The buzzing of the iPhone on the duvet cover seemed louder in the silence of the Hyderabad bedroom.
Siddanth picked it up. He hesitated for a second. He knew the squad list. He knew whose name wasn't there.
"Chiku?" he answered, keeping his voice even.
"Sid," Virat Kohli's voice came through, sounding tinny and miles away, though he was likely just in Delhi. The usual brash, electric energy was dampened, replaced by a hollow thud of disappointment. " Saw the list."
"I did," Siddanth said gently. "I'm leaving for the NCA next week. New Zealand."
"Yeah. Congrats, man. Seriously. ODIs and T20s. You're going to rip them apart on those small grounds."
"And you?" Siddanth asked, cutting to the chase. "Did you get the call?"
A pause. A heavy sigh that crackled with static. "No. Not this time. They... they said they want me to grind in the domestic circuit a bit more. Said my technique against the swinging ball needs tightening before I go to places like New Zealand or England."
Siddanth could hear the frustration, the barely suppressed anger of a young man who knew he was destined for greatness but was being told to wait in line. Siddanth knew this was just a blip. He knew Virat Kohli would rule the next decade. But this Virat didn't know that yet.
"Listen to me," Siddanth said, his voice firm. "This isn't a 'no'. It's a 'not yet'. New Zealand is just a tour. You go back to Ranji. You score so many runs that they feel stupid for leaving you out. You force the door open, Virat. Just like you did in the U-19s."
"I will," Virat snapped, the fire returning to his voice. "I'll score a double hundred. I'll make them call me."
" That's the Virat I know," Siddanth grinned. "I'll keep a seat warm for you in the dressing room. Don't take too long."
"Don't get too comfortable, Deva," Virat chuckled, the mood lifting. "I'm coming for your spot."
"See you there."
Siddanth hung up. He stared at the phone for a moment. The path to 2011 was a marathon, not a sprint. Virat would be fine. Now, Siddanth had his own mountain to climb.
A week later, the air in Bengaluru was crisp, carrying the scent of wet earth and eucalyptus. The National Cricket Academy was buzzing, but the atmosphere was different from the U-19 camps. It was heavier. More serious. This was the assembling point for the Senior Men's Team before they flew out.
Siddanth checked into his room—a single, thankfully—and tossed his kit bag onto the bed. He changed into the team training gear: the dark blue shorts and the light blue polo with the BCCI logo over the heart. It still gave him a thrill every time he looked in the mirror.
It was 1:00 PM. Lunch.
He walked down to the dining hall. The clatter of cutlery and the low hum of conversation drifted into the hallway. He took a breath, centred himself, and walked in.
It was a constellation of stars.
Sitting at a long table were the titans of Indian cricket. Rahul Dravid, looking studious even while eating dal. VVS Laxman, who gave Siddanth a warm wave. Gautam Gambhir, intense as always. And the jokers in the pack—Yuvraj Singh, Harbhajan Singh, and Ashish Nehra—were huddled together, laughing loudly.
And then, there was Virender Sehwag.
The Nawab of Najafgarh was leaning back in his chair, a napkin tucked into his collar, looking like he owned the place. He spotted Siddanth.
"Arey! The 'Hurricane' is here!" Sehwag boomed, his voice cutting through the room.
Siddanth walked over, feeling the eyes of the legends on him. "Good afternoon, Viru-pa. Good afternoon, everyone."
"Sit, sit," Sehwag said, gesturing to an empty chair next to him. "You must be hungry. Bowling 150 clicks makes you hungry, na?"
Siddanth sat, trying to look relaxed. Yuvraj leaned over from across the table. "So, Siddu. Big tour. New Zealand. Windy. Cold. You packed your thermals?"
"Yes, Yuvi-pa."
"Good. Because if you freeze, I'm not lending you my jacket," Yuvraj winked.
The banter was easy, welcoming. Siddanth felt himself relax. He reached for a bread roll.
"Wait," Sehwag said, his voice suddenly dropping to a serious, hushed whisper. He put a hand on Siddanth's arm.
Siddanth froze. "What? What is it?"
Sehwag looked around the room conspiratorially, then leaned in close. "Has He arrived yet?"
"He?" Siddanth asked, confused.
"Paaji," Harbhajan whispered from across the table, his face a mask of grave concern. "Sachin Paaji."
Siddanth's heart skipped a beat. "No... I haven't seen him."
"Okay, listen carefully," Sehwag said, his eyes wide and earnest. "You played IPL with us, you played in Sri Lanka... but this is different. This is the full squad. The Test squad is here too. And there is a... tradition."
"A tradition?" Siddanth asked, looking around. Dravid was studying his soup intently. Laxman was looking out the window.
"Yes," Yuvraj nodded solemnly. "When a young player joins the full squad for a major overseas tour... and he meets the God for the first time in the camp... he has to seek blessings."
