Arjun walked out of his room, and the first thing that hit him wasn't the humidity—it was the smell.
The heavy, sour, comforting aroma of fermenting Dosa batter. It hung in the air, mixing with the sharp scent of burnt mustard seeds and the faint, chemical tang of Hit cockroach spray that had been sprayed the night before. It was a sensory profile that belonged to a thousand mornings from a life he thought he had left behind.
He paused in the hallway, letting his eyes adjust. The living room was a time capsule frozen in amber. Sunlight filtered through the dust motes dancing in the stagnated air. The floor was a mosaic of black and white chips—cool under his bare feet—that hadn't yet been replaced by the soulless vitrified tiles of the 2020s.
The grey Onida TV sat in the corner like a shrine, covered by a crochet lace doily that his mother insisted kept the "dust out," though it mostly just collected more dust. Next to it, the glass showcase was a museum of middle-class pride: plastic flowers that had faded from pink to a dull white, a porcelain doll still wrapped in its original plastic, and a row of tarnished silver cups his dad had won in inter-departmental badminton tournaments at the Vizag Steel Plant back in the 90s.
At the small, circular dining table sat Ramesh, his father.
He was wearing his standard morning uniform: a white Rupa banyan (vest) that had seen better days and grey formal trousers, the belt already buckled tight around his waist. He was hunched over, peering at the Eenadu newspaper through his reading glasses.
The silence was punctuated only by the aggressive rustle of the newspaper and the rhythmic whirrr-clunk of the ceiling fan that wobbled slightly on its axis.
"Good morning, Maharaja," Ramesh muttered without looking up. The sarcasm was dry, practiced. He tapped his wristwatch—an HMT janata that he wound up every morning—pointedly.
"The sun is almost overhead. Sharma garu's son went to the bus stop at 7 AM. I saw him leaving while I was getting milk. It is 9:00 now. Do you think IIT seats are reserved for people who sleep until noon? Or maybe they have a special quota for 'Sleeping Princes' this year?"
Arjun pulled out the plastic Neelkamal chair. It scraped loudly against the mosaic floor—a high-pitched screech that set his teeth on edge.
"Morning, Dad," Arjun said, his voice cracking slightly on the second word. He cleared his throat, embarrassed. He swallowed the irritation rising in his chest. He had forgotten how early the "comparison game" started in Indian households. In 2024, his dad compared Arjun's salary to his cousin's in the US. In 2011, it was tuition timings. The game never changed, only the metrics.
"I was studying late last night," Arjun lied, slipping into the role of the dutiful son.
His mother, Sarada, bustled out of the kitchen, the pressure cooker hissing violently behind her like a steam engine ready to blow. She looked younger—shockingly so. Her hair was still jet black, tied in a tight, practical bun, lacking the streaks of grey and the thinning hairline Arjun was used to seeing on FaceTime calls. She moved with a frantic, nervous energy, wiping her hands on her saree pallu.
She placed a steel plate in front of him with a sharp clang. Three dosas, glistening with peanut oil, and a mountain of white coconut chutney.
"Don't scold him on the first day of holidays, Ramesh," she said, though she shot Arjun a warning look that said 'Eat quickly or I will scold you too'. "Eat fast, Arjun. You have to walk to the main road to catch the shared auto. If you miss the 9:15 rush, you won't get a seat."
Arjun looked at the plate. His 30-year-old brain, trained on intermittent fasting and macro-tracking apps, didn't just see breakfast; he saw a biological disaster.
Carbohydrates. Saturated fats. Zero fiber. Zero protein.
He looked at his skinny forearms resting on the table. The radius and ulna bones were visible under the skin. He suddenly remembered why, in his original timeline, he used to gas out after bowling just four overs. He remembered the familiar heaviness that would settle in his gut an hour from now—the insulin spike followed by the crash. It was the lethargy that made sitting in a geometry class easy, but made sprinting into a bowling crease feel like wading through wet cement.
"Ma," Arjun started, poking the dosa. "Do we have any eggs?"
Sarada paused mid-step. "Eggs? On a Thursday? Are you crazy? It's Baba's day."
Right. Thursday. Arjun mentally slapped himself. He had forgotten the complex, unwritten weekly schedule of which God was offended by protein. Thursday was Sai Baba. Saturday was Venkateswara Swamy. Tuesday was Hanuman.
"Okay, never mind," Arjun said quickly, tearing off a piece of the crispy dosa and dipping it into the chutney. It tasted incredible—salty, spicy, familiar—but he knew it was poison for his goals.
He chewed slowly, watching his father. Ramesh was staring at the Business section of the paper, his brow furrowed in a permanent knot of worry.
"Look at this. 20,000," Ramesh muttered, tapping the paper near the small box in the corner that listed Gold/Silver rates. "Gold has crossed ₹20,000 per 10 grams. Absolute madness."
He looked up at Sarada, who was refilling his coffee tumbler. "See? I told you we shouldn't have bought that chain for your sister's wedding. We bought at the peak. It's a bubble. It will crash next month. Mark my words, Sarada, it's going back to 15,000. We just wasted money."
Sarada sighed, looking wistfully at the paper. "But gold is gold, Ramesh. It stays with us. Lakshmi(Goddess of wealth) doesn't leave the house."
"Lakshmi leaves when you overpay!" Ramesh snapped, taking a sip of his filter coffee. "Who can afford to buy gold these days? It's artificial inflation. The market will correct itself."
