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"Ishu! Ishu, uth ja," [Ishu! Ishu, wake up.] Shubman says, his voice a blend of exasperation and worry. He leaned over the bed, giving his best friend a firm shake that bordered on a shove.

But Ishan, blissfully ignorant of the morning chaos, remained face-down in his pillow, snoring like an old ceiling fan—loud, obnoxious, yet somehow still functional.

Shubman sighed deeply, rubbing his tired eyes with the heel of his palm. The remnants of sleep clung to him like a stubborn fog, and for a fleeting moment, he considered collapsing back into the bed himself.

But he quickly dismissed the thought; he knew they were on borrowed time. If they didn't get moving soon, Virat bhai would burst in any second, unleashing a verbal onslaught that could rattle the windows and leave their ears ringing for days.

"Arre yaar, Ishu! Agar Virat bhai aa gaye na, toh samajh le. He'll start with his 'tum logon ko toh zara bhi fikar nahi hai' lecture, and trust me, you don't want to be on the receiving end of that. I'm trying to save both of us here, samajh raha hai na?" Shubman tried again, this time jabbing Ishan sharply in the ribs, hoping to shake his perpetually late-rising friend from his slumber.

[If Virat bhai comes in, understand this: he'll start with his 'you guys don't care at all' lecture, and trust me, you don't want to be on the receiving end of that. I'm trying to save both of us here, understand?]

Ishan groaned in response, swatting Shubman's hand away as if it were nothing more than a bothersome mosquito. "Sone de, bhai," [Let me sleep, bhai.] he muttered, his words slurred and muffled against the pillow.

Shubman rolled his eyes so hard he was sure they might actually complete a full circle. He knew this drill all too well.

He could continue to try the gentle approach, but that had about as much chance of success as finding an empty metro seat during rush hour.

No, it was time to escalate. With Ishan, being nice was as pointless as asking a Mumbaikar to stay indoors during Ganpati Visarjan.

As his gaze wandered around the room, Shubman's eyes landed on Ishan's phone, lying innocently on the side table, its screen dark and oblivious to the trouble it was about to cause.

A grin slowly spread across his face as a plan began to form in his mind. This was going to be the kind of revenge only the best of friends could truly appreciate.

Moving with the stealth of a pickpocket in a crowded bazaar, Shubman reached for the phone, unlocking it with the passcode he knew as well as his own.

His fingers flew across the screen as he scrolled through Ishan's contacts, his grin widening when he found exactly what he was looking for—the one name Ishan would least want to be woken up by, especially on a lazy Sunday morning.

"Sorry, bhai," Shubman whispered under his breath, more to himself than to Ishan. He tapped the contact, holding his breath as the phone rang once... twice... and then connected.

"Hello, Ishan beta?" came the voice from the other end, far too awake for this hour. "Itni subah subah kaise yaad kiya?" [Hello, Ishan beta? Why did you remember us so early in the morning?]

Shubman had to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep from bursting into laughter as he watched Ishan's eyes snap open, his face draining of color faster than a fading Holi t-shirt.

Ishan shot up in bed, his heart pounding with the intensity of a wrong number from the bank. He snatched the phone from Shubman's hand, barely managing to stammer out a response.

"Pa...Papa, woh..." [Pa...Papa, well...] Ishan stuttered, his brain scrambling to come up with an excuse, any excuse, that might make sense of why he was calling his father at this unholy hour.

His mind raced, and all thoughts of sleep evaporated as he realized there was no getting out of this one. He was wide awake now, and so was the trouble that was about to rain down on him.

Shubman, meanwhile, leaned back against the bedpost, trying and failing to suppress his amusement. He watched as Ishan attempted to navigate the awkward conversation with his father, who, thankfully, seemed more curious than angry.

"Beta, sab theek toh hai na? Subah subah phone kiya, laga kuch zaroori baat hogi..." [Is everything okay? You called so early in the morning, it seemed like something important might be going on...]

Ishan nodded furiously, even though his father couldn't see him. "Haan, Papa... woh nahi, actually aap sab ki yaad aa rahi thi toh socha baat kar loon," [Yes, Papa... well no, actually I was just missing you all so I talk I should call.] Ishan blurted out, the words tumbling over each other in a desperate attempt to sound convincing.

But even as he said it, he knew how hollow it sounded. Who wakes up at the crack of dawn just to say they're missing their family? Especially when that same person was snoring loud enough to wake the entire hotel just a minute ago.

