The first thing Arjun noticed was the smell.
It was a thick, humid mix of frying onions, exhaust fumes, and the distinct, salty tang of the sea that only Mumbai had. It wasn't the sterile, air-conditioned scent of the physiotherapy clinic in London where he had spent his last few years.
He blinked, staring up at a ceiling fan that was wobbling dangerously on its hook, making a rhythmic tuk-tuk-tuk sound.
Where am I?
He tried to sit up, but his body felt weirdly light. He looked at his hands. They were tiny. The knuckles were smooth, not swollen from years of grip issues. There was a small ink stain on his thumb—Royal Blue Parker ink.
"Arjun! Stop pretending to sleep! Finish your milk!"
The voice made his heart stop. It was his mother. But she sounded... young. She sounded like she did before the hospital visits, before the gray hair.
Arjun scrambled off the bed. His feet barely touched the cold mosaic floor. He rushed to the calendar hanging next to the door. It was a flimsy paper one from a local sweet shop.
May 2006.
He touched the paper. It felt real. He looked in the mirror on the steel almirah. A scrawny boy with messy hair and big, confused eyes stared back. He was wearing a faded oversized t-shirt that hung off his shoulders.
He was eight years old.
He sat down on the floor, his head spinning. The last thing he remembered was... regret. Sitting in his clinic in 2025, watching the IPL final, rubbing his bad knee, wishing he hadn't bowled so many overs on concrete when he was twelve. Wishing he hadn't listened to that coach at the Shivaji Park academy who changed his action. Wishing he knew then what he knew now.
"Arjun!"
"Coming, Ma!" his voice squeaked. He clamped a hand over his mouth. Even his voice was new.
He walked into the living room. It was small—a typical 1BHK in Dadar. The bulky CRT TV was on. A cricket match was playing—India vs West Indies. A young MS Dhoni was on screen, looking distinct with his long, golden-streaked hair.
It was mesmerizing. It was the past, alive and breathing.
"Oye, Hero," a voice called from the open balcony door. "Are you coming or are we starting without you?"
It was Vicky. His childhood best friend. The one who moved to Pune in 2010. Here he was, leaning against the railing, holding a battered tennis ball wrapped in electrical tape.
"We need a bowler," Vicky said. "Siddharth is batting and he's hitting everything into the drain."
Arjun felt a sudden, instinctive pull. Cricket.
He didn't think. He just nodded and ran out, slipping into his worn-out sandals.
The "ground" was the narrow lane behind their apartment complex, sandwiched between two buildings. The pitch was a strip of concrete. The stumps were three lines drawn with chalk on a metal shutter of a closed garage.
"Finally," Siddharth grunted. He was the local bully, twelve years old and twice Arjun's size. He was currently batting, holding a heavy wooden bat that looked like a weapon in his hands. "You're fielding at fine leg. Go stand near the scooty."
Arjun walked to his spot. The Mumbai sun beat down on his neck. It felt... good. He stretched his arms.
Pop. Pop.
His shoulders cracked satisfyingly. He twisted his torso left and right.
That was strange.
In his old life, his back was stiff as a board by the time he turned thirty. Now, he felt... loose. Incredibly loose. He felt like he was made of rubber. He bent down to touch his toes and his palms went flat on the ground without his knees even bending.
I'm flexible, he thought. Naturally flexible.
"Oye, daydreamer! Catch!"
Vicky tossed him the ball. "Just bowl one over. Try not to cry if he hits you."
Arjun caught the ball. It was a heavy 'Guru' tennis ball, the kind that stung your fingers. He walked to the bowling mark—a crack in the road.
He looked at Siddharth.
In 2025, Arjun was a biomechanics expert. He knew every angle, every muscle fiber required to bowl fast. But right now, he didn't think about any of that. He just wanted to see what this small, skinny body could do.
He turned and started his run-up.
He didn't run fast. He just trotted in. But as he reached the crease, something instinctive took over.
He jumped.
Usually, an eight-year-old bowls with just their arm. They stand still and wheel it over. But Arjun's body didn't do that. His left arm shot up high. His back arched naturally, like a bow being pulled. And then, without him even trying to force it, his body snapped forward.
Whizz.
The ball left his hand with a speed that shocked him.
It didn't loop. It didn't float. It skidded.
Siddharth had stepped forward to smash it into the next building. But the ball hurried him. It zipped off the concrete faster than he anticipated.
THWACK.
The ball hit the splice of the bat—the handle—hard. The vibration went right up Siddharth's arms. He dropped the bat, shaking his hands.
"Ouch!" Siddharth yelled. "Are you throwing stones or what?"
Silence descended on the lane. Vicky's jaw dropped.
"That... that was fast," Vicky whispered.
Arjun looked at his own hand. He flexed his fingers. He hadn't even tried. He hadn't used his 'adult brain' to fix his technique yet. This was just... natural. This body was built to bowl. It was wiry, snappy, and explosive.
"Luck," Siddharth muttered, picking up his bat. "Do it again."
Arjun smiled. It wasn't the polite smile of a well-behaved child. It was the hungry smile of a man who realized he had just been handed a winning lottery ticket.
He walked back to his mark.
He knew what was coming. He knew the future of cricket. He knew that in two years, the IPL would start. He knew that pace—raw, terrifying pace—was the most valuable currency in the world.
And he knew exactly how to train this time. No over-bowling. No bad diets. No listening to coaches who wanted him to slow down to be 'accurate'.
He ran in again.
Load. Snap. Release.
The ball flew past Siddharth's outside edge before he could even bring his bat down. It smacked into the metal shutter behind him with a loud CLANG that echoed through the entire lane.
"Bowled!" Vicky screamed, jumping in the air.
Arjun stood at the top of his follow-through, sweat trickling down his forehead. He wasn't panting. He felt like he could do this all day.
He looked up at the sliver of blue sky visible between the tall buildings.
Okay, he thought. Second chance starts now.