It was love at first sight, not entirely dissimilar from what Romeo felt for Juliet. The big difference, however, was that the object of my affection was a trophy given out to the winner of the KL Rao cricket tournament. I marvelled at the magnificence of that shiny shield as the proud recipient shook hands with KL Rao himself, before grabbing hold of the trophy and lifting it “high and handsome” (as Ravi Shastri would have undoubtedly said) above his head with the rest of his teammates cheering on proudly.

I wish I could also tell you that this was my team winning the trophy, but I cannot. In fact, this moment was made doubly bitter by the fact that the person who took the trophy home was none other than the captain of our arch-rivals, a certain Vikram Chandra. I remember looking on with a certain degree of loathing as the winning team made a lot of noise that reverberated in my skull.

However, no matter how much some of those memories tend to jar, the overall effect on my 11-year-old sensibilities was overwhelmingly positive. From that day onwards, all I wanted to do was make it to my school’s cricket team so that, someday, I too could be a proud winner of the KL Rao cricket tournament.

Who was this KL Rao anyway? I could always google him, of course, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find a Wikipedia page on him. He had a cricket tournament named after him, after all. He was also one of those characters who you saw smiling down at you from billboards, wearing a grey safari suit. Not really sure why the safari suit caught on. Must have been another of those leftovers of the Raj, or maybe he was fond of hunting. I realise that this whole examination of KL Rao the human being is also a bit of an indulgence, but given how big a part of our lives he was during those summers in the early 1990s, it would be disrespectful on my part to not spend at least some time on the person himself.

All that we know about him thus far is that he used to wear grey safari suits, was on billboards and somehow got a cricket tournament named after him. His face didn’t come across as a cricketer’s face. If I had to bet, he must’ve been either a local politician or a local goon. It’s hard to tell the difference between the two anyway. Word has it that he got bitten by the cricket bug and decided that it would be worthwhile for him to donate some of his wealth in order to have a tournament named after him. He used to show up for a few games over the course of the two weeks while the shindig lasted, and was always present when it was prize- giving time. In his grey safari suit, of course.

Since that day, I wanted nothing more than to be at the receiving end of that presentation. I imagined the whole scene in my head in detail. They would set up a stage and wait for KL Rao to show up. I’d walk up to the stage and shake hands with The Man Himself, who, it must be said, looked fairly avuncular and kind giving away the prizes. There would be chants of “Rajuuuuuuu, Raju” in the background, sung to the tune of “Sachiiiiin, Sachin”. That’s my name, by the way. I’m Raju Prabhakar.

Now, I can’t prove any of this scientifically, of course, but I have always suspected that my name has had something to do with my cricketing skills. An unfortunate namesake of two of the more easily forgettable cricketers India has produced (no offense—I’m sure they were fine blokes, good at heart, etc.), my chances were limited at birth. I blame it all on my parents for choosing a name like that for me. I cannot imagine having the same kind of luck with a name like Sachin Bradman. I thought about naming my firstborn daughter that, to test this theory, but was vetoed very quickly by the missus.

Of course, my birth name is Rajiv, but Raju tends to have more stickability, since it rolls off the tongue a lot more easily. In case you were wondering which distinguished cricketers I refer to apropos my own moniker, I speak of Venkatapathy Raju and Manoj Prabhakar, of course. Raju, aka muscles, was a left-arm spinner who was as intimidating as a toothpick. Prabhakar was a fast bowler (of course, I’m using some creative license in calling him a fast bowler), about whom the most formidable thing was his whiskers. My theory was that he was an off-spinner disguised as a fast bowler, but it took a few years for this fact to register in the collective consciousness of batsmen the world over. That illusion was shattered with particular cruelty when he bowed out after bowling two overs of actual offspin during a hammering from that one batsman who gave Indians more nightmares than any other human alive—Sanath Jayasuriya.

But then, I am a firm believer in the human spirit and all that it is capable of, and of all that one can achieve if one truly puts one’s mind to it. This faith is something that would appeal to the most cynical of us. This is why I have decided to write this memoir. On second thoughts, calling it a memoir makes it seem a bit too grandiose. Let’s call it a reflection instead. I hope that, someday, kids reading this will be inspired by my work. The best case scenario is that I too will have a cricket tournament named after me. There will be kids dreaming of playing and winning the Raju Prabhakar tournament, just as we dreamt of winning the KL Rao annual cricket tournament!

And this tournament, dear reader, is the subject of this work of mine. This is an underdog story that needs to be told. This is the story of a few students of St Anthony’s High School in Bandra, Mumbai, India. This is the story of Raju Prabhakar and a few other souls who spent a precious few years of our lives dreaming about lifting that shiny shield.