Location: Bellandur, Bangalore (Jan 02, 2026. ). Time: 10:45 PM.
The adrenaline was still pumping through Arjun's veins. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his Adidas Indian team ODI fan jersey. It was the official one—expensive, breathable, and the only thing he bought for himself in the last six months.
"Man, that last over was insane!" his colleague, Rahul, slapped his back. "Where did you learn to bowl that cutter? You completely deceived him!"
Arjun grinned, tossing the tennis ball in his hand. "Just luck, bro. Just luck."
But he knew it wasn't luck. In the fluorescent lighting of the turf ground, surrounded by techies with potbellies and receding hairlines, Arjun felt like a king. For one hour every Friday, he wasn't Arjun the software Engineer who missed a deployment deadline. He was Arjun the All-Rounder.
He had smashed 45 off 18 balls and defended 6 runs in the final over.
"Coming for dinner?" Rahul asked, slinging his kit bag over his shoulder. "We're all going to Empire. Pradeep is treating."
Arjun hesitated. He was hungry, and the smell of ghee roast was tempting. But then the reality hit him. If he went, he'd be stuck there for two hours. He'd have to sit there and nod while they cycled through the same three exhausted topics: whose RSU stocks vested, which manager was an idiot, and whose baby wasn't sleeping through the night.
He just couldn't do it. He was bored of it all. The thought of pretending to care about someone's SIP returns right now made his stomach turn.
"Nah, I'll walk home. I'm done for today," Arjun said, waving his hand. "Need to clear my head."
He walked out of the turf arena and onto the dusty, chaotic streets of Bellandur. His phone buzzed. Mom.
He sighed and picked up. "Did you look at the profile I sent? The girl is from a good family in Gajuwaka. Her father is asking..."
"Ma, I'm tired," Arjun cut her off, his voice heavy. "I just finished a match. Can we talk about marriage tomorrow?"
"Match, match, match. You are almost 30 years old, Arjun! Play with your kids, not with colleagues. When will you grow up?"
He disconnected the call. The high of the victory vanished, replaced by the crushing weight of reality. 30 years old. Back pain. EMI messages. A job he was good at but didn't love.
He stopped at his regular spot—a small, battered cart under a flickering street light. The Sugarcane Juice Old Man. The guy was ancient, skin like crumpled paper, but his eyes were always strangely bright. He was grinding the last cane of the night.
"One glass, without ice," Arjun said, leaning against the cart.
The machine whirred—Ghooooom. The sweet smell filled the air.
The old man handed him the steel glass, noticing Arjun staring blankly at the street. "You played well today, beta? You look like you won a war."
Arjun took a long sip. "I did win. But..." He chuckled, a bitter sound. "Only on a turf ground for one hour. Tomorrow morning, I'm back to being a nobody."
He looked at the cricket ball still in his hand. "Honestly? I think I chose the wrong profession, Baba. I should have been a cricketer. I really had the talent, you know? Like... actual talent."
It was a joke. A standard complaint every Indian man makes after a good game of gully cricket.
The old man stopped wiping the counter. He looked at Arjun—not with pity, but with a sharp intensity.
"Talent is a debt to God," the old man said softly. "If you don't use it, it becomes a burden. That is why your shoulders look so heavy tonight."
Arjun blinked, surprised by the sudden depth. "That's... intense."
The old man didn't smile. "If you know you made a mistake... why don't you correct it?"
"Correct it?" Arjun laughed, finishing the juice. "I'm 30, Baba. My knees creak when I squat. Unless you have a time machine hiding under that cart, the bus has left the station."
The old man leaned over the counter. He pointed a bony finger specifically at Arjun's chest—right at the India logo on his jersey.
"You are wearing a jersey that doesn't fit you, son. No wonder you feel suffocated."
Arjun looked down at his premium Adidas jersey. He tugged at the fabric around his waist and chuckled, missing the point entirely.
"Ouch. Direct hit, Baba," he patted his stomach. "I know I've put on a 'techie tummy' since college, but come on, it's not that tight! I think this size still works for another year or two if I suck my gut in."
He tossed the empty steel glass onto the counter with a clang. "Anyway, goodnight. I have a deployment tomorrow."
"The bill is paid," the old man whispered. "Go sleep."
"What? I haven't paid you y—"
BOOM.
The world didn't fade to black. It snapped. Like an old TV being switched off. The sound of traffic cut instantly. The smell of sugarcane vanished, replaced by the smell of... All Out mosquito repellent?
________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: Visakhapatnam, Andhra Pradesh. Date: April 14, 2011.
Here is the updated scene. I added the specific detail about the grip feeling wrong because of his hand size. It adds a nice layer of realism—his software (brain) is upgraded, but his hardware (body) needs an update.
Location: Visakhapatnam, Andhra Pradesh. Date: April 14, 2011.
Arjun gasped, his body jerking up as if he were drowning.
He was in a bed. But not his queen-size bed in his Bangalore flat. This mattress was hard, cotton-stuffed, and smelled faintly of camphor. The ceiling fan above him was spinning furiously, making a rhythmic kat-kat-kat sound as it fought the humid Vizag heat.
He looked at his hands. They weren't the rough, keyboard-calloused hands of a 30-year-old. They were smooth. Smaller. He touched his face. No beard. Just a smooth jawline and the faint fuzz of a teenage mustache.
He scrambled out of bed, his heart hammering against his ribs. He knew this room. The peeling blue paint. The poster of Sachin Tendulkar (2003 World Cup edition) taped to the wardrobe. The heavy wooden desk piled with R.D. Sharma math books that were meant for "Summer Preparation."
He rushed to the mirror on the wardrobe. A boy stared back. Skinny, gangly, with messy hair and eyes wide with panic. The oversized cotton t-shirt hung loosely on his thin frame.
14 years old.
"Arjun!" A voice shouted from the living room. A voice he heard on the phone just five minutes ago. But this voice sounded younger, sharper. "Stop jumping around! Just because summer holidays started today doesn't mean you sleep until noon! Get ready, your IIT Foundation summer class starts at 10 AM!"
Arjun stared at his reflection.
IIT Foundation. The trap. The reason he became a coder in the first place.
He looked away from the mirror and grabbed a cricket ball that was sitting on his desk—a red cork ball, scuffed and old.
He tried to grip it, his mind instinctively widening his fingers for a standard outswinger hold. But the ball nearly slipped. It felt weirdly heavy and large.
His muscle memory was expecting the broad, strong hand of a 30-year-old man. These 14-year-old fingers were shorter, the skin softer. He couldn't get the same leverage. He had to adjust, shifting his thumb and squeezing the seam tighter just to get a firm hold.
Hardware limitations, he thought, testing the weight. I need to upgrade the chassis.
The old man wasn't joking. He was back. 2011. The year India won the World Cup. He was 14. And he had the cricket brain of a 30-year-old veteran inside a body that still needed to grow.
He looked at the R.D. Sharma book on the desk, then at the red cork ball in his small hand.
He tossed the ball up, watching it spin in the air. Perfect rotation.
"IIT Foundation," he whispered, catching the ball with a sharp thwack. "Sorry, Mom. Not in this lifetime."