The next morning, my muscles ached in unfamiliar ways. This teenage body wasn't conditioned for the intensity I'd pushed it to yesterday. At breakfast, Mom noticed me wincing as I reached for the toast.
"Are you okay, beta? You seem different lately." She studied my face with the concern that only mothers can perfect. If she only knew how different â€" twenty-two years different.
"I'm fine, Mom. Just trying some new training techniques." I caught my reflection in the kitchen window â€" the gangly frame that would eventually fill out, the uncertain smile that would grow more confident. Every mirror was a reminder of this impossible second chance.
During school, I found myself scribbling match scenarios in my physics notebook instead of solving equations. April 5, 2005 â€" MS Dhoni would score 148 against Pakistan, announcing himself to the world. February 24, 2010 â€" Sachin would score the first double century in ODI cricket. Knowledge that could make me rich if I were unscrupulous, but that wasn't why I was here.
"Mehta! Pay attention!" Mr. Sharma's voice cut through my plotting. In my previous life, I'd been the perfect student, first bench, always attentive. Now I was planning bowling variations that wouldn't be invented for years.
After school, I headed to the nets early. Coach Kulkarni was surprised to see me there before anyone else.
"Sir, I want to try something," I said, taking out a tennis ball. In my timeline, the carrom ball would revolutionize spin bowling when Mendis introduced it. But why wait? I began practicing the grip, my smaller fingers struggling with the technique my adult hands had perfected through years of casual tennis ball cricket.
"What are you doing?" Coach asked, watching my unconventional grip.
"Experimenting, sir. In tennis ball cricket, if you flick the ball like this..." I demonstrated the release, the ball spinning in ways that wouldn't be seen on professional cricket fields for years. "It can be adapted for leather ball."
Coach's expression shifted from skepticism to curiosity. "Show me again."
For the next hour, before other players arrived, I walked him through the basics of what would eventually be called the carrom ball. His eyes lit up with each successful delivery. This was the first deviation from my timeline â€" in the original 2003, nobody at our modest cricket academy was even thinking about such innovations.
During regular practice, I forced myself to play more conventionally, but I couldn't completely hide my knowledge. When Rohit, our best fast bowler, bounced me, I swayed out of the way with an ease that came from years of watching international batsmen. My footwork against spin made Coach pause the session.
"Where did you learn to read the spin like that?" he asked.
"I just... watch a lot of cricket, sir." It wasn't exactly a lie. I'd watched twenty years of it.
That evening, walking home with my bat on my shoulder, I made a list in my diary:
1. Fitness first - the game will get faster
2. Learn to play 360° - orthodox cricket won't be enough
3. Master the new variations - carrom ball, doosra
4. Mental conditioning - cricket psychology will become crucial
5. Study T20 scenarios (without revealing too much)
The last point was tricky. How do you prepare for a format that doesn't exist yet? How do you train for a revolution you can't talk about?
At dinner, Dad was unusually quiet. Finally, he put down his spoon. "Your coach called."
My heart skipped a beat. In my original timeline, this conversation had gone very differently.
"He says you're showing remarkable improvement. Says you're bringing new ideas to practice." Dad's voice was neutral, but I could hear the undertone of concern. "But your physics teacher also called. Says you're distracted in class."
Here it was â€" the crossroads again. Last time, I'd promised to focus more on studies, letting my cricket dreams fade. This time, I met his eyes steadily.
"Dad, do you know why Bradman averaged 99.94?"
The question caught him off guard. "What?"
"He innovated. When everyone else was playing by the old rules, he found new ways. Cricket is going to change, Dad. Everything is going to change. And I want to be ready for it."
"Beta, dreams are good, but-"
"Give me one year," I interrupted, surprising both of us. "One year to prove this isn't just a waste of time. Cricket isn't going to be just a game anymore. It's going to be a career, a profession with more opportunities than we can imagine right now."
The conviction in my voice â€" a teenager's voice carrying two decades of certainty â€" made him pause. "One year?"
"One year. And I'll keep my grades up. I promise."
Later that night, I pulled out my old phone and typed out a message to Coach: "Sir, can we start practice one hour earlier from tomorrow?"
The reply came quickly: "Be there at 5 AM."
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling fan, its rhythm now steady and reassuring. In my previous life, I'd visited this academy twenty years later, finding it shut down, the ground converted into a parking lot. Coach Kulkarni had died never seeing his dream of producing an international cricketer come true.
Not this time, I thought. This time would be different.
I closed my eyes, my mind already planning tomorrow's practice. In 2025, I'd been a successful software engineer who played corporate cricket on weekends, haunted by what-ifs. Now I was a fifteen-year-old with the knowledge of a future that hadn't happened yet, the burden of unwritten history, and the chance to rewrite my own story.
The real question was: how much of the future should I change? And more importantly, how much could I change without breaking everything?
Outside, I could hear the distant sounds of tennis ball cricket â€" kids playing late into the evening, just as they had twenty-two years ago. Tomorrow, I would join them, but with a purpose they couldn't understand yet. After all, I wasn't just practicing cricket anymore.
I was practicing for a future only I could see.