, Anant thought firmly. Not "Anant's students" winning. Them winning. Their names, their achievement, their validation.
I can celebrate privately. Can feel this pride alone. Can carry this satisfaction without needing public acknowledgment.
That's what real teaching is—making yourself unnecessary. Giving students tools to succeed independently, then stepping back so their success belongs to them alone.
So instead of joining the celebration, Anant stood in his shadowed corner, watching from distance, his masked face concealing identity but his heart completely open with joy.
(Levelling)
He placed his hands together in Anjali Mudra—the prayer gesture of respect and gratitude—and bowed slightly toward the celebrating team. His eyes closed, and his lips moved, whispering words in Sanskrit that flowed from some deep place within him:
"Om Namah Shivaya... Yatra naryastu pujyante ramante tatra devata..."
The ancient mantra honoring the divine feminine, acknowledging that where women are honored, there the gods rejoice. A prayer of gratitude for being allowed to serve these warriors, for witnessing their triumph, for playing some small part in their journey toward excellence.
As he chanted, something happened that Anant didn't consciously register.
His body began responding to the spiritual intensity of the moment. The six weeks of brutal training he'd put the girls through, the emotional investment, the care and attention and will he'd poured into their development—all of that energy was returning to him, amplified by their victory.
His cells—already optimized beyond normal human levels through Kalaripayattu training and disciplined lifestyle—activated further. Mitochondria began producing energy with efficiency that bordered on impossible. Neural pathways fired in patterns that increased connectivity and processing speed. Muscle fibers reorganized at microscopic level, becoming denser and more responsive.
His soul, spiritual presence, physical form, and mental consciousness began resonating together—integrating in ways that transcended normal human experience. The boundaries between these aspects of self became more fluid, more interconnected, creating coherence that approached unity consciousness.
But Anant was completely unaware of this transformation. His eyes remained closed, his focus on the prayer, his conscious mind occupied with gratitude and pride. The cellular evolution happened beneath awareness, beyond conscious control, driven by forces that operated according to laws he didn't understand.
When he finished the prayer and opened his eyes, he felt... different. Not dramatically, but subtly. More present. More aware. As if the world had become slightly clearer, colors more vivid, sounds more distinct, his own body more responsive to mental commands.
( Level Up)
Must be emotional intensity, he rationalized. Overwhelming pride produces heightened awareness. That's normal.
He turned and walked away from his viewing spot, navigating through the stadium's less-traveled corridors, heading toward the parking area where he'd left Coach Malhotra's car.
As he walked, reality itself seemed to shimmer slightly around him. The air near his body looked distorted, like heat haze rising from hot pavement, except the temperature was perfectly comfortable. Light bent slightly in his proximity, creating subtle rainbow effects that appeared and vanished too quickly for casual observation.( He is becoming a Saitama in Cricket)
A security guard stationed near an exit blinked and rubbed his eyes as Anant passed. For just a moment, the young man's body had seemed to emit light—not bright, just a faint luminescence like moonlight on water. But when the guard looked directly, Anant appeared completely normal.
Need to get my eyes checked, the guard thought. Working too many double shifts.
Anant reached the parking area, removed his face mask, and leaned against the car for a moment, allowing the emotional weight of what he'd witnessed to settle.
They did it, he thought with deep satisfaction. They won. They proved themselves. They validated everything I believed about their potential.
And now they'll get Ranji selection. They'll advance to higher levels. They'll inspire the next generation of female cricketers. The ripple effect continues.
That's worth every rupee spent. Every hour invested. Every ounce of energy poured into their development.
That's legacy.
His phone buzzed—text from Coach Malhotra: "Heading home? We need to leave for airport by 5 PM. Your flight to Bangalore is at 7:30. Don't be late."
Anant checked the time: 3:45 PM. He had time to drive back, pack his final items, say goodbye to his family, get to the airport for his Under-19 duties.
