Kulfi, Confessions, and Cricket Dreams

The Lucknow night had settled like a soft blanket — the heat of the day fading into cool breezes that carried the scent of kebabs, sizzling tikkas, and freshly churned kulfi.

Arjun and Rhea strolled through the narrow lane near Aminabad, their shoulders brushing every now and then — neither moving away. Arjun was still in his match-stained clothes, dried sweat glistening under the streetlights. There was dirt on his elbows, but the grin on his face? Pure gold.

They stopped at a kulfi cart, parked right under an old streetlamp that flickered like it was half-asleep.

"Do malai kulfi dena," Arjun ordered confidently, tapping the counter.

"Big shot cricketer is paying, huh?" Rhea teased, eyes sparkling.

Arjun leaned closer. "Match-winning players don't let others pay."

The vendor passed them two dripping sticks of kulfi, the creamy white already melting onto their fingers.

Sania System — Date Mode Activated

🟢 System Alert: Official Date Spotted.

🟢 Achievement Unlocked: Gully Cricket Romeo.

Sania: "Beta, bas pyaar mein run-out mat ho jaana."

(Kid, just don't get run out in love.)

They settled onto a half-broken bench nearby, the soft rustle of the old tamarind tree filling the quiet. For once, neither of them rushed to speak.

"Arjun," Rhea broke the silence after a few bites, "why do you play like every ball decides your whole future?"

His smile faltered. He licked his kulfi stick, stalling for time. "You ever felt like the world wrote you off… before you even got to introduce yourself?"

Rhea's teasing grin dimmed slightly. "Every day. Journalism doesn't exactly roll out the red carpet for freshers."

Arjun chuckled — a short, humorless sound. "I was ten when I lost both my parents. Accident. After that, it was just me, and the neighborhood aunties and uncles who took turns feeding me, scolding me, and keeping me alive."

Flashback — The Orphan with a Plank for a Bat

"No relatives. No family business. No inheritance. Just me, one leaking roof, and a life that depended on how much sympathy the mohalla had left for an orphan."

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

He shifted, fingers tight around the kulfi stick. "My first bat? A broken wooden plank from the construction site down the road. I bowled barefoot till my heels cracked, played in the same shorts for months. But the moment I hit a six or took a wicket? No one saw an orphan. They saw a player."

"Har match jeetna zaroori tha, kyunki haar gaya toh koi aur khelega meri jagah."

(Winning every match was necessary — because losing meant someone else would take my spot.)

Rhea's kulfi stayed untouched. "You… you never told anyone this?"

He shrugged. "Cricket ground pe sympathy ka koi use nahi."

(Sympathy has no value on the cricket ground.)

Sania System — Emotional Commentary Incoming

Sania: "Yeh toh poora biopic material hai, bhai."

(This is full biopic material, dude.)

Sania: "Emotional backstory detected. Insert violin music?"

Rhea leaned back, gaze locked on him. "I thought you were just another cocky street player. Turns out you're…"

"Dashing? Talented? Handsome?" Arjun interrupted, smirking.

She rolled her eyes. "I was gonna say layered."

"Layered bhi hoon, limited edition bhi."

(I'm layered — and limited edition.)

Rhea laughed, her first real laugh that evening. "You really can't stop showing off, can you?"

"Comes with the package." He winked.

A Shift in the Air

For the first time, the silence between them felt heavier — not awkward, but charged. Like there were things waiting to be said, and neither of them knew who should break the dam first.

"Rhea," Arjun's voice softened, "If you're really gonna write about me… promise me you'll write about all of it. The gully records, the broken bats, the empty house."

Her gaze didn't waver. "I will. But on one condition."

"What?"

"Next time, don't hold back. Show me exactly why the gully still remembers your name."

Sania System — Romantic Tease Mode

Sania: "Beta, yeh ladki toh IPL scout se bhi zyada dangerous lag rahi hai."

(Kid, this girl looks scarier than an IPL scout.)

They walked back slowly, the space between their hands shrinking a little more with every step. Above them, the tamarind leaves rustled like they were in on the secret.

Lucknow's night wrapped around them, hiding a thousand broken dreams, and maybe — just maybe — the start of a new one.

And somewhere between melted kulfi and a lifetime of unsaid things, Arjun Mishra realized — for the first time in years — he wanted to be seen. Not as a cricketer, but just as himself.