On the other end of the line, there was a brief pause, as if his father was processing this sudden burst of affection from his otherwise perpetually sleepy son. "Achha, beta? Bahut accha kiya," [Really son? That is nice.] his father finally replied, his voice warm but tinged with the slightest hint of suspicion.

"Koun hai ji?" [Who is it ji?]

Came a distant voice in the background, most likely his mother's, who had probably just emerged from the kitchen, drawn by the unusual sound of her husband talking on the phone this early in the morning.

Ishan could almost picture her wiping her hands on her saree pallu, her brows furrowed in concern, her mind already racing through all the possible reasons for this unexpected call.

"Kuch nahi, Ishu ka phone hai. Keh raha hai sab ki yaad aa rahi thi," [It's nothing, Ishu's phone. He's saying he was missing everyone.] his father explained, his voice gentle, clearly trying to reassure her that there was nothing to worry about.

But Ishan knew better; this wasn't going to put her at ease. In fact, he could almost hear the gears turning in her mind, trying to figure out what might be wrong.

There was a brief, weighty silence. He knew, without even seeing her, that his mother was standing there, her forehead creased with that familiar worry that only mothers seem to perfect.

And sure enough, the silence was followed by the faint rustling sound of the phone being passed from one hand to another.

His mother's voice came on the line, soft but laced with that underlying note of anxiety that Ishan could recognize even in his sleep.

"Ishu, beta, sab theek hai na? Tabiyat toh theek hai?" she asked, her tone so gentle that it made Ishan's chest tighten with guilt. [Ishu, beta, is everything okay? Are you okay?]

Ishan could almost see her in his mind's eye—probably standing there, still holding a spatula, her eyes full of concern as she tried to figure out what on earth had prompted her son to call so early.

She was always the first to imagine the worst, her thoughts running straight to fever, cold, or something even more dire.

"Bukaar hai kya? Kitni baar kaha hai ki raat ko kulfi mat khaiya kar. Hum log ke haath jod diye phir bhi nahi manoge," [Do you have a fever? How many times have I told you not to eat ice cream at night? We've pleaded with you, but you still don't listen.] she continued, her tone shifting into that familiar mix of worry and mild exasperation.

Ishan winced, knowing exactly where this conversation was heading. "Nahi, Maa, bilkul theek hai. Aap tension mat lo," [No, Maa, I'm perfectly fine. You don't worry.] he hurried to reassure her, but the words felt weak in the face of her relentless concern.

"Toh phir subah subah kaise yaad aa gaye? Tumhara bhi na, koi bharosa nahi. Hum soch rahe the kuch gadbad hai. Tour mein mann lagta hai na?" [So then why did you suddenly remember us early in the morning? You, I swear, can't be trusted. We were thinking something was wrong. You're doing okay on the tour, right?] she asked, her voice softer now, but still laced with that undercurrent of worry that only mothers seem to have mastered.

Ishan let out a small sigh, glancing sideways at Shubman, who was still grinning like he'd won the lottery. "Haan, Maa, sab theek hai. Bas aise hi... aap sab ki yaad aa gayi," [Yes, Mom, everything's fine. Just like that... I was missing you all.] he mumbled, hoping that would be enough to satisfy her. But deep down, he knew it wouldn't be.

"Haan, haan, humko sab pata hai. Tumhare yaad aane ka matlab hum samajhte hain. Kal raat ko kuchh ulta-seedha khaya na? Ab pet kharab ho gaya hoga," [Yes, yes, we understand everything. We know what it means when you suddenly remember us. You must have eaten something weird last night, didn't you? Now your stomach must be upset.] she shot back, her voice tinged with that affectionate annoyance that only mothers could pull off.

Before Ishan could respond, his father's voice cut in, a bit more cheerful now that the initial shock had worn off. "Arre, tum bhi na, itna tension kyun leti ho? Humare Ishu ka kuch nahi hoga. Woh toh bas hum log ke liye phone kiya hoga. Hai na, beta?" [Oh, you worry too much! Nothing will happen to our Ishu. He must have just called to talk to us. Right, son?]

"Haan, Papa," [Yes, Papa.] Ishan replied, grateful for the slight change in tone, even as he felt the familiar wave of embarrassment wash over him. He could almost see his father's easygoing smile, the way he always tried to diffuse the situation whenever his mother's worries started to spiral.

