On the hazy morning of November 27, two Under-23 state teams played a T20 match at a school cricket ground in a north Indian city. One team was led by M, whose calm composure and classical batting skills mark her out as a player with a great future. Coaches and scouts from Women’s Premier League (WPL) teams are effusive in their praise of her, and track her performance every time she takes the field. She is effortlessly lean, with a mass of curly hair and a subtle swagger that comes from years of athletic training, and perhaps from being chosen as a leader from a young age.

M’s team starts out strong, on the back of a thrillingly fast and accurate spell from their pacer, who uproots the stumps twice in two overs (but has decided not to be a part of the WPL auctions, which is strange because good fast bowlers are in great demand in the tournament). Her opening bowling partner S, a lanky spinner with a flowing action, sends in balls that skid, speed up and turn, tying batters into knots.

If M is a quiet but commanding presence, S is the counterbalance: loud, talkative and in a constant state of exultation through the match. Among M’s other weapons on the team is P, of the tattoos and buzz cut, whose prodigious talent has already earned her a call-up to the senior national squad; and D, whose skills have also resulted in a national call-up and who has such a lovely way with words that a potential career as a commentator awaits her too, once she is done at the stumps.

These are the four women whose names are among the 277 players up for auction that evening, and if they are nervous or thinking about it, they do a good job of not showing it at all. If there is one person who is visibly on edge, it is their coach, a former India player.

“It’s too much tension. I don’t think I can watch the auction,” she says. “They would be fools to not pick these girls, but then there are so many players, and so few spots to fill.” A maximum of 90 slots are available at the auction, which means nearly 70% of the players will leave without a contract.

The coach tells me about her time representing India, in an era when the national women’s team travelled without reservations on long-distance trains, and slept in crumbling sports complex halls, on mattresses laid out on the floor. “We made almost no money,” she says. “We did it because we were addicted to the game. Nothing else mattered when we were playing it.”

Over the last few years, a lot has changed. Match fees are now at parity for the men’s and women’s national teams; air travel and five-star hotel accommodation are available for players from the national Under-19 team upwards; and the women’s team finally has world-class coaches, physiotherapists, doctors and analysts.

“I won’t lie, I would much rather have been a player now,” the coach says.

By the time her team reaches the hotel, the auction is only minutes from starting.

They shower and change, and then the large TVs in various rooms are switched on to the channel broadcasting the proceedings live across the country. There is banter as the women cluster together to watch.

M, S, P and D are in one room with some of their teammates, though M is resolutely refusing to look at the screen. She is reading something on her phone instead. At regular intervals, she exits the room and walks along the corridor. There is so much at stake here.

There are uncanny similarities to the journeys these women have taken: most are from families that are not well-to-do, and were the only girls playing cricket in their neighbourhoods; some were the only girls playing at their cricket academies too. They know they are different, and are hoping that now is when that difference will start to pay off.

They all want the great opportunity that WPL promises: The money that will address their financial struggles; the visibility on offer; the experience to be gained from sharing space with some of the world’s finest players.

In the rooms, the banter becomes more spirited. When the Jamaican all-rounder Chinelle Henry is bought by Delhi Capitals for ₹1.3 crore, the players erupt with joy; they all know and like her. The names of other friends come up on the block and are cheered vociferously too. M realises how boisterous things are getting and, in her thoughtful way, gets up and shuts the door. P is praying. S provides running commentary.

Suddenly, P’s name is on the screen. The room goes silent. She continues to pray. “Go P, go!” screams S. But no one bids for P. “No one? No one?” says the auctioneer. With each second, it is like more air is sucked out of the room. “Unsold!” says the auctioneer, and bangs her gavel.

P’s eyes are filled with tears. “These teams know nothing,” says S, to break the silence. “If they don’t want P, what do they want?!”

But they don’t want S either. “Unsold.” The dreaded word reverberates around the room. S curses and storms out. M leaves the room too, taking P with her. The news that D has not been picked reaches them in the corridor. They leave the hotel to walk in the open air.

D seems unfazed. “Whether we got picked at this auction or not does not change the core of what we do,” she says. “Wherever we are playing, our job is to perform in the field. And if we keep performing, keep doing our job well, the opportunities will keep coming. There is no doubt about that.”

M, who has been told by several people in the know that her chances at this auction are really good, has to endure the entirety of the spectacle, all six hours of it, before she realises her name wasn’t even on the block.

She pushes out her lower lip and shrugs her shoulders. She looks tired, confused and disappointed. It has been a devastating night. But they are young. They have barely begun.

Like their coach before them, they will keep playing the game they love, forgetting the heartbreaks once they’re on the field, M directing the field setting, S shouting out encouragement, P at the top of her run-up, twirling the ball, D taking her position at first slip.