Chapter 5 — The Bat and the Body
Age: 5 Years Old
Before sunrise, Kolkata still looked half asleep.
Mist floated faintly above the ghats near Dakshineswar Kali Temple while temple bells echoed through the cold morning air.
At only five years old, most children still struggled to wake up for school.
Riddhiman Paul was already training.
Sweat covered his forehead as the five-year-old boy held an awkward yoga posture on the rooftop of his house.
His tiny arms trembled violently.
Pain spread through his shoulders.
But he refused to stop.
Below him, the city slowly awakened:
tram bells,
cycle rickshaw sounds,
tea sellers shouting,
crows screaming from electric wires.
Riddhiman ignored everything.
His breathing remained controlled.
Slow.
Measured.
Again.
Hold.
Balance.
Again.
In his previous life, he never understood his body properly.
He treated it carelessly:
poor sleep,
unhealthy routine,
constant exhaustion,
no discipline.
And eventually life broke him apart piece by piece.
This time would be different.
Because now he understood something terrifying:
Talent alone was unreliable.
The body decided limits.
And if he wanted to surpass legends— then his body itself had to evolve.
Not just batting.
Everything.
Balance.
Reflex.
Flexibility.
Reaction speed.
Recovery.
Control.
Even at five years old, that realization had already become obsession.
"Riddhi!"
His mother's voice floated upward from staircase.
"Ki korchis eto shokale?"
(What are you doing so early?)
Riddhiman immediately straightened.
"Exercise."
His mother climbed onto rooftop carrying towel and stared at him in disbelief.
A five-year-old child.
Sweating before sunrise like professional athlete.
"Pagol hoye jabi ekdin," she muttered.
(One day you'll become crazy.)
Then she wiped sweat from his forehead gently.
"Maa Kali-r naam niye eto koshto korish na."
(Don't torture yourself so much in Mother Kali's name.)
Riddhiman stayed quiet.
How could he explain?
This wasn't torture.
This was survival.
Because somewhere deep inside him still lived the terrified twenty-nine-year-old man who once wasted his life.
That fear never disappeared.
Every morning it whispered the same thing:
"If you stop now…"
"You'll become ordinary again."
And Riddhiman feared ordinary life more than pain.
Later that morning, after breakfast of rice, fried fish, and boiled egg, the five-year-old walked toward local practice ground carrying oversized cricket bat almost as tall as himself.
The streets near Dakshineswar buzzed with familiar life:
flower sellers near temple,
fish markets overflowing with noise,
buses honking endlessly,
humid air carrying smell of river and spice.
But Riddhiman noticed none of it fully anymore.
His mind constantly processed cricket.
Even while walking, he analyzed movement:
foot placement,
body alignment,
balance shift.
Everything connected somehow.
At the ground, Ghosh Kaku already waited near broken practice nets.
The old coach watched silently as the tiny boy arrived early again.
Interesting child.
Too serious.
Too focused.
Children usually loved cricket emotionally.
This boy approached it like research.
"Warm-up kor," Ghosh Kaku ordered casually.
(Warm up.)
Riddhiman nodded immediately.
Then began stretching.
The coach's eyes slowly narrowed.
The movements looked unusual.
Controlled.
Structured.
Not random childish stretching.
Riddhiman moved carefully through:
hip rotations,
balance drills,
flexibility positions,
shoulder mobility work.
Where had a five-year-old learned this?
Ghosh Kaku frowned slightly.
Even many professional players ignored proper body preparation.
Yet this child moved with intention.
After several minutes, the coach finally interrupted.
"Ke shikhyeche egulo?"
(Who taught you these?)
Riddhiman answered without stopping.
"Body stable hole shot stable hoy."
(If the body becomes stable, shots become stable.)
Ghosh Kaku blinked once.
That… was technically correct.
But strange coming from a five-year-old.
Very strange.
Practice began shortly afterward.
Older boys smirked seeing tiny Riddhiman enter nets again.
Until he started batting.
Then smiles disappeared quickly.