"Blessings?"
"You have to touch his feet," Sehwag said. "It is the norm. It shows respect. If you don't do it... Paaji gets very upset. He thinks the new generation has no sanskar."
Siddanth looked at them. His mind screamed Bullshit. Sehwag was the biggest prankster in cricket history. Yuvraj was his partner in crime. This was a hazing ritual.
But then he looked at Harbhajan. He looked at Nehra. They looked terrified on his behalf. Even Gambhir, usually stoic, gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
What if? This is Sachin Tendulkar. The culture is different here. Respect is everything. If I don't do it, and it IS real... I look arrogant. If I do it, and it's a joke... I look stupid. Better to look stupid than arrogant.
"Okay," Siddanth said slowly. "Touch his feet. Got it."
"He's coming," Zaheer Khan said from the end of the table.
The room went quiet. The double doors swung open.
And there he was.
Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar.
He was smaller than Siddanth expected, but his presence filled the room. He was wearing the training kit, carrying a bat (he always seemed to be carrying a bat), and he walked with that distinct, waddling gait that a billion people recognised instantly. He was chatting with the support staff, smiling that boyish smile.
Siddanth stood up. His throat was dry. This was the man whose poster had been on his wall in his first life, and was still on his wall in this second life. The God of Cricket.
Sachin walked towards the table. "Good afternoon, boys. Good food today?"
"Good afternoon, Paaji!" the chorus rang out.
Sachin reached the table. He looked at Siddanth. His eyes crinkled in recognition. "Ah, Siddanth. Good to see you. I watched the Sri Lanka series. excellent bowl—"
He stopped.
Siddanth, committing to the act, had stepped forward. He bowed low. He reached down, his hands extending towards Sachin's sneakers.
Sachin jumped back as if the floor were lava. "Arey! Kya kar raha hai? (What are you doing?)"
Siddanth froze, halfway down. He looked up.
Behind him, a sound like a dam bursting.
"BWAHAHAHAHAHA!"
Sehwag was slapping the table, tears streaming down his face. Yuvraj had his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably. Harbhajan was high-fiving Nehra. Even Rahul Dravid was chuckling into his napkin.
Siddanth straightened up, his face burning with a heat that rivaled the Chennai sun. He had been had. Hook, line, and sinker.
Sachin looked at Siddanth, then at the laughing hyenas at the table. He understood instantly. A wide grin spread across his face.
"Viru?" Sachin asked, looking at Sehwag.
"He... he bought it, Paaji!" Sehwag gasped, wiping his eyes. "He actually went for the feet! Oh, my stomach..."
Sachin shook his head, laughing. He stepped forward and pulled Siddanth into a warm, side-hug.
"Don't listen to these useless fellows, Siddanth," Sachin said, his voice kind, his hand patting Siddanth's back firmly. "They are just pulling your leg. Welcome to the team. No feet-touching here. We are teammates."
Siddanth let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. The embarrassment washed away, replaced by a sudden, overwhelming sense of belonging. He wasn't an outsider being mocked; he was a rookie being initiated.
"Sorry, Paaji," Siddanth grinned, his composure returning. "Viru-bhai is very convincing."
"He is a menace," Sachin smiled. "Come. Sit. Eat. You'll need the energy to bowl to me later."
That simple sentence was better than any blessing. You'll need the energy to bowl to me later.
The post-lunch session was in the Conference Room. The mood shifted from the chaotic joy of the dining hall to the sterile focus of a war room.
Gary Kirsten stood at the front, a laser pointer in hand. The projector screen displayed a map of New Zealand, followed by graphs of wind speeds and pitch conditions.
"New Zealand," Kirsten said, his South African accent clipping the vowels. "It is not just about the opposition. It is about the elements. Wellington. Napier. Auckland. The wind there isn't a breeze; it's a fielder. If you bowl into it, you're bowling at 120kph. If you bowl with it, you're bowling at 160kph."
Siddanth sat near the back, his mind engaging. He took notes.
Short boundaries square of the wicket.
Drop-in pitches.
Swing in the first 10 overs is prodigious.
"The key," MS Dhoni added, sitting in the front row, "is length. In India, we bowl full to get swing. In New Zealand, if you bowl too full, the straight boundaries are so short you'll go for six. You have to pull the length back. Hit the splice. Make them play horizontal bat shots against the swing."
Siddanth nodded. The "Heavy Ball"—the back-of-a-length delivery that hit the deck hard—would be lethal there. The bounce was true. The ball came onto the bat. It was a paradise for 360-degree strokeplay.
"We have three days here," Kirsten concluded. "We focus on playing the moving ball. And bowlers... I want to see discipline. Let's hit the nets."
4:00 PM. The Nets.
The NCA nets were bathed in the golden late-afternoon sun. The shadows were lengthening.
The hierarchy was established. The seniors batted first.
