The morning of the state trials dawned cold and misty. Mom had been up since 4 AM, preparing my favorite aloo parathas. Dad sat at the breakfast table pretending to read the newspaper, though I noticed he hadn't turned a page in ten minutes. The weight of their expectations hung in the air, though different from my first timeline â€" this time tinged with hope rather than resignation.
"Remember to wear your arm guard," Mom fussed, packing an extra banana into my kit bag. "And don't forget to call as soon as it's over."
"He's not a child anymore," Dad said, finally putting down his unread newspaper. Then, after a pause: "But do call."
Coach Kulkarni was waiting in his old Maruti 800 outside our house. In my previous life, I'd never known he'd offered to drive kids to trials. How many small kindnesses had I missed the first time around?
The state cricket stadium loomed ahead of us â€" a structure that would host IPL matches in a few years, though nobody knew that yet. Around a hundred boys milled about the entrance, some with expensive kits from Kashmir Willow, others with battered local bats. In 2025, academies would have standardized equipment. Here, the disparity was stark.
"Remember," Coach said as we walked in, "just play your natural game."
I almost laughed. Which one? The tentative batting I'd actually had at fifteen, or the techniques I'd learned over two decades of watching cricket evolve?
The trials began with basic fitness tests. I deliberately held back on the beep test, finishing in the top ten but not first. No point raising eyebrows with 2025-level fitness standards. During the sprints, I maintained what I knew was good timing for 2003.
Then came the net sessions. I was assigned to the spin bowling net first. Taking my mark, I felt the weight of the ball â€" a SG Test, not yet replaced by the Kookaburra that would become common in the next decade. I began with standard off-breaks, slowly mixing in variations. A googly here, a slider there, but not too many. The carrom ball stayed hidden; it wasn't time for that yet.
"Good loop," one selector noted. Another made some marks on his clipboard. I recognized him â€" in my timeline, he would become a prominent commentator, always lamenting India's lack of all-rounders. Well, I thought, let's give him something to remember.
The batting nets were next. Facing fast bowlers, I showed solid technique, but couldn't resist playing a few shots that would become T20 staples â€" a paddle sweep, a controlled upper cut. One particular pull shot off a bouncer made heads turn. In 2003, junior cricketers were still being taught to duck bouncers first.
"Where did you learn that shot?" the fast bowling coach asked.
"Tennis ball cricket, sir," I replied. Another half-truth. I'd actually learned it watching countless IPL matches, but tennis ball cricket was a believable source for unorthodox shots.
Then I saw him â€" Rahul Dravid, standing quietly by the nets, talking to Coach Kulkarni. My childhood hero, who would eventually revolutionize India's cricket coaching. He was watching my net session with an intensity I remembered from future interviews about talent scouting.
Focus, I told myself. Play for 2003, not 2025.
But it wasn't easy. Every instinct honed by watching twenty years of cricket evolution wanted to break free. When a spinner tossed one up, my muscles remembered the switch hit â€" a shot that wouldn't be invented for years. I turned it into a conventional sweep at the last moment.
"Good adaptation," came a voice. Dravid had moved closer to my net. "You read the length early."
I nodded, afraid my voice would betray my awe. Here was the man who would shape Indian cricket's future, watching me struggle to hide my knowledge of that very future.
The final part of the trials was a practice match. I was slated to bat at number four â€" my preferred position in corporate cricket matches that hadn't happened yet. As I waited to bat, I scribbled in my diary:
"Remember:
- No DRS in 2003 - don't walk for edges that only technology would catch
- No free hit rule yet - play normally on no balls
- Power play rules are different
- No switch hits!"
Walking out to bat at 43/2, I felt the familiar tension. But this time it wasn't just about scoring runs. It was about showing enough to get noticed, but not so much that it would seem impossible for a fifteen-year-old in 2003.
The first ball was full, outside off stump. In 2025, this would be prime scoring opportunity with the field restrictions. Here, with traditional field settings, I played a textbook defensive shot. Build innings the old way, I reminded myself. The revolution comes later.
But as my innings progressed, muscle memory and future knowledge began to blend with the requirements of the present. A scoop over short fine leg â€" risky but not unheard of. A reverse sweep â€" uncommon but explainable. Each shot walked the line between innovation and believability.
I was on 47 when I heard snippets of conversation from the selector's area.
"...promising all-rounder..."
"...unorthodox but effective..."
"...good thinking cricketer..."
The last comment was from Dravid. In my timeline, he would say similar words about many young cricketers he would mentor. Now he was saying them about me.
As I reached my fifty with a conventional straight drive, I caught Coach Kulkarni's eye. He gave me a thumbs up, his face shining with pride. In my previous life, I'd never seen that expression.
The future was already changing. The butterfly effect was in full swing.
I just hoped I was changing it for the better.