The Switch - By Anjaneya Kaushik

Written By: Anjaneya Kaushik

Category: Supernatural Drama

Competition: Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the realm of creative storytelling, Anjaneya Kaushik's entry, "The Switch," stands out as a compelling piece in the Supernatural Drama category. Submitted for the Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, this narrative navigates the intriguing theme of identity and the blending of contrasting worlds. The story of Aryan and Kabir explores their unexpected swap of lives, bringing together the worlds of art and sport in a supernatural twist that captivates the reader with its vivid storytelling.

About the Work

"The Switch" is a fascinating exploration of identity and perception, artfully blending the domains of athleticism and artistry. The narrative's mood oscillates between tension and revelation, capturing the essence of two boys swapping lives. Through vivid imagery and a keen sense of pacing, Anjaneya Kaushik crafts a story that delves into the nuances of seeing the world through another's eyes, ultimately revealing that both art and sport require a similar finesse and vision.

THE SWITCH

Original Submission by Anjaneya Kaushik

The Switch

Aryan lived his life in fast-forward. To him, the world was made of angles and velocities. Every morning at 5:00 AM, he was at the nets, his ears tuned to the rhythmic thwack of the ball. He didn't care much for school lectures or quiet moments; he wanted the noise of the stadium and the weight of a heavy bat in his hands. He was the star of the school team, the one everyone expected to cruise through the Under-14 trials.

Kabir, on the other hand, lived in the pauses. While Aryan was sprinting, Kabir was sitting perfectly still, capturing the world with a 2B pencil. He saw things others missed: the way a shadow stretched across the hallway, or the subtle drawing of a teacher's face during a boring lesson. His room was a sanctuary of silence, filled with the scent of graphite and the sight of half-finished portraits taped to the walls.

Aryan reached for his water bottle, expecting the cold plastic he always kept by his bed. Instead, his hand knocked over a jar of water filled with murky blue paint. He sat up, heart racing. This wasn't his room. There were no trophies, no jerseys. He was surrounded by sketches of people he didn't know. He looked at his hands-they were thin, ink-stained, and lacked the rough callouses from his bowling grip.

Across town, Kabir woke up to a sound that made his head ache: a loud, aggressive heavy-metal alarm. He tried to rub his eyes, but his arm felt incredibly heavy and muscular. He sat up and gasped. His room was gone. In its place were posters of cricketers mid-shout and a massive kit bag leaning against the door like a guardian.

He looked in the mirror. He wasn't the quiet artist anymore. He was staring at the face of the school’s most famous athlete.

Aryan stared at the canvas, and for the first time in his life, he felt true, paralyzing fear. This was worse than being 99 not out. This was worse than a final-over thriller.

In front of him sat a half-finished portrait. The face was nearly complete, but the background was a blank, terrifying white. Beside the easel lay a set of charcoal sticks and a note from the teacher: “Complete the depth using Chiaroscuro techniques. The judges arrive in thirty minutes.”

"Chiar-what?" Aryan whispered, his voice cracking.

His muscles, usually coiled for explosive movement, felt twitchy. He tried to pick up a charcoal stick, but he gripped it like he was about to slog a ball over long-on. Snap. The charcoal broke in half instantly.

"Easy, big guy," he muttered to himself, trying to mimic the calm he’d seen the quiet kid-the real Kabir-display in class.

He looked at the portrait. He realized he didn't need to know the fancy words; he just needed to see the "field." He imagined the light hitting the subject's face was like the stadium floodlights. The shadows weren't just black smudges; they were the "gaps" in the field where he usually aimed the ball.

He took a deep breath, lightened his grip until the pencil felt like a feather, and began to work. Instead of a powerful swing, he used short, rhythmic hatching strokes. Every time he felt his competitive temper rising, he forced himself to slow down, blending the edges into a soft, hazy sfumato to create the illusion of skin.

Just as he was starting to find a rhythm, the studio door creaked open.