Arjun froze. The dosa stopped halfway to his mouth.
He remembered this graph. He had studied historical asset classes for his personal finance portfolio in 2024. The 2011 bull run wasn't a bubble; it was the start of a massive rally due to global instability. Gold wouldn't touch 15,000 again in his lifetime. It was going to skyrocket to 30,000 within two years.
This was it. The first nudge. A chance to rewrite the family's financial destiny, one skeptical conversation at a time.
"It won't crash," Arjun said. He tried to keep his voice steady, masking the confidence of a man who had seen the future with the casual tone of a teenager.
Ramesh looked over his glasses, an amused eyebrow raised high. "Oh? The 9th class economist is speaking? Since when do you read the business page?"
Arjun leaned forward, lowering his voice slightly. "I read... somewhere. In a magazine at the barber shop. That because the US dollar is getting weaker, global investors are dumping cash and buying gold. It's not a bubble, Dad. It's a 'hedge.' It might touch 28,000 by next year."
The room went quiet. The only sound was the fan whirring overhead kat-kat-kat.
Ramesh stared at him. Then, a slow smile spread across his face, followed by a deep, chesty laugh that dismissed Arjun's entire existence as a financial advisor.
"US Dollar weak? Hedge? Listen to him, Sarada! Our son is worried about the American economy." Ramesh folded the paper, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "Stop reading those business magazines and focus on your Stuides. If you get into IIT and get a job in America, then you worry about the dollar. Until then, leave the money to me."
He went back to his paper, dismissing the topic entirely.
But Arjun noticed something. As Ramesh turned the page, his eyes didn't scan the headlines immediately. They flicked back to the Gold Rate box for a lingering second. A frown creased his forehead.
Seed planted, Arjun thought. Now I just need to water it.
"Time to go!" Sarada said, clapping her hands. "Don't miss the auto!"
Arjun pushed his chair back and grabbed his heavy backpack. It was stuffed with R.D. Sharma, H.C. Verma, and three rough notebooks. But buried deep at the bottom, hidden beneath the weight of academic expectations, was his white cricket uniform and the red cork ball.
He swung the bag onto his shoulders. It felt heavier than he remembered. Or maybe he was just weaker. The straps dug into his thin shoulders.
"Bye Ma, Bye Dad," Arjun yelled, slipping into his black Bata school shoes. They were tight around the toes—he needed a new pair, but asking for one now would lead to a lecture on expenses.
"Study hard!" his dad shouted, not looking up from the sports page. "And don't eat roadside stuff! If you get typhoid, your summer is ruined."
Arjun stepped out of the apartment gate and walked down the dusty lane toward the Main Road. The Vizag humidity wrapped around him instantly like a wet blanket. The air smelled of salt, drying fish, and vehicle exhaust—the perfume of his childhood.
The street was alive in a way 2024 never was. There were no delivery blinkers, no Uber cabs. Instead, there was a row of shops that triggered deep nostalgia: a yellow STD/ISD booth with a bored operator, a "Cyber Cafe" promising Surfing @ ₹20/hr, and a recharge shop displaying posters of Aircel and Tata Docomo.
He reached the auto stand at the junction. A yellow 7-seater "Shared Auto" was idling there, the engine sputtering. The driver, a man with a red towel wrapped around his head, was hanging out the side, shouting like an auctioneer.
"Siripuram! Jagadamba! Complex! Come fast, come fast!"
Arjun squeezed into the back seat. It was meant for three people, but he was the fourth. He was wedged between a large lady with a basket of leafy vegetables and a college student smelling of cheap deodorant.
The auto lurched forward, merging into the chaotic symphony of traffic. The driver cranked the volume knob, and the torn speakers behind Arjun's head exploded with life. The bass was so distorted it rattled the metal floorboard against Arjun's feet.
"Ringa Ringa... Ringa Ringa... Ringa Ringa... Ringa Ringa..."
The distorted voice of Devi Sri Prasad blasted through the traffic. It was the anthem of the streets. Arjun couldn't help but smile. In 2024, he listened to Lo-Fi beats on noise-canceling AirPods to drown out the world. But this? This raw, ear-splitting energy mixed with the smell of diesel and jasmine flowers? This was home.
As they rattled past the statue of Sir Arthur Cotton and neared the Siripuram junction, Arjun's heart started to race. To the left was the lane to the Coaching Center. The air-conditioned prison. To the right was the Beach Road. The AU Engineering College Grounds.
"Stop here, Anna," Arjun said loudly, tapping the coin on the metal rod.
The auto slowed down. Arjun jumped out while it was still moving slightly—muscle memory from a youth spent navigating traffic.
He handed the driver a 5-rupee coin.
"Careful, boy," the driver grunted, zooming off.
Arjun stood on the pavement. The sun was beating down on him. The Coaching Center was just a hundred meters away. He could go there. He could sit in the AC, solve the triangles, please his father, and ensure his safe, boring future as an SDE.
He turned his back on the grey building.
He looked toward the shimmering blue line of the ocean in the distance, and the dusty, red-earth entrance of the cricket grounds. He could hear the faint sound of a bat hitting a ball—thwack—traveling on the wind.
"Class is cancelled," Arjun whispered to himself, hitching his bag higher on his shoulder. "Time for the lab test."