Sachin Tendulkar padded up. He adjusted his thigh pad, checked his gloves, and walked into Net 1.
The atmosphere changed. Every young bowler stopped to watch. The net bowlers stepped aside.
"Deva," Eric Simons, the bowling coach, signaled. "You want a go?"
Siddanth felt a shiver run down his spine. This was it. The ultimate test. The reason he had travelled back in time. To bowl to the God.
He picked up a ball. It was old, scuffed—perfect for reverse swing, or for simulating the old ball in the middle overs.
He walked to the top of his mark.
Sachin tapped his bat on the crease. Tap. Tap-tap. He looked up. Those eyes, seen through the grille, were focused, intense, stripped of the earlier kindness. He was in the Zone.
Siddanth took a deep breath. He didn't want to just bowl fast. He wanted to know.
The world sharpened. He could see the grip of Sachin's bottom hand. He could see the weight distribution on his feet. He could see the stillness of his head.
Ball 1:
Siddanth ran in. He kept it simple. A 145kph outswinger, aiming for the top of off-stump.
Sachin saw it early. He didn't commit. He leaned forward, head right over the ball, and simply shouldered arms.
The ball whistled past the off-stump.
Judgment. Perfect judgment.
Ball 2:
Siddanth wanted to test the back foot. He hit the deck hard. 148kph. Back of a length, angling into the body.
Most batsmen would fend this off.
Sachin didn't fend. He rose on his toes. He got on top of the bounce. With a minimal backlift, he punched the ball off the back foot.
Thwack.
The ball hit the back net with a satisfying sound.
Balance. He doesn't fight the ball; he meets it.
Siddanth walked back, his mind racing. He was recording everything. The way Sachin's head didn't drop. The way his hands stayed close to his body. This was data he could use for his own batting.
Ball 3:
The trick.
Siddanth ran in, arm speed identical. He rolled his fingers. The 110kph slower ball.
This delivery had fooled Yuvraj. It had fooled Hayden.
Sachin triggered. He saw the arm speed. He prepared for pace.
But as the ball floated, Sachin didn't commit to the shot. He didn't lunge. He held his shape. He waited. He waited until the ball was right under his eyes.
Then, he just opened the face of the bat and guided it to third man.
He hadn't been fooled. He had adjusted.
Read. He reads the hand, not just the ball.
Ball 4:
Siddanth was sweating. This was incredible.
He decided to bowl the 152kph yorker. The stump-breaker.
He exploded through the crease. The ball was a laser.
Sachin's bat came down. It wasn't a panic dig-out. It was a firm, positive defensive push. The ball hit the middle of the bat and rolled back to Siddanth.
Sachin nodded. "Good pace," he said.
Siddanth bowled for twenty minutes. He tried everything. The wobble seam. The bouncer. The wide yorker.
Sachin played everything. He didn't smash every ball, but he was never uncomfortable. He was a fortress.
But then, in the final over of the spell, Siddanth tried something he saw Bond do.
He bowled a cutter, but he released it wide of the crease, changing the angle.
It came in, then straightened.
Sachin played inside the line. The ball beat the outside edge by a whisker.
Ooh.
Sachin stepped out of the crease. He picked up the ball and threw it back to Siddanth.
He smiled. "That was a good one. You changed the angle. Made me play the wrong line. Very smart."
Siddanth caught the ball, his chest swelling with pride. He had beaten the bat. Once.
"Thank you, Paaji."
"Keep doing that," Sachin said, leaning on his bat. "Pace is good. But asking questions... that is better. You ask good questions."
Siddanth walked out of the net, his legs heavy but his spirit soaring. He had bowled to God. He had learned. He had seen the level required to be a legend.
It wasn't about magic. It was about minimising errors. It was about watching the ball until the very last millisecond.
He sat on the bench, drinking water, watching Dravid bat in the next net.
He felt different now. It felt... educated. He visualised Sachin's back-foot punch. He visualised the stillness. He integrated it. The System didn't give a notification, but he felt it. A refinement.
Three days later.
The Bangalore International Airport.
The team bus unloaded the squad. The blue blazers were on. The kit bags were checked in.
Siddanth stood in the departure lounge, his passport in hand.
Virat wasn't there. That pang of missing his friend was there, but it was duller now. Virat was grinding in the Ranji Trophy, scoring runs, fueling his own fire.
Siddanth looked around. Dhoni was reading a bike magazine. Sachin was listening to music on his iPod. Zaheer and Harbhajan were arguing about a movie.
This was his team now.
He was 18 years old. He was wealthy. He was skilled. And he was about to fly to the edge of the world to play for his country.
"Flight AI-302 to Auckland is now boarding."
Siddanth picked up his bag.
He touched the Number 6 on his blazer.
The 2011 World Cup was the destination. But New Zealand... New Zealand was the training ground.
He walked towards the gate, ready to conquer the wind.