The next chapter of his journey was beginning. Six weeks in Bangalore training with the Under-19 squad. Then Australia for the World Cup. Then whatever came after—India A, senior team, the long road toward fulfilling his promise to win the World Cup for India.
But right now, in this moment, he allowed himself to simply feel satisfied. To celebrate privately what his students had achieved publicly.
Good luck, Divya, he thought, sending the intention across distance like a prayer. Good luck to all of you. Keep fighting. Keep breaking barriers. Keep proving that excellence has no gender.
I'll be watching. Always. Supporting from whatever distance. Celebrating every victory. Proud of every achievement.
Because that's what real teachers do. We create champions, then step back and let them shine.
He got in the car and started driving back toward Gurugram, unaware that his rearview mirror showed subtle distortions in the air around his head, unaware that his body temperature was three degrees above normal despite no fever, unaware that the cellular transformation was continuing as his consciousness processed the emotional significance of what he'd witnessed.
Changes were happening. Evolution was occurring. Integration of aspects that had been developing separately was reaching new coherence.
But Anant, focused on the road ahead and the journey awaiting him, noticed nothing unusual.
The tiger was evolving. The god was emerging.
And neither the tiger nor the god yet realized what was becoming.
The Return: When Genius Confirms Excellence
5:00 PM. Anant's home in Gurugram. The small apartment was organized chaos—his mother packing his cricket bag with meticulous care, his father checking documents and tickets multiple times, Priya sitting on his bed looking sad that her bhaiya was leaving for extended period.
"Beta, you have your medication?" Savita asked for the third time. "The supplements Dr. Kulkarni prescribed for maintaining your conditioning during travel?"
"Yes, Maa. Packed already. Along with my training gear, formal clothes for team events, books for studying during downtime—"
"Books?" Ramesh interrupted with slight laugh. "You're going to national cricket training and you're bringing study materials?"
"IIT entrance isn't going to prepare itself," Anant replied simply, as if this were the most obvious thing imaginable. "I have several hours most evenings after training. That time should be productive."
Savita and Ramesh exchanged one of their familiar glances: pride mixed with concern mixed with bewilderment that their son seemed to operate according to different rules than normal teenagers.
"The mock exam went well?" Savita asked, transitioning topics.
"Very well," Anant confirmed. "Principal ma'am said I demonstrated mastery of 75% of Grade 12 curriculum. The teachers were satisfied I won't fall behind academically during my absence. When I return in August, I'll have about two months before final board exams. Plenty of time to complete the remaining 25% and review everything."
"Most students need two full years for Grade 12," Ramesh pointed out.
"I'm not most students, Papa," Anant said without arrogance, just stating fact. "I process information quickly, retain completely, and study with extreme efficiency because I love learning. For me, academics aren't burden—they're rest from physical training. Different kinds of challenges that keep my mind sharp."
There was a knock at the door. Ramesh opened it to find Coach Malhotra, looking slightly concerned.
"Anant, we need to leave soon. Traffic to airport can be unpredictable. Better to arrive early than risk missing flight."
"Coming, Coach." Anant picked up his packed bags—cricket gear in one large duffel, personal items in a backpack, both organized with military precision.
He turned to his family. Priya launched herself at him, hugging his waist fiercely.
"I don't want you to go," she said, her voice muffled against his shirt. "You just got back from Ranji Trophy, and now you're leaving again."
Anant knelt down, bringing himself to her eye level. "I know, baby. But this is for something important. Under-19 World Cup. Representing India. It's what all the training has been building toward."
"Will you win?" Priya asked.
"I'll give everything I have to win," Anant promised. "That's all anyone can do—give maximum effort. Results aren't entirely in our control, but effort is. So yes, we'll win if preparation and will can make it happen."
He hugged his parents—his mother crying slightly, his father trying to maintain composure but clearly emotional.
"Make us proud," Ramesh said unnecessarily.
"Always," Anant replied. "That's the only way I know how to do anything."
