In a hostel room in Patna, a young fast bowler named Rohan stared at his own frizzy mop in a cracked mirror. He opened the image, zoomed in, and called the only barber in town who owned a straight razor. "Bhaiyya," he whispered, "I need the King's cut."

Frame One: A close-up. The fade was surgical, starting high on the temples and melting into the scalp like a perfect sunset. The beard was trimmed to a sharp, military discipline.

And what images they were.

Frame Three: The back. The nape of his neck was a work of art, shaved clean with a tiny, almost invisible "17" etched into the hairline.