The ceiling fan groaned, spinning lazily on speed 5, doing absolutely nothing to cut through the sticky Hyderabad heat.
Sai sat cross-legged on the cold mosaic floor, staring at the bulky grey Onida TV. His small 10-year-old hands were gripping a knee that had a fresh scab from a fall earlier that day.
Inside his head, however, he was twenty.
Just yesterday (or rather, 17 years in the future), he had been scrolling Instagram on an iPhone 15, watching reels of Pat Cummins silencing the Ahmedabad crowd in the 2023 World Cup. He had been a B.Tech student struggling with backlogs, whose cricket career ended in gully matches because he started "too late."
Now? He looked at the calendar on the wall. 2008.
On the screen, the first-ever IPL final was reaching its climax. Chennai Super Kings vs. Rajasthan Royals.
"Arrey! Why is Dhoni keeping the field back?" his father, Rao, shouted from the sofa. He was wearing a white baniyan and lungi, a steel plate of half-eaten upma resting on the teapoy. "If they get a single, strike changes!"
Sai blinked. It was surreal. He knew exactly what was going to happen. He knew Sohail Tanvir was going to hit the winning run. He knew Shane Warne was about to become a legend of captaincy. He knew that in a few years, this innocent T20 league would become a billion-dollar monster.
"Don't worry, Nanna," Sai said, his voice sounding weirdly high-pitched to his own ears. "Rajasthan will win. Last ball."
"You keep quiet," his dad snapped, waving a hand. "What do you know? CSK has experience. Dhoni has the World Cup brain."
Sai smiled faintly. If only you knew, Dad. I've seen Dhoni win five of these.
The Last Ball.
L. Balaji ran in. The crowd at DY Patil Stadium was deafening.
Sai watched Tanvir swing. The connection wasn't great—a slog over mid-on. The batsmen scrambled. The throw came in... too late.
Rajasthan Royals were champions.
"Chee!" His dad slammed the remote on the sofa. "Useless bowling. Balaji wasted it."
While his dad went on a rant about Indian bowling standards, Sai stood up. He walked over to the corner of the room where a heavy, taped-up Kashmir Willow bat rested. It was a "MRF" sticker bat, but everyone knew it was a knockoff bought from Koti market.
He picked it up. It felt heavy. His 10-year-old wrists were weak.
Okay, Sai thought. I'm 10. I have time. In my last life, I only started coaching at 16. That was my mistake. This time, I have the knowledge. I've watched hours of Kohli's technique, Root's balance, Smith's hands.
He wanted to test his body.
He took a stance in front of the TV cabinet's glass reflection. He tried to mimic the modern "Power Hitting" stance he had seen Andre Russell use in 2024. Feet wide, bat high, ready to explode.
He swung hard at an imaginary ball.
[DISSONANCE]
ZZZTT!
A sharp, electric jolt shot up his elbows and rattled his spine. It wasn't an electric shock, but a deep, jarring vibration—like hitting a rock with a metal rod.
"Ah!" Sai dropped the bat, clutching his elbow.
"What happened?" his mom called out from the bedroom, folding sarees. "Did you break something?"
"No, Ma!" Sai gasped, rubbing his arm. The pain was fading, leaving a dull ache.
What the hell was that?
He looked at his hands. That wasn't normal pain. That felt... wrong. Like my body was rejecting the movement.
He picked up the bat again, cautiously.
Maybe because I'm small? Maybe that stance is too advanced for this body?
He decided to go back to basics. The 2008 basics. The Rahul Dravid basics.
He narrowed his stance. He tapped the bat. Tap. Tap.
He tucked his elbow in. He focused on balance.
He visualized a simple forward defense. Just meeting the ball under his eyes. Soft hands.
He leaned forward and played the shot.
[CLICK]
It was silent. It was invisible. But Sai felt it in his soul.
A wave of cool, liquid satisfaction washed over his muscles. The heaviness of the bat vanished for a split second. The movement felt frictionless, like a hot knife cutting through butter.
[RESONANCE]
He held the pose. High elbow. Head perfectly over the knee.
He felt a rush of dopamine so strong it almost made him dizzy. It felt right. It felt perfect.
"Oye, Sachin Tendulkar!" his dad's voice broke the trance. "Stop posing. Go sleep. School bus is at 7:30."
Sai slowly lowered the bat. His heart was racing faster than the last over of the match.
He looked at the cheap bat in his hand, then at his reflection in the dark TV screen.
He didn't just have a second chance. He had a guide. The "pain" told him what was wrong. The "click" told him what was right.
"Dad," Sai said, turning around, his eyes shining in the dim light.
"What now?"
"Can you wake me up at 5 AM?"
His dad paused, looking at him suspiciously. "Why? Usually, I have to drag you out of bed by your legs."
Sai gripped the handle of the bat tighter.
"I need to go to the Nehru Maidan. I want to practice."
His dad sighed, scratching his head. "IPL fever... it lasts two days, then you'll be back to watching cartoons. Go sleep."
Sai walked to his bedroom, a small smile playing on his lips.
Let him think it's just fever, Sai thought. By the time 2011 comes around, I won't just be watching the World Cup. I'll be preparing to play in the next one.
He lay down on the bed, staring at the whirring fan.
Tomorrow, I find the perfect cover drive.