January 5, 2000 GHQ, Rawalpindi 10:30 Hours
The new millennium had arrived. The Y2K bug hadn't destroyed the world, but the Pakistan economy was still on life support.
The Corps Commanders sat around the table, looking grim. The IMF team was arriving next week, and the "conditionalities" for the next loan tranche were brutal.
"They want us to cut defense spending," General Aziz growled, tossing a report on the table. "They say our 'image' is too militaristic. They want 'Confidence Building Measures' (CBMs) with the neighbors."
"Let's give them a CBM," I said, leaning forward. "Cricket."
The Generals groaned collectively.
"Sir, not again," the Corps Commander of Karachi sighed. "We tried 'Cricket Diplomacy' with Zia. It doesn't work. The Indians are stubborn. And frankly, watching five days of Test cricket is a torture only the unemployed can endure."
"I am not talking about Test cricket," I said. "And I am not talking about One Days."
I stood up and walked to the whiteboard. I picked up a marker.
"I am proposing a Trilateral Series. Pakistan. India. Bangladesh. The 'South Asian Unity Cup'."
"India will refuse," General Mahmood (ISI) said dismissively. "Vajpayee is under pressure. The BCCI will cite security concerns. And besides, who has the time? A tri-series takes a month."
"Not this one," I wrote a number on the board. 20.
"Twenty?" Aziz asked. "Twenty what? Players?"
"Twenty Overs," I announced.
The room went silent. They looked at me as if I had suggested playing cricket with a football.
"Sir," the Quartermaster General frowned. "That's... that's not cricket. That's what kids play in the street. It will be over in three hours."
"Exactly," I smiled. "Three hours. The length of a Bollywood movie. The length of a dinner party."
The Pitch
I channeled every ounce of my future knowledge. I was about to describe the format that would one day turn the BCCI into the richest sporting body on earth.
"Gentlemen, look at the world," I gestured. "It is the year 2000. People are busy. No one has time to sit in a stadium for five days in the sun. No one even has time for 50 overs anymore."
I drew a dollar sign on the board.
"We change the product. We play at night. Under floodlights. Colored kits. Cheerleaders. Music between overs. It's not a gentleman's game anymore. It's 'McCricket'. Fast. Loud. Consumable."
"Night matches?" The Quartermaster raised an eyebrow. "Sir, the electricity bill..."
"The advertising revenue," I countered. "Prime Time TV. 8:00 PM to 11:00 PM. The entire subcontinent will be watching. Housewives, students, workers. It's not just sport; it's entertainment."
I turned to General Mahmood. "You say India will refuse? The BCCI is greedy, Mahmood. If we tell them that we estimate revenues of $100 Million because we are tapping into the prime-time TV market, they will swim across the border to play."
The Bait (The IMF Angle)
I saw interest, but not conviction. I needed to hit their sweet spot: Legitimacy.
"And for the IMF," I lowered my voice. "Think about the optics. Two Muslim nations (if we count Bangladesh) and a Hindu nation, playing a new, modern, fast-paced game under the lights in Lahore, Delhi and Dhaka."
"It tells the West: 'Look, we aren't fundamentalists living in caves. We are modern. We are fun. We are safe for investment.'"
I looked at Aziz. "If we pull this off, the IMF sees a stable region. The risk premium drops. The loan gets approved."
The Generals exchanged glances. They didn't understand the "T20" format. They thought it sounded ridiculous to shorten a game that was meant to be long.
But they understood $1000 Million. And they definitely understood the IMF.
"It is... a bold plan," Aziz admitted, stroking his chin. "But will the crowds come? For a 20-over match?"
"They will come for the noise," I promised. "And they will stay for the sixes."
"Approved," Aziz nodded. "Tell the PCB to draft the proposal."
The Guilty Pleasure 11:00 Hours
As the Generals filed out, discussing the potential profits, I stayed behind to erase the whiteboard.
A smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth.
If only they knew, I thought.
I wasn't just saving the Pakistan Cricket Board (PCB). I was planting the seed for something much bigger.
In my previous life as Aditya, I had watched the IPL (Indian Premier League) transform India. It had become a soft-power juggernaut, uniting the world's best players under Indian franchises.
By introducing T20 in 2000—seven years before the real T20 World Cup—I was essentially accelerating history.
I am giving the blueprint to the BCCI, I realized with a pang of guilty pleasure. Once Jagmohan Dalmiya (the BCCI Chief) sees the money in this format, he won't stop at a Tri-Series. He will launch the IPL five years early.
I wiped the "20" off the board.
My inner Indian was dancing. I was using the Pakistan Army's greed to unknowingly lay the foundation for India's future sporting dominance.
It was the ultimate insider trade.
The Call PCB Headquarters, Gaddafi Stadium, Lahore 14:00 Hours
Lieutenant General Tauqir Zia, the Chairman of the PCB, picked up the phone. He had his marching orders from the Chief Executive.
He dialed the number for Kolkata.
"Mr. Dalmiya?" Zia said. "This is General Zia from Pakistan. We have a proposal. No, not a Test series. Listen... what if we played a game that finishes before dinner?"
I sat in my office in Islamabad, visualizing the conversation.
The Generals thought they were getting IMF loans. The PCB thought they were saving cricket.
But I knew the truth.
I had just lit the fuse on the biggest firework in South Asian history. And the explosion was going to be spectacular.
Author's Note
Fact Check: Yes, in 1999, the Pakistan Cricket Board (PCB) was indeed taken over by the military. Lieutenant General Tauqir Zia was appointed as the Chairman by Musharraf.
This small detail highlights the tragedy of the "Deep State" model. When a General runs cricket, he runs it like a cantonment—emphasis on hierarchy, discipline, and short-term "orders," rather than grassroots development or flair. This is the root cause of why the legendary "Pace Battery" (Wasim, Waqar, Shoaib) eventually dried up. You cannot mass-produce artistic fast bowlers in a factory run by bureaucrats in uniform.
For Aditya, this is a bittersweet moment. He is fixing their economy, but he knows the soul of the rivalry is dying. As an Indian of that generation, he misses the days when a boundary by Sehwag or a straight drive by Tendulkar felt like a conquest. It felt "earned" because they were facing the most terrifying bowling attack in the world. By modernizing the game for profit, Aditya knows he is creating a richer board, but perhaps a poorer legacy. The "Gentleman's Game" is about to become an industry.