The cracked mirror reflected an unfamiliar face.
Zaid stared at his own reflection, his fingers running over his sharp cheekbones. His skin was darker, rougher, and his hair was unkempt and dry. His eyes—those were the only thing that still felt like him. But everything else? A stranger.
This wasn't a dream. This wasn't some temporary hallucination.
He had actually been reborn.
"Zaid!"
The harsh voice of his mother snapped him out of his trance.
"Are you deaf? Come eat before I throw your food away!"
He hesitated. His mind was still spinning, but hunger gnawed at his stomach. He stepped out of the tiny room and entered what seemed to be a cramped living space—more of a passage than a proper house. The walls were stained, the ceiling fan creaked dangerously, and the air smelled of damp clothes and leftover food.
A small wooden table sat in the middle, barely holding two plates. A younger boy—probably his brother—was already eating, stuffing dry roti into his mouth like he hadn't eaten in days.
His mother, looking just as exhausted as before, dropped a plate in front of him.
"Eat."
Zaid looked down. One roti. Some watery dal.
His stomach growled. He didn't hesitate anymore. He picked up the roti and tore into it, his fingers moving on their own. The taste was bland, but it was food. His body knew hunger well—even if his soul had never lived like this before.
He ate in silence, observing.
His mother looked to be in her late 30s, but hardship had aged her faster. Her eyes were sunken, her saree faded from years of washing. The boy beside him was around 10, his clothes old and oversized.
This family was poor.
Not the struggling but managing kind of poor. The barely surviving kind.
Zaid's mind churned. In his past life, he had never seen real hardship. His family wasn't rich, but they weren't starving either. He had failed at becoming a cricketer, but he had never gone to bed wondering if he'd eat the next day.
Now?
Now, he had nothing.
Except… cricket.
The thought hit him like a jolt of electricity.
Did this Zaid even play? Was he good?
If this was his second chance at life, then there was only one path forward.
He would become a cricketer. No matter what.
His hands clenched into fists. This time, I won't fail.
The morning was chaos.
Zaid barely had time to process anything before his mother shoved a torn school uniform into his hands.
"Hurry up! You'll be late!"
His body moved on instinct, slipping into the rough fabric. It was tight in some places, loose in others—clearly a hand-me-down. His shoes were old, the soles nearly worn through.
This is my life now.
He barely remembered the walk to school. The streets were a maze of narrow alleys, vendors shouting, kids running barefoot. The stench of open drains mixed with the aroma of frying samosas from a roadside stall.
Before he knew it, he was standing in front of a rusted school gate.
Xavier High School.
The building was crumbling. Paint peeled from the walls, and the windows were covered in dust. Groups of students loitered outside, their uniforms just as worn-out as his.
A sinking feeling settled in his stomach.
Then—
"Oi, Zaid!"
A boy his age, tall and lanky, slapped a hand on his shoulder. His grin was wide, toothy. "Where were you yesterday? Skipped again?"
Zaid forced a small nod. He had no idea who this was.
"Arrey, as if I don't know! You were probably playing cricket somewhere, right?" The boy laughed. "Mad guy. Always thinking you'll be the next Tendulkar."
Cricket.
Zaid's heart pounded.
His past self—the old Zaid—had dreamed of cricket. But what about this Zaid?
Had he played before? Was he good? Did he even have a bat?
He was about to ask when a harsh voice cut through the noise.
"You! Khan!"
A teacher stormed toward him, his dark eyes filled with anger. "You think school is a joke?"
Zaid blinked. "Sir—?"
Before he could react, the teacher grabbed his collar and yanked him forward.
"Where's your fees?"
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
His stomach twisted.
He didn't have money.
His mother hadn't given him a single rupee. Did she even have anything to give?
The teacher's grip tightened. The crowd of students around them grew. Some whispered. Others snickered.
Zaid's fists clenched. This wasn't fair.
Before he could say anything, the teacher shoved him back.
"No fees, no school! Get out!"
The gate slammed shut behind him.
Zaid stood there, humiliated, his heart pounding in his chest.
Zaid's fists trembled as he stood outside the school gates. The other students had long since gone inside, their laughter and chatter fading behind the rusted metal barriers. His chest burned—not just with humiliation, but with something deeper.
Anger.
Frustration.
Helplessness.
He had been thrown out like garbage. All because he was too poor to afford school fees.
His jaw clenched. This isn't how my story ends.
He turned on his heel and walked away. His legs moved on their own, carrying him through the narrow streets. He didn't know where he was going, but he needed to breathe.
Needed to think.
Then, something caught his eye.
A small, dusty field tucked between two rows of buildings. The boundary was marked by uneven bricks, and a few boys played with a makeshift bat—a thick wooden plank. The ball, scuffed and worn, bounced awkwardly over the uneven surface.
Cricket.
His heart pounded.
His feet carried him closer before he even realized what he was doing.
"Arrey, Zaid!" one of the boys called out. "You coming or what?"
He hesitated. Then, without thinking, he stepped forward.
The bat felt foreign in his hands. Lighter than what he remembered, rough against his palms.
The bowler, a short boy with quick hands, grinned. "Ready?"
Zaid nodded.
The ball came flying toward him. His body reacted on instinct. Feet moving, weight shifting—he swung.
CRACK!
The sound echoed through the field.
The ball soared, clearing the brick boundary with ease.
Silence. Then—
"Oye! SIX!"
A rush of excitement flooded Zaid's veins. The boys clapped him on the back, cheering.
For the first time in this new life, he felt like himself.
Maybe… just maybe… cricket was his way out.