"Kabir? You're cutting it close," a voice said. It was the head judge, a sharp-eyed woman with a clipboard. She walked over and squinted at the canvas. "Interesting. Your style seems... more aggressive today. More physical. The contrast is almost violent."

Aryan broke into a cold sweat. He didn't know if "violent" was a good thing in art. He looked at his ink-stained fingers and prayed she wouldn't ask him to explain his "artistic vision."

"I, uh... I just wanted to give it more 'pace'," Aryan stammered.

The judge raised an eyebrow. "Pace? In a still life?" She leaned in closer, touching the edge of the shadow he’d just darkened. "It’s bold. Carry on."

As she walked away, Aryan let out a breath he’d been holding since 7:00 AM. He had survived the first "over," but he still had a whole "innings" to finish before the clock hit ten.

Aryan stood before his-well, Kabir’s-portrait. The judges were circling it like sharks. One of them, a man with thin glasses, pointed to the background where Aryan had used a heavy, almost aggressive Chiaroscuro to hide the subject’s hands.

"Tell us," the judge said. "Why the sudden shift? Usually, your work is so delicate. This... this feels like a battle."

Aryan looked at the painting. He didn't see graphite; he saw the final over. He saw the struggle of a teammate and the grit of the game.

"Life isn't always a soft sketch," Aryan said, his voice finding the same confidence he had on the pitch. "Sometimes it’s a collision. I wanted the shadows to feel like a challenge, and the light to feel like a victory. It’s not just a portrait. It’s a contest."

The judges exchanged looks. The "Ace" had just given them the most raw, honest explanation they had heard all year. They marked their scores: First Place.

Back at the trials, the bowler was steaming in for the final ball. He was angry. He wanted to knock "Aryan’s" stumps out of the ground.

Kabir saw the bowler's fingers grip the seam. He noticed the slight tilt in the shoulder-the sign of a lethal yorker. His artist’s brain mapped out the trajectory in milliseconds.

“The line is perfect,” Kabir whispered to himself. “But the composition needs a highlight.”

As the ball thundered toward his toes at 135 kph, Kabir didn't panic. He used the "steady hand" he’d developed from thousands of hours of sketching. He waited until the very last microsecond, then danced back, opening the face of the bat like he was gently blending a edge of a cloud.

Tink.

The ball didn't just hit the bat; it was guided. It raced past the keeper, a shot so precise and delicate that it looked like magic.

The coach stood up and started clapping. "I've never seen someone play with such artistic vision. You're on the state team.”

That night, both boys collapsed into bed-one exhausted from the mental strain of art, the other from the physical toll of the game.

As the clock struck midnight, a familiar, melodic chime rang through the air.

Aryan opened his eyes. He smelled the familiar scent of leather and grass. He looked at his hands-wide, calloused, and strong. He was back. Across town, Kabir woke up to the smell of cedar and graphite, his thin, ink-stained fingers feeling exactly as they should.

The next morning at school, they passed each other in the hallway. Aryan was carrying his kit; Kabir was holding his sketchbook. They stopped for a second. No one else noticed.

Aryan gave a small, respectful nod. "Nice work on the shadows, partner."

Kabir smiled, adjusting his glasses. "Great footwork at the crease."

They walked in opposite directions, but they both knew the truth: Aryan now looked at a cricket pitch and saw a masterpiece in motion, and Kabir looked at a blank page and saw a game waiting to be won.

About the Competition

The Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is an esteemed platform celebrating diverse voices across genres. Participants from various backgrounds present their unique literary creations, fostering a vibrant community of writers and poets. This competition is a testament to Hashtag Kalakar's commitment to nurturing creativity and offering a stage for storytelling in its many forms.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Anjaneya Kaushik for sharing "The Switch" with us. Your participation in the Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 enriches the tapestry of narratives we are privileged to showcase. With its unique blend of supernatural elements and human emotion, your work has left a lasting impression on readers and the Hashtag Kalakar community.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.