Madhav loved watching cricket, narrating about it but could never play. His physical disability always hindered his talent for playing cricket.

Yet, every afternoon, he sat beneath the gulmohar tree, grudgingly watching Ajit, his younger brother, swing the bat like his life depended on it. The village loved Ajit—brilliant, handsome, charismatic. The hope of a family stuck in poverty.

Today, beneath the fiery blossoms, Madhav's bitterness intensified. He watched villagers gather for the match against neighboring Malgaon, their whispers about Ajit like prayers for deliverance.

Madhav’s resentment wasn’t simple jealousy. It was the invisibility he felt; his existence always eclipsed by Ajit’s soaring dreams.

As the match began, Madhav wandered toward the village outskirts, kicking stones along the dusty road, simmering in his thoughts. Suddenly, he heard a shrill whistle and turned. A shiny white car stopped abruptly, raising clouds of dust. A man stepped out—tall, well-dressed, and clearly lost.

“Do you speak English?” the stranger asked hesitantly.

“Yes,” Madhav replied, eyes narrowing. Strangers rarely ventured here.

The man exhaled in relief. “Thank goodness. I'm Ashwin, a talent scout. Looking for Ajit Sharma, the cricketer. Is he playing today?”

Madhav’s chest tightened. Another admirer chasing his brother’s shadow.

“Yes,” he answered, but something dark stirred within. “But he quit. Left cricket altogether.”

Ashwin's face fell. “Impossible. He’s got talent! Raw, unstoppable talent!”

Madhav shrugged, playing indifferent. “He's stubborn. He wants nothing to do with it. Hates the sport now. You came too late.”

Ashwin stood speechless, bewildered. Madhav’s heart raced. For once, he felt powerful.

Suddenly, another whistle pierced the air. Villagers cheered loudly, their voices distant but ecstatic. Madhav glanced toward the field, irritation rising.

“Another boy?” Ashwin asked, hopeful again.

“Just village excitement. Nothing special,” Madhav dismissed.

Ashwin looked defeated. “All this way for nothing.”

“You wasted your time,” Madhav echoed, feeling a twisted satisfaction.

As the scout climbed back into his car, Madhav’s pulse quickened. For once, he’d controlled the narrative.

Returning to the field, Madhav saw Ajit on the villagers’ shoulders, joyously holding his bat aloft. Their father embraced Ajit, tears shimmering. But something felt off. Their cheers quieted as Madhav approached.

“Madhav,” their father began softly, voice trembling. “Did you see the car?”

Madhav tensed, heart thudding. “Which car?”

“The scout. From Mumbai. I met him weeks ago in Malgaon. I asked him to come. Told him you spoke perfect English. I knew you could convince him.”

Madhav froze, reality spinning violently. “Convince him?”

“For you,” Ajit interjected quietly, eyes gentle. “We’ve been sending him your writings. Your stories about cricket, the village, life here. He loved them. Said you could be the next big journalist, write for newspapers, television. Our village’s voice.”

Madhav’s breath caught, chest tight.

The roar of the departing car echoed in his ears—the silent whistle of a life-changing chance vanishing in the dust.