Selvarajah wakes before dawn, his wiry frame slipping from bed to help his mother with chores. He moves quietly, recalling faint memories of his father—fragments from photographs and stories told by neighbors in hushed, reverent tones. Today, like every day, he feels the weight of expectation pressing down, wondering if he can ever live up to the myth that surrounds his father.
Selvarajah's Mother stands by the stove, her face lined with worry and hope. She glances at her son, and a gentle smile flickers. "You’re just like him, you know. Always moving. Always thinking,"
Principal Perera, a kindly older man with spectacles perched on his nose, calls Selvarajah aside after morning assembly. The office is cluttered with trophies, faded certificates, and a small wooden box. "I have something for you, Selvarajah. These belonged to your father," he says, offering a cricket bat, a worn leather ball, and a notebook filled with scribbled advice and scores.
Selvarajah lies awake, his mind swirling with questions and longing. He clutches the bat and ball close, feeling their history in his hands. As sleep overtakes him, the room shifts—walls dissolve and the air grows thick with the scent of grass and distant cheers.
Selvarajah's Father looks at him with pride. "It’s not about being the best, Selva. It’s about enjoying the game, caring for those around you, and making your own mark," His words fill Selvarajah with warmth, dissolving the fear that has haunted him.
He moves through the day with new confidence, no longer burdened by comparisons or expectations. His classmates notice the change, watching as Selvarajah laughs, plays, and studies with joy. His mother catches his eye, and he grins, promising himself to cherish her and their life together.
Selvarajah speaks softly, "One day, Amma, I’ll give you a better life. I promise," His mother squeezes his hand, tears shining. As night deepens, Selvarajah looks forward to bedtime, knowing that his father’s wisdom awaits in dreams—and that his future is his own to shape.
