The sound of a ceiling fan hummed above him, slow and steady.Ajay sat frozen on the edge of his bed, staring at his own reflection. His breathing was sharp, uneven—not from exertion, but from disbelief. The boy in the mirror was him, but from decades ago. Smooth skin. Strong jawline. Eyes clear and full of youth instead of the dull fatigue that had haunted them in recent years.
He stood, walking toward the mirror as if afraid it would vanish. The floor creaked under his bare feet—not because of his weight, but because of the old wooden planks. He raised his hands and touched his face. No stubble. His cheeks were firm.
His chest rose and fell without strain. No wheezing. No stabbing pain in the ribs. He bent forward, touching his toes easily—something he hadn't done in 20 years without grunting. His heart was pounding fast, but not in warning.
He looked around the room, drinking in every detail. The cricket bat leaning in the corner was his old SS Turbo, the one he had used in school tournaments. The grip was frayed, but his name—A. Sharma—was still scratched into the handle. On the desk lay his high school notebooks, open to pages filled with messy handwriting. A thick science textbook sat on top, its spine cracked from overuse.
A cricket ball rolled from under the bed as he moved. He picked it up—red leather, slightly scuffed. He could almost feel the hundreds of hours he had spent practicing with it, tossing it against the wall, catching it over and over until it felt like an extension of his hand.
Ajay turned to the wall calendar. July 1997. Bold letters. A photo of the Indian cricket team celebrating a victory. He blinked hard, hoping it would change. It didn't.
His hands trembled. "This… is real?" he whispered. The air felt heavy, as if the moment itself understood the weight of what was happening.
His mind spun back to the last thing he remembered—the chai stall, the chest pain, the ground fading away. He had died. There was no other way to put it. He had died in that local game.
And now, he was seventeen again.
Not just his body, but his surroundings, his life. Everything was as it had been almost thirty years ago. But the memories—the pain, the failures, the wasted opportunities—they were all still here, burned into him as clearly as the patterns on a cricket pitch after a five-day test.
Meeting the Family Again
The smell of parathas hit him next, pulling him out of his thoughts. His stomach growled loudly. He hadn't smelled his grandmother's cooking in decades.
He stepped out of his room, his legs feeling light. The hallway was narrow, lined with framed photographs—family gatherings, weddings, festivals.
At the dining table, his grandmother sat rolling out dough, her bangles clinking softly. His mother stood by the stove, flipping parathas in ghee, while his father sat in the corner reading the newspaper. His younger brother, barely ten, was scribbling something on a notebook.
For a second, Ajay just stood there, watching them. His throat tightened. In his first life, some of these faces had aged, some had gone. Seeing them like this, full of life and laughter, felt like a second chance he never thought he'd get.
"Arre, Ajay! Get ready for practice, na!" his mother called without looking up. "Coach saab will shout if you're late."
He froze. Coach Sharma. His old mentor. The man who had taught him how to bat like a pro. In his past life, Ajay had wasted his advice more than once, thinking raw talent was enough. The thought burned in his chest.
"I… I will, Ma," he said softly, almost afraid his voice would break.
His father looked over the newspaper. "Why are you standing like a ghost? Go wash your face. And don't eat too heavy before nets."
Ajay smiled faintly. "Okay, Papa."
He washed his hands and sat at the table. His grandmother slid a paratha onto his plate, smiling the way only she could. He ate slowly, savoring every bite, each mouthful both a comfort and a reminder of what he had lost the first time around.
The Weight of Memory
As he ate, the thoughts came flooding in. This was 1997. He had two years before the 1999 World Cup—two years before the moment he had missed national selection in his first life. He knew every score, every player's form, every tournament from now until his death in 2025.
But this time… this time he had something else.
A faint sound suddenly echoed in his head.
Ding.
He froze, the paratha halfway to his mouth.
Skill progression system activated.The words weren't spoken aloud—they appeared in his mind, glowing faintly like a scoreboard under floodlights.
Batting – Level 1 – 0/100Bowling (Spin) – Level 1 – 0/100Fielding – Level 1 – 0/100Fitness – Level 1 – 0/100
Below them was a note:Skills level up by practice. Bonus attributes unlock at Level 5.
Ajay stared at the mental display, his hands tightening around the paratha. He had played enough video games with his brother back in the day to understand what this meant. This was a system—a way to measure his cricket ability and improve it with practice. And if it was showing him numbers, it meant he could track progress in real time.
His pulse quickened.
In his first life, he had talent but no discipline. He had practiced, but not like the best did. And fitness… fitness had been his downfall. But now, if he could grind his way through these levels, if he could max them out—he could become the player he had always dreamed of being.
More than that. He could dominate cricket for decades.
A Quiet Vow
After breakfast, he stepped outside, the morning air crisp and warm. The small lane in front of their house was alive with the sounds of cycle bells and vegetable vendors calling out prices. Somewhere nearby, a radio played commentary from an India-Sri Lanka match.
Ajay walked toward the small practice net two streets away. He could see kids from the neighborhood already playing, some of them the same faces he remembered from his first life.
He stopped just before the gate, taking in the sight of the pitch. The grass was uneven. The nets were torn in places. But to him, it looked like the gateway to everything he wanted.
This time, he would not waste his gift. This time, he would keep his body fit, push his limits, and never let laziness rob him of his career. He would be in the national squad—not as a struggling player, but as the one they couldn't afford to drop.
He clenched his fists, feeling the leather of the old cricket ball in his palm. "This time," he whispered, "I'm not letting it slip."
Somewhere deep inside, the system responded.Motivation detected. Skill gain rate increased by 10%.
Ajay smiled. The game had begun.