Chapter 32: The Fathers’ Secret

Rohan remained pinned against the damp brick wall long after Ananya’s footsteps had faded into the Delhi night.

Then, very slowly, a sound escaped his lips. It started as a low, breathless chuckle and quickly morphed into a full-blown, unhinged laugh. The feared ’Pace Demon,’ who had ruthlessly dismantled the State U-16 Reserve squad with a 132 km/h scrambled seam, was currently walking down the street looking like an absolute maniac.

His gait was completely completely thrown off. He staggered slightly, a goofy, permanent grin plastered across his face. Every five seconds, he would reach up and touch his lips, his brain relentlessly replaying the clumsy, tamarind-flavored kiss over and over again in glorious, slow-motion detail.

"I need my lead tactician with me. Permanently," he had said.

He had actually said that. Out loud. To her face.

His mind, entirely hijacked by adolescent euphoria, completely abandoned all thoughts of cricket, biomechanics, and fast-twitch muscles. Instead, it leaped ten years into the future. He suddenly envisioned a grand wedding mandap, adorned with marigold flowers. He was wearing a golden sherwani, and Ananya was walking toward him in a stunning red bridal lehenga, still carrying her tactical notebook—

[WARNING! CRITICAL NEUROCHEMICAL IMBALANCE DETECTED.]

The System’s cold, robotic voice violently shattered his daydream, echoing loudly inside his skull. The holographic interface flared aggressively in neon red.

[Alert: Host’s Dopamine and Serotonin levels have breached safe biological thresholds by 600%.]

[Status:] Cognitive function severely compromised. Logical processing failing.

[Recommendation:] Host must immediately regulate breathing and stabilize mental state. Failure to lower heart rate will result in acute psychological destabilization (Temporary Insanity).

Rohan blinked, the red warning screen hovering over the wet asphalt. He let out another joyous, entirely unbothered laugh.

"Shut up, you stupid System," Rohan muttered under his breath, waving his hand as if to swat the holographic screen away. "You’re just a bunch of glowing blue code. You can calculate trajectory, but you can’t see my happiness. Let me be insane for five minutes."

[System Note: Romantic euphoria does not contribute to fast-bowling pace. Shutting down non-essential alerts.]

The screen flickered and vanished, leaving Rohan to his blissful, stupid grin.

He finally reached the edge of his apartment complex. The streetlights here were notoriously unreliable, casting long, dark shadows over the narrow road. As he approached the main gate, a booming, deep laughter echoed from the darkness ahead.

Rohan narrowed his eyes, snapping slightly out of his daze.

Sitting on a broken, rusted public bench beneath a flickering streetlight were two men. They were sharing a thermos of tea, laughing so loudly that it echoed off the surrounding concrete walls.

Rohan walked closer, his eyes adjusting to the gloom.

"Baba?" (Father) Rohan called out in surprise.

His father, clad in his usual faded cotton shirt and worn-out trousers, turned around. But the man sitting next to him made Rohan freeze in his tracks.

It was Gautam Singhania. Aryan’s father.

The billionaire owner of one of Delhi’s largest logistics empires was sitting on a dirty, wet public bench in West Delhi, wearing a bespoke Italian wool suit that probably cost more than Rohan’s entire apartment. Yet, Gautam didn’t look out of place; he was laughing heartily, clapping Rohan’s father on the shoulder with the easy, unpretentious familiarity of a lifelong friend.

"Ah, the man of the hour," Gautam said, his deep, baritone voice warm and welcoming. He stood up, towering over the bench.

"Namaste, Baba (Father). Namaste, Singhania Uncle," Rohan said respectfully, keeping his hands folded. He hid his surprise perfectly. He knew they were friends, but seeing the immense wealth gap between them side-by-side in the dark street was jarring.

"Namaste, beta," Gautam smiled, looking Rohan up and down with a sharp, assessing gaze. "I heard what you did to the State Reserves. Aryan hasn’t stopped talking about it for two days. Go on upstairs, get some rest. The real work begins now."

"Yes, Uncle. Goodnight, Baba," Rohan said, offering a polite nod before quietly slipping through the apartment gates.

Once Rohan’s footsteps faded into the stairwell, the jovial atmosphere on the dark street shifted. The laughter died down, replaced by a heavy, profound silence.

Gautam Singhania sat back down on the rusted bench, pulling a silver cigarette case from his pocket. He offered one to Rohan’s father, who shook his head. Gautam lit his own, the cherry glowing bright red in the dark.

"He’s grown up so fast, Amit," Gautam said quietly, blowing a thin stream of smoke into the humid air. "And he is so polite. So gentle. Exactly like you ."

Gautam turned his head, his sharp eyes locking onto his old friend. "But tell me the truth. Beneath all that politeness... does he have that thing ?"

Rohan’s father looked up at the flickering streetlight, his stooped shoulders straightening just a fraction. For a fleeting second, the tired, beaten-down retail manager vanished, replaced by the ghost of a man who once possessed terrifying presence.

"Yes," his father replied, his voice dropping to a low, quiet intensity. "He has my blood, Gautam. And he has my obsessiveness. That absolute, terrifying obsession to achieve his goal."

Gautam smiled, a knowing, satisfied expression. "Good. Aryan got selected for the Under-19 State Trials too, you know. They’ll be walking into the lion’s den together."

"I know," Amit said, looking down at his worn-out hands. "It’s a different world out there now. Which brings up something else..." Amit hesitated, a flash of deep reluctance crossing his face. "Gautam, the DDCA letter states that kit bags won’t be provided at the camp. I need... I need to borrow some money. Just until next month."

Gautam waved his hand dismissively before Amit could even finish the sentence.

"Stop right there," Gautam commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I already know what it’s for. Those state-level kids will show up with imported English willow and specialized bowling spikes. I am not letting your son walk into that camp carrying a torn canvas bag."

Gautam reached into his suit jacket and pulled out his car keys. "I have a brand-new, top-tier professional kit sitting in the mansion. Sponsored gear that Aryan doesn’t need. I’ll have my driver drop it off tomorrow morning. Take it, and do not even think about offering me money for it. You insult our brotherhood if you do."

Amit swallowed the lump in his throat, nodding slowly. "Thank you, Gautam."

"Don’t thank me," Gautam said, standing up and adjusting his expensive suit. He looked toward the apartment building where Rohan had disappeared. "With Aryan and Rohan heading to the State camp together... the press is going to start digging. The DDCA selectors are going to start asking questions about where this 132 km/h kid came from."

Gautam looked down at his oldest friend, a serious glint in his eye. "It looks like you’ll have to come out of the shadows and show your face to the world very soon, my friend. You can’t hide forever."

Amit didn’t reply. He just stared into the darkness of the wet street.

"I’m getting late," Gautam said, tossing his cigarette into a puddle. "The wife will have my head if I miss dinner. Goodnight, Amit."

"Goodnight, Gautam."

As the billionaire’s luxury sedan pulled up to the corner to collect him, Rohan’s father remained on the dark bench for a long time, staring up at the window of his son’s bedroom. The wheels of destiny had begun to turn, and the ghosts of his past were finally catching up.