"Haan, toh bas, maa ki baat sun liya karo," his father continued, his voice light and teasing now. "Aur maa ko kuch mat batao warna yeh poore gaon ko phone kar degi bolne ki Ishu ne subah-subah phone kiya." [Yes, so just listen to your mother. And don't tell your mother anything, or she'll call the whole village to say Ishu called early in the morning.]

Shubman, who had been doing his best to hold in his laughter, finally lost it at this, and Ishan couldn't help but crack a smile himself, despite the situation.

His parents were so predictable, so wonderfully predictable, and in that moment, even with the chaos of the morning, he felt a pang of homesickness—a longing for the comfort of their voices, their familiar banter.

"Achha, thik hai, Maa, Papa, abhi baad mein baat karta hoon. Practice keliye late ho raha hai." [Okay, fine, Maa, Papa, I'll talk to you later. I'm getting late for practice.] he said, trying to extricate himself from the conversation before it spiraled into another lecture about his eating habits, sleeping habits, or anything else they could think of.

"Thik hai, beta. Apna dhyaan rakhna," his mother finally relented, though Ishan could still hear the worry in her voice. "Shub beta, tu bhi dhyaan rakh na aapna." [Okay, son. Take care of yourself. Shub dear, you take care of yourself too.]

As the call finally ended, Ishan let out a long, exasperated breath, flopping back onto the bed as if the conversation had drained the last bit of energy out of him. "Yaar, tu sach mein dosti ke laayak nahi hai," he muttered, though there was no real heat in his words. [Dude, you're really not worthy of friendship.]

Shubman finally managed to catch his breath, wiping away a stray tear as he straightened up. "Arre, chill kar. Aur waise bhi, tujhe apni maa se baat karne ka mauka diya maine. Aise mauke baar-baar nahi milte." [And anyway, I gave you a chance to talk to your mom. You don't get opportunities like this often.]

Ishan groaned, knowing that Shubman had a point, even if it was wrapped in his usual brand of mischief. "Kabhi nahi sudhrega tu," [You'll never change.] he grumbled, though the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth betrayed him.

"Sudhr ke bhi kya karoon, yaar?" [And what would I do if I changed?] Shubman shot back with a lazy grin, plopping down next to Ishan on the bed, the mattress creaking slightly under their combined weight. "Sudharna mere liye thodi na hai." [Changing is not for me].]

The way he said it, so casually dismissive of the idea, as if the very notion of "sudhroing" himself was completely absurd, made Ishan laugh despite himself.

It was classic Shubman, navigating life with that effortless charm, a perpetual smile, and a devil-may-care attitude that seemed to keep him immune to the usual stresses everyone else dealt with.

Ishan rolled his eyes, but the laugh that escaped his lips was genuine, the kind that bubbles up when you're exasperated yet undeniably charmed.

It was infuriating when Shubman pulled this trick—turning a moment of annoyance into something light-hearted—but it was also one of the things Ishan appreciated most about him.

Somehow, Shubman had this knack for making you realize that maybe things weren't as serious as you'd made them out to be, that maybe you could afford to take a deep breath and let go a little.

"Chal ab, practice ke liye late ho raha hai," [Come on, we're getting late for practice now.] Ishan finally said, feeling the weight of the day ahead settling back onto his shoulders, though it felt a little lighter now, thanks to Shubman's antics.

He pushed himself up from the bed, stretching his arms above his head, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep and the slight ache in his back from the lumpy mattress.

"Tu jake fresh ho jaa, fir chalte hai," [Go freshen up, then we'll leave.] Shubman said, waving a hand dismissively as if the answer to all of life's problems was that simple.

There was a relaxed confidence in his voice, the kind that made it clear he wasn't in any hurry. Everything, in his world, moved at its own unhurried pace.

Then, with that same casual air, Ishan got up from the bed, stretching lazily before he sauntered over to his kit bag, which was lying in the corner of the room.

It looked like it had been through a lot—its edges frayed, the zipper slightly crooked, and the fabric worn from too many matches and too little care. But Shubman treated it like it was a treasure chest, one that held all the essentials he needed, even if those essentials were buried under a heap of disorganized chaos.

Ishan, watching this, just shook his head in amused resignation. He knew Shubman too well by now—knew that his friend would eventually get everything together, but only after taking the most roundabout route possible. With a sigh that was more for show than anything else, he grabbed a towel and headed into the bathroom.

