Darkness. Silence. A crushing weight on his chest.
Zaid Khan's eyes fluttered open, his body convulsing as he gasped for air. His lungs burned, his limbs felt weak, and an overwhelming dizziness clouded his mind. His breath came in ragged, uneven bursts as he struggled to comprehend his surroundings.
He was alive.
But… how?
A few moments ago—no, in another lifetime—he had been in the stands of Wankhede Stadium, surrounded by a sea of roaring fans. The air was electric with tension. India needed six runs off the last ball. The dream of every young cricketer—to be in that moment, to hit that six, to become a legend. The bowler sprinted in. The ball left his hand, cutting through the night like a bullet. The batsman swung.
And then—nothing.
A blinding flash. Screeching tires. The sickening crunch of metal and bone.
A truck.
Death had come for him in the most unexpected way. But this… this wasn't the afterlife.
His body ached as he rolled onto his side, his fingers brushing against something rough. A torn mattress. His breath hitched. This wasn't his bed. His vision was blurry, but he could make out the cracked ceiling of a tiny, crumbling room. Moonlight streamed through a rusted iron window grill, casting long shadows over walls stained with age.
A stench filled the air—a mixture of damp earth, sweat, and something foul, like stagnant sewage. He pushed himself up, his head still spinning, and tried to steady himself. His limbs felt foreign—thinner, weaker. His heartbeat pounded in his ears as he looked down at his hands.
Small. Calloused. Darkened with grime.
His breathing grew unsteady. These weren't his hands.
A surge of panic shot through his veins. He stumbled forward, his legs barely holding his weight, and staggered toward the window. Outside, under the dim glow of flickering streetlights, he saw narrow, congested lanes lined with makeshift homes—shabby tin-roofed structures stacked against each other like they barely had space to breathe. The ground was littered with garbage. Clotheslines stretched between buildings, and the distant chatter of people filled the air.
A slum.
This wasn't Mumbai. At least, not the Mumbai he had known.
Zaid's mind raced. This can't be real. He turned, scanning the dimly lit room. A small wooden shelf held a few steel utensils. A battered school bag lay in the corner, its zippers barely holding together. A tattered curtain separated this tiny space from another section of the house.
Suddenly—
BANG! BANG!
A sharp knock rattled the wooden door.
"Zaid! How long will you sleep, ha?" A woman's tired, irritated voice.
His breath caught in his throat. The voice felt strangely familiar, yet entirely foreign. The door creaked open, revealing a frail woman draped in a faded saree. Her sunken eyes carried exhaustion, her cheekbones sharp from malnutrition. She was thin—too thin.
"Ammi…?" The word slipped out before he could stop it.
She frowned. "Ammi? Since when do you call me that? Did you hit your head or something?" She walked in, placing a rough hand on his forehead. "No fever… Stop acting strange and get up! You have school, and I have work."
Zaid's head spun. School? Work? What was happening?
His mother—no, the woman in front of him—sighed and turned away. "You're already 16, Zaid. If you skip school, do you think we can afford a better future? Stop being lazy!"
The number 16 rang in his head like an alarm.
He wasn't 25 anymore. He wasn't an adult, a failed cricketer who had lived as just another spectator in the crowd.
He had been reborn.
But in this life, he wasn't from a middle-class family. He wasn't a comfortable dreamer with options. He was a boy named Zaid Khan, born into the depths of poverty.
And in this life, his journey was just beginning.