As he picked up his bags and turned to leave, Savita called out one more time: "Anant? Remember who you are. Not just as cricket player—as person. Keep your values. Keep your faith. Keep your humility. Success is wonderful, but character is eternal."
"I will, Maa," Anant promised. "Dharma above all else. That's my foundation. Cricket is just expression of it."
He walked out, Coach Malhotra following, both heading toward the car parked downstairs.
The Observation: When Reality Reveals Strangeness
As they walked toward the car, Coach Malhotra was explaining logistics: "Flight is at 7:30, but we should arrive by 6:00 for check-in and security. Once you land in Bangalore, BCCI representative will meet you and transport you to the Under-19 team hotel. First team meeting is tomorrow morning at 8 AM—"
He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes suddenly fixed on Anant in a way that suggested confusion or alarm.
Anant, who'd been listening while walking, noticed the silence. "Coach? Something wrong?"
Malhotra blinked, rubbed his eyes, looked again. "I... I thought I saw... Never mind. Must be tired. These past weeks have been intense."
But he'd definitely seen something. For just a moment, as they walked across the parking area, the air around Anant had shimmered. Not like heat haze—like reality itself was distorting near him, as if his physical presence was creating some kind of effect that bent light and warped space.
And Anant's body had seemed to emit... not light exactly, but some kind of energy that made him appear slightly translucent, slightly more than physical, as if he existed in multiple dimensions simultaneously with this world being just one layer.
The effect had lasted maybe three seconds. Then Anant had turned to look at him, and suddenly he appeared completely normal again—just a seventeen-year-old athlete walking to a car, nothing unusual whatsoever.
I need sleep, Malhotra thought firmly. I'm seeing things. Stress and exhaustion causing hallucinations. There's no rational explanation for what I thought I just saw, so obviously I didn't see it.
But part of him wondered. Because Malhotra had been around Anant for two years now. Had watched transformation that defied normal explanation. Had witnessed performances that seemed to transcend human capability. Had seen things that suggested Anant operated according to different rules than normal people.
What if he's becoming something beyond human? a small voice in Malhotra's mind whispered. What if the training, the discipline, the spiritual practices, the sheer force of his will—what if all of that is transforming him into something else?
No, Malhotra rejected the thought firmly. That's superstition. Anant is exceptional but still human. Just an extraordinarily dedicated, gifted human. Nothing supernatural. Nothing beyond scientific explanation.
"Coach, are you alright?" Anant asked, concerned by Malhotra's strange expression.
"Fine," Malhotra said quickly. "Just tired. Long day. Let's get you to the airport."
They got in the car—Malhotra driving, Anant in passenger seat. As they pulled out into Gurugram traffic, Malhotra snuck several glances at his student.
Anant looked completely normal now. Just a young man, albeit an extraordinarily fit and handsome one, checking his phone and reviewing some documents. No shimmer, no distortion, no energy effects. Nothing unusual at all.
Definitely hallucination, Malhotra concluded. I imagined it. End of story.
But he couldn't shake the feeling that something significant was happening. That Anant's journey wasn't just about cricket achievement but about transformation of a more fundamental kind. That they were all witnessing the emergence of something unprecedented.
Or I'm just tired and letting my imagination run wild, Malhotra thought wryly. Much more likely explanation.
They drove in comfortable silence for a while, navigating through early evening traffic, heading toward the airport and the next chapter of Anant's extraordinary journey.
Neither spoke about what Malhotra had seen—or thought he'd seen. Neither acknowledged the strangeness that had momentarily manifested.
Because some things were easier to ignore than to investigate. Some questions were better left unasked.
And sometimes, when reality started behaving strangely around someone, the safest response was to pretend everything was perfectly normal.
Even when you knew—deep in your bones, in some instinctive place that preceded rational thought—that nothing about Anant Gupta had ever been normal.
And whatever he was becoming, it was only going to get stranger from here.
[END OF CHAPTER TWENTY]