A long day awaited him, and he knew it wouldn't be an easy one. The practice session was going to be grueling, the kind that left you drenched in sweat and aching in places you didn't even know could ache. But it wasn't just the physical challenge that weighed on him.

His last match had been a disaster—mistakes piling up one after another, and he could still feel the sting of it, the disappointment in himself lingering like a stubborn bruise.

The cold water of the shower fell on his back, his muscles tensing at first from the chill before slowly relaxing under the steady stream. It was a welcome shock to his system, waking him up fully, washing away the remnants of sleep that clung to his mind.

As the water coursed down his shoulders, he could feel the tightness in his muscles begin to loosen, the tension easing bit by bit. He stood there for a moment longer than necessary, letting the water do its work, trying to mentally prepare himself for the day ahead.

The steam started to fill the small bathroom, clouding the mirror and blurring the edges of the world around him, making everything feel distant and muted. It was just him, the water, and his thoughts—a brief moment of calm before the storm of practice.

But no matter how much he tried to focus, his thoughts kept wandering back to that last match, looping endlessly through every mistake, every misstep, like an old, scratchy cassette tape stuck on repeat.

He could see it all so vividly—the missed catches, the mistimed shots, each one playing out in his mind with the clarity of a bad movie that he just couldn't turn off. It gnawed at him, this feeling of underachievement, like a small, persistent itch that refused to go away no matter how much you scratched.

The frustration of falling short of his own expectations lingered, heavy and suffocating, making him question whether he was losing his touch, whether the form he prided himself on was beginning to slip away like sand through his fingers.

And the more he thought about it, the more it ate at him. It wasn't just the mistakes on the field—it was the nagging sense that he should've done better, could've done better, if only he had been more focused, more precise, more everything.

It was the sort of frustration that clung to him like a stubborn stain, refusing to be washed away no matter how much he tried to rinse it off. It was that familiar knot in the pit of his stomach, the one that tightened with every thought of what he could have done differently, what he should have done differently.

He tried to shake it off, to let the cold water wash away the lingering doubts and frustrations, but it wasn't easy. The thoughts clung to him, weighing him down like a heavy backpack on a long uphill trek.

There was no escaping them, not in the shower, not in his mind, not anywhere. And deep down, he knew that these thoughts would follow him onto the field today, shadowing his every move, whispering in his ear that he wasn't good enough, that he was slipping.

But as he stood there under the spray of water, the bathroom slowly filling with steam, he couldn't help but let out a small, exasperated laugh at himself. Here he was, already spiraling into existential dread, and it wasn't even 8 AM.

Maybe he was taking this a bit too seriously. Maybe, just maybe, he needed to learn to let go a little, to stop overthinking every little thing. After all, wasn't life—especially a cricketer's life—full of ups and downs? One bad match didn't define him, just like one good match didn't make him a superstar.

But then again, it wasn't that easy to let go, not when you had grown up in a middle-class home where every performance, every report card, every exam score was scrutinized like it was the entrance test to IIT.

There was always that underlying pressure to excel, to prove yourself, to live up to the expectations of everyone around you—your parents, your coaches, your friends, and even that nosy aunty who lived down the street and always seemed to know everything about everyone's life.

It was just how things were, how they had always been. And so, letting go? Easier said than done.

Lathering his body with body wash, he took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind, reminding himself that there was no use dwelling on the past. Today was a new day, a new chance to prove himself, and if he carried yesterday's mistakes onto the field, he was doomed before he even began.

So, he let the water run over him for another moment, letting the last remnants of sleep and self-doubt slip away before he turned off the tap and stepped out of the shower.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he wiped a hand across the fogged-up mirror, revealing his reflection—still the same old Ishan, a little groggy, a little anxious, but ready to face the day.

And with that, he made a silent promise to himself: today, he would play his game, and leave everything else, all the doubts and frustrations, behind. Because at the end of the day, all he could do was give it his best shot and hope it was enough.

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Hey choozo, kaise ho?

Bhaisaab, divide na karte chapter toh yeh chapter 13, 000 words ka ho jata. Saraswati Maa ki kripa se yeh chapter likha hai. Hopeful aapko aacha laga ho.

Agar pasand aaya, toh vote and comment kar dena. Story mein kuch chahiye, toh bata dena.

Aur prem so bolo,

Radhe..Radhe 🙏🏻