Prateek Sur (he/him/his), Low Entropy Volunteer Writer
Arjun had always found solace in the rhythm of cricket. It was a language he understood, a connection to the home he’d left behind in Delhi. But the cricket fields of Vancouver, with their meticulously manicured lawns and distant, snow-capped mountains, felt alien. His new teammates, polite but distant, spoke a different cricketing dialect, one of power-hitting and aggressive fielding, lacking the nuanced artistry he cherished.
He was often overlooked, his subtle off-breaks deemed “too slow” for the fast Canadian pitches, his elegant, wristy batting dismissed as “not aggressive enough.” The casual dismissals, the subtle eye-rolls when he spoke of the legends of Indian cricket, the way his suggestions were always politely ignored—it all chipped away at his spirit. He was an outsider, not just in Canada, but even on the cricket pitch, the one place he thought he’d always belong.
One sweltering afternoon, during a particularly disheartening practice where his best deliveries were dispatched with disdain, Arjun wandered away from the main field. He found himself near a cluster of ancient, towering trees, their branches draped with moss. Hidden amongst them, almost swallowed by the undergrowth, stood a weathered mortuary pole, its carved face gazing stoically towards the setting sun. It was old, far older than anything he’d ever seen, and it exuded a quiet, powerful presence.
As he sat in its shadow, tracing the intricate carving, an old man emerged from the trees. He had deep-set eyes that seemed to hold the wisdom of centuries, and a gentle smile. “Lost, young one?” the Elder asked, his voice soft, like the rustling leaves.
Arjun, startled, explained his predicament, his longing for the game he knew, the feeling of being an outcast. The Elder listened patiently, his gaze fixed on the pole. “This land,” he began, “it remembers. It remembers the games played here long before your cricket. Games of skill, of strategy, of honoring the spirit of competition.”
He introduced himself as K’wus, a guardian of the ancestral lands of the Squamish people. K’wus spoke of how his people’s traditions, their languages, their very way of life, had been systematically dismantled, much like Arjun felt his own cricketing identity was being erased. He saw the parallels immediately: the imposition of one culture’s rules over another, the dismissal of Indigenous knowledge, the quiet, insidious erosion of identity.
“Your cricket,” K’wus said, gesturing towards the distant field, “it is a game brought by others, like many things. But the spirit of play, the connection to the earth, that is universal.” He then began to tell Arjun stories of his ancestors, of their traditional games, of how they learned from the land, from the animals, from the very wind. He spoke of patience, of observation, of understanding the subtle energies of the world around them.
K’wus took Arjun to a hidden clearing, a place where the earth felt alive. He showed him how to feel the subtle shifts in the ground, how the wind whispered secrets through the trees, how the light played tricks on the eyes. “The pitch,” K’wus explained, “it is not just grass and soil. It breathes. It has a story. If you listen, it will tell you how to bowl, how to bat.”
Arjun, initially skeptical, began to practice in this secluded spot. He learned to bowl with the wind, not against it, to use the natural undulations of the earth to impart subtle variations to his spin. He learned to bat with a deeper connection to his stance, feeling the ground beneath his feet, anticipating the ball not just with his eyes, but with his entire being. His cricket became less about brute force and more about harmony, about flowing with the environment.
His teammates, meanwhile, continued with their dismissive attitudes. During matches, they’d often complain about the “slow” pitches, the “unpredictable” bounce. Arjun, however, found himself thriving. He started taking wickets on pitches where others struggled, his deliveries seeming to dance off the surface in unexpected ways. His batting, once deemed “not aggressive enough,” became a masterclass in placement and timing, finding gaps where none seemed to exist.
During a particularly important match against a rival team, the weather turned. A strong, gusty wind swept across the field, making conventional fast bowling and aggressive batting almost impossible. His teammates floundered, frustrated by the conditions. But Arjun, remembering K’wus’s lessons, felt a strange calm. He understood the wind now, how to use its currents to his advantage, how to let it carry his spin, how to time his shots to ride its momentum.
He bowled a spell that mesmerized, his off-breaks drifting and dipping, seemingly defying physics. He batted with an almost supernatural intuition, placing the ball with surgical precision. He wasn’t just playing cricket; he was dancing with the elements, a living embodiment of the land’s wisdom.
His teammates, who had once scoffed, watched in awe. The captain, a burly fast bowler who had always favored power over finesse, approached him after the match, a newfound respect in his eyes. “How did you do that, Arjun?” he asked, genuinely bewildered. “It was like you were playing a different game.”
Arjun smiled, glancing towards the distant mortuary pole, now barely visible in the twilight. “I was,” he said simply. “I learned to listen to the pitch. To the wind. To the land.”
He began to share K’wus’s teachings, not as a replacement for their style, but as an enhancement. He showed them how to observe the subtle cues of nature, how to find strength not just in aggression, but in harmony. Slowly, tentatively, his teammates began to open their minds, to see the game through a different lens. They started to appreciate the nuances, the artistry, the deeper connection to the environment.
Arjun realized that K’wus had not just taught him how to play better cricket; he had taught him how to belong. Not by conforming, but by embracing his unique perspective, by blending his heritage with the wisdom of this new land. The discrimination hadn’t disappeared entirely, but it had lost its power. He was no longer an outsider; he was a bridge, connecting different worlds, different ways of seeing the game. And in the shadow of the totem, he found his true strength, not just as a cricketer, but as a person rooted in both his past and his present.
—
My name is Prateek Sur and I am a daydreamer by birth, a mechanical engineer by chance, and an idiot by choice. A hardcore movie buff, working as a film critic and enjoying life as a Bollywood reporter. Helping people get through career troubles and giving advice from personal experiences. A voracious reader and a passionate singer at heart. An extrovert at heart, and an introvert in the mind. Well, that chaos is pretty much me!