Not because of power.
Not because of dominance.
But because of balance.
The five-year-old almost never fell out of position.
Even when mistiming balls, his body recovered unnaturally fast.
Compact.
Controlled.
Economical.
Ghosh Kaku watched silently.
The bat swing itself still lacked strength.
Obviously.
He was only five.
But the movement foundation—
that was abnormal.
After one particular straight drive, the old coach suddenly noticed something important.
Riddhiman's head remained perfectly still during contact.
Children almost never managed that naturally.
Yet somehow he already prioritized balance consciously.
That realization unsettled him slightly.
Meanwhile, Riddhiman's own thoughts moved rapidly during practice.
His body frustrated him.
Too weak.
Too slow.
Too small.
His mind knew movements his body still couldn't execute.
That mismatch irritated him constantly.
He remembered future players:
explosive footwork,
impossible flexibility,
dynamic balance.
If he wanted to surpass them—
then he needed complete body control.
Not just cricket practice.
Total physical evolution.
The idea consumed him more each day.
After practice ended, while other children rushed toward food stalls laughing loudly, Riddhiman remained alone near boundary stretching quietly again.
Ghosh Kaku approached slowly.
"Bari jabi na?"
(Aren't you going home?)
"Ektu pore."
(After a little while.)
The old coach watched the five-year-old silently for several seconds.
Then asked:
"Cricket eto bhalo lage?"
(Do you love cricket that much?)
Riddhiman stopped stretching briefly.
Love.
Was that the right word?
No.
Love sounded soft.
What he felt was far more dangerous.
Still, he answered simply:
"Hm."
The old coach sat beside him slowly.
"When I was young," Ghosh Kaku said quietly, "I also thought practice alone could make someone great."
Riddhiman listened carefully.
"But cricket isn't only hard work."
The old man tapped his chest lightly.
"Matha lagbe."
(You need the mind.)
Riddhiman's eyes sharpened slightly.
Mind.
Yes.
Exactly.
Most people separated:
technique,
body,
thinking.
But Riddhiman increasingly realized: everything connected.
Mind controlled body.
Body controlled shots.
Shots controlled field.
Field controlled game.
It was all one system.
And if he mastered that system completely—
then maybe greatness itself could become controllable.
The thought thrilled him.
That evening, rain returned heavily over Kolkata again.
Power fluctuations darkened the neighborhood repeatedly while thunder echoed over the Ganga.
Inside the house, his mother fried hilsa while old radio played softly nearby.
His father repaired spectacles beneath yellow lamp light.
Ordinary life continued peacefully around him.
But Riddhiman no longer felt ordinary inside it.
After dinner, while his parents talked downstairs, the five-year-old quietly returned to rooftop alone.
Rainwater dripped from nearby rooftops steadily.
The city lights blurred through mist and storm.
Riddhiman picked up his bat.
Then slowly closed his eyes.
He imagined:
balance,
movement,
weight transfer,
bat path.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Shadow batting in darkness.
Hours passed silently.
At one point his front foot slipped on wet rooftop surface.
He almost fell.
But somehow recovered balance instantly.
And suddenly—
something clicked inside his mind.
Balance recovery.
Important.
Very important.
Batters focused too much on perfect movement.
But cricket was chaos.
Recovery mattered more than perfection.
His breathing slowed.
New thought.
New theory.
Every mistake could still become scoring opportunity— if body control remained superior.
Excitement spread through him rapidly.
Even mistakes had geometry.
He immediately began experimenting again despite rain.
Different foot placements.
Different recovery positions.
Different balance adjustments.
Obsessively.
Below, his mother noticed faint rooftop sounds and sighed helplessly.
Again.
The boy was practicing again.
"Ei cheleta ekdin nijeke mere felbe," she muttered worriedly.
(One day this boy will destroy himself.)
But upstairs, standing alone beneath rain and thunder, the five-year-old Riddhiman Paul barely heard the world anymore.
Because slowly—
terrifyingly—
he was beginning to build himself into something cricket had never seen before.