Cricket God Investment & Mastery System

Rhea Kapoor was the type of journalist who couldn't let go of a story once it scratched at her curiosity. Back in her PG room — a cluttered little box in Hazratganj — she tossed her bag aside, kicked off her heels, and collapsed onto the bed with her phone still in hand.

The video she had recorded earlier played on loop — Arjun's casual brilliance at the gully match, that effortless six, and the way the crowd roared like he was some underground legend.

Rhea sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop balanced precariously on a pillow, a half-empty chai cup next to her. Arjun's words from the kulfi night kept replaying in her head.

"Cricket wasn't a dream. It was the only thing that made me feel like I had some control."

She could've just asked him more — dug deeper over another round of kebabs — but something told her the real story wasn't just in Arjun's version. It was in the gully itself — in the people who played beside him, against him, or simply stood at their windows watching the orphan boy become a local legend.

"Alright, Mishra ji, let's see how famous you really are."

 "Arjun Mishra…" she muttered, fingers tapping his name into a search engine.

The results were… underwhelming.

A few school-level scorecards.One blurry team photo from a district tournament.And some random Facebook posts from local cricket pages — "Nawabganj's Sultan strikes again! Arjun's six lands on Sharma ji's rooftop for the third time this month."

Rhea raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? That's it?"

But then she noticed something. The posts went back years, all centered around the same narrow lanes and street matches. And one thing was clear — whenever Arjun Mishra played, people showed up. They bet snacks, drinks, even phone recharges on his batting. Kids wanted selfies. Rival teams had standing grudges against him.

"Local celebrity," Rhea mumbled, intrigued.

She dug deeper.

A YouTube channel run by some guy called "Bunty Bhai" had a whole playlist titled 'Arjun Bhaiya's Greatest Hits.'Old videos of him smashing sixes into people's balconies, sending tennis balls flying into traffic, and even one clip where a shopkeeper begged him to stop hitting sixes into his parlor's glass window.

Rhea couldn't help but grin. "So you've been a menace for a while, huh?"

She clicked play on one of the oldest clips — grainy, recorded on a Nokia brick phone — but even through the shaky footage, the talent was obvious. Arjun wasn't just some gully cricket hotshot. His timing, his footwork, the way his body flowed with the bat — it wasn't textbook-perfect, but it had something raw and electric. Natural.

Her journalist instincts started tingling. This wasn't just some aimless boy chasing a pipe dream. This was a story — a kid with no training, no coaching, and no money, carving his legend one street match at a time.

"Why haven't I heard about him before?" she muttered, pulling her laptop closer.

Lucknow's sports media, especially the junior cricket beat, was obsessed with academy boys — kids from big families with personal coaches and sponsorship deals from local businesses. Arjun didn't fit that mold. No academy name next to his stats. No official records in state tournaments. He was off-grid — a rebel in a system that only recognized the polished.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard, digging for more.

There was an old blog — a forgotten WordPress site — maintained by a cricket enthusiast named Golu Uncle, who apparently spent his evenings watching local matches with chai in hand.

"If you want to see real cricket in Lucknow, forget the stadium. Come to Nawabganj at 5 PM. There, you'll find Arjun Mishra. No helmet, no pads — just a bat, a crooked smile, and enough swagger to silence a whole mohalla."

Rhea sat back, chewing her lip thoughtfully. She knew the type. Kids like Arjun didn't make it into glossy sports magazines. They didn't get agents or trial invites. They played for pride, for food money, for nothing at all — just the thrill of the game.

And somehow, those stories were the best ones.

Her phone buzzed. Arjun, of all people, had messaged her.

Arjun: Kya stalk kar rahi ho kya?(Are you stalking me)

Arjun: Mil gaya kuch? Ya ab bhi lagta hai mai bas ek fraud hu? (Did you Find something or you still think I am just a fraud)

Rhea smirked, typing back.

Rhea: Matlab thoda fraud to ho hi. Par interesting fraud. ( There is definitely some fraud. but interesting fraud)

Rhea: Tell me — why didn't you ever join an academy?

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

Arjun: Paisa nahi tha. (No money)

Arjun: Aur frankly, unka system mujhe suit nahi karta. (And frankly there system doesn't suits me)

Rhea stared at the reply for a moment longer than necessary. No self-pity. No long explanation. Just a straight, honest answer.

Rhea: System ka dushman. I like it. (Enemy of all the system. I Like it)

Arjun: System se nahi, system banane waalo se problem hai. (The problem is not with the system, but with the people who made the system.)

For a split second, Rhea forgot she was supposed to keep a professional distance. She wasn't supposed to like him this much — but damn, there was something dangerously attractive about a boy who refused to bow.

She tossed her phone aside before she could overthink it, and opened a fresh document on her laptop.

Story Draft — "The Sultan of Nawabganj"

By: Rhea Kapoor

She stared at the blinking cursor, fingers hovering.

"Let's see how deep this rabbit hole goes," she whispered.

Before she could start typing, her phone buzzed again.

Arjun: Wanna watch me play for real?

Arjun: Sunday. Big match. Bada ground. Proper ball. Proper team.

Arjun: If you dare to come.

Rhea grinned.

Rhea: I don't just dare. I document.

The game was on — and this time, so was the story.