A lot of people tell me a lot of things about my conduct, my

Host: The evening sun hung low over the cricket ground, spilling amber light across the dust and grass. The stadium was almost empty now — only the echo of footsteps and the faint smell of sweat, mud, and adrenaline remained. A scoreboard still glowed faintly, holding the memory of what had been a long, hard match.

At the edge of the field, Jack sat on a wooden bench, his shirt half unbuttoned, his hands still stained with chalk and dirt. Across from him, Jeeny stood, her hair tied back, holding a water bottle, her eyes sharp, focused, alive. The sunlight glinted off her watch, and the wind played with the loose strands of her hair.

In the distance, a radio commentator’s voice drifted faintly through the air, quoting Virat Kohli:
"A lot of people tell me a lot of things about my conduct, my game, my future... but I try to stay away from their words of wisdom. I don't let it distract me. On the field, you will be facing the ball alone. If you fail, you will be the only one to blame. So, you should be the one deciding for yourself."

The words hung there, cutting through the silence — sharp, grounded, unapologetically real.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) That’s the kind of truth you can only speak if you’ve been hit a few times — by life or by a cricket ball.

Jack: (chuckling dryly) Or both. But he’s right. At the end of the day, you stand alone. Doesn’t matter how many people talk, how many “experts” try to tell you what to do — it’s your name on the scoreboard, not theirs.

Jeeny: (sits beside him) That sounds brave, Jack. But also… lonely.

Jack: (shrugs) Maybe. But solitude’s not the enemy — dependence is. Once you start playing for approval, you’ve already lost.

Host: The wind stirred the dust at their feet. Somewhere, a ball rolled, bumping softly against the boundary rope. The field seemed to breathe, vast and quiet — like a cathedral made of grass and memory.

Jeeny: (thoughtful) Still, no one gets there entirely on their own. Even Kohli had coaches, captains, teammates. You can’t pretend the world doesn’t shape you.

Jack: (nods slowly) It shapes you, sure. But it shouldn’t steer you. That’s the difference. The moment you start living by others’ opinions, you stop recognizing your own reflection.

Jeeny: But what if those opinions come from love? From people who want the best for you?

Jack: (half-smiling) Love can be loud, Jeeny. Sometimes it drowns out your own voice.

Host: Her eyes flickered with recognition, a small pain passing like shadow over light. She looked down, tracing circles in the dust with her shoe.

Jeeny: You talk like someone who’s had too many voices in his ear.

Jack: (quietly) I did. My father was like that. Always telling me how to live, what I should study, who I should be. And when I failed, it wasn’t his fault — it was mine. Because failure always belongs to the one who acts, not the one who instructs.

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe he just didn’t know how else to love you.

Jack: (sighs) Maybe. But love that cages isn’t love. It’s fear disguised as care.

Host: The sun began to dip, its edges bleeding into the horizon. The sky turned a deep orange, then red, like an ember about to die. Jack’s face was half-lit — half-shadowed — a portrait of defiance and fatigue.

Jeeny: You know, I admire that — people who can tune out the world. But sometimes, Jack, that same strength can become arrogance. Thinking you’re the only one who knows best — that’s a dangerous kind of pride.

Jack: (turns to her) So you think humility means letting others decide for you?

Jeeny: No. I think humility means remembering that even if you face the ball alone, someone else helped you pick up the bat.

Jack: (grins) That’s poetic. But life doesn’t stop to applaud poetry. When you’re out there — when it’s your mistake, your reputation, your scar — no one else stands with you. It’s not ego. It’s ownership.

Jeeny: (leans forward) But what about accountability to others? What about those who believe in you? You owe them something too.

Jack: (pauses) Maybe. But first, you owe yourself honesty. If you betray your own instinct to please others — even those you love — then what’s left of you?

Host: The lights of the stadium flickered on, one by one, casting long shadows across the field. The air turned cool. The sound of crickets began to blend with the distant cheers of a new match somewhere else in the city.

Jeeny: (after a pause) There’s a balance, though. Between self-determination and connection. I think of all the people who fail because they never listen — artists who ignore advice, athletes who push too hard, dreamers who mistake isolation for authenticity.

Jack: (nodding slowly) Fair. But there’s also the opposite — people who never risk failure because they keep waiting for permission. The safest people are often the least alive.

Jeeny: (quietly) And yet, even Kohli — the fiercest player in the room — says he carries his father’s lessons with him. You see, he’s not denying guidance. He’s just choosing which voices stay.

Jack: (half-smiling) Exactly. The key is choice. You can listen — but you decide which echoes matter. That’s self-respect.

Host: The night began to settle, the stadium lights now bright against the deep blue sky. Jack and Jeeny sat in silence for a while, the kind that felt less like distance and more like peace.

Jeeny: (softly) I wonder if that’s what growing up really means — learning to separate advice from expectation.

Jack: (smiles) And learning to face the ball alone.

Jeeny: (looks at him) But tell me, Jack, what happens when you fail? When your choice costs you everything?

Jack: (his tone quiet but firm) Then you look at yourself and know — it was your call. That’s the only kind of failure that doesn’t haunt you.

Jeeny: (after a moment) You sound like someone who’s been haunted.

Jack: (smirks, eyes distant) Aren’t we all?

Host: A train horn echoed from somewhere beyond the river, the sound long and lonely, fading into the dark. Jeeny watched Jack in the pale light, saw the quiet resolve that had replaced the earlier bitterness.

Jeeny: Maybe that’s the paradox — we stand alone when we act, but we’re never truly alone in what shaped us. Even solitude has fingerprints.

Jack: (nods slowly) Maybe. But those fingerprints don’t play the game for you. They just remind you who taught you how to hold the bat.

Jeeny: (smiling) So, solitude isn’t isolation. It’s the moment where all the voices that built you fall silent — and you finally hear your own.

Jack: (quietly) That’s it. That’s what Kohli meant. The field isn’t just a place — it’s a mirror. You walk out there stripped of noise, of praise, of fear. What’s left is you — your choice, your courage, your mistake.

Host: The last light of day finally slipped away, and the stadium stood half in darkness, half in glow. The air was still, filled with the echo of old games and unspoken dreams.

Jack stood, tossing the ball once, catching it with easy precision.

Jeeny: (watching him) So, what now?

Jack: (smiling faintly) Same as always. You walk out. You face the ball. And you stop letting everyone else play for you.

Host: She watched him walk toward the center of the field, the lights tracing his shadow across the pitch. For a moment, it looked as if the whole world had narrowed to a single circle of light, one man standing in it, ready, alone, unafraid.

And then — as the night deepened and the stadium fell silent — it was easy to believe that somewhere, in every heart, there was a field just like this one — where all the voices fade, and the only sound left is your own heartbeat before you face the next ball.