Free Web NovelChapter 1: Chapter 1: RETIRE FROM SELLING, REBORN TO PLAY
"Bhaiya, do you have any cheaper leather balls? Eighty rupees is too much for local practice."
I blinked, pulling my eyes away from the tiny 14-inch television screen hanging from the ceiling of my shop. A young college kid in a sweaty jersey was standing at the glass counter, tapping a crumpled hundred-rupee note against the display.
"Eighty is the fixed price, chotu," I said, my voice gruff and tired. I reached down to a lower shelf, my left knee joint giving off a loud, painful grind that made me wince. I placed a red, locally stitched leather ball on the glass counter. "If you want cheaper, go buy a tennis ball from the street vendors. This one has a proper cork core. It won’t last if I lower the price."
The kid grumbled, snatched the ball, threw the note at me, and walked out into the pouring Mumbai monsoon rain.
I sighed, smoothing out the crumpled note and dropping it into the cash drawer. I was forty-three years old, my hair was heavily streaked with gray, and I spent my days running this cramped, dusty sports shop in Dadar. The air inside smelled like old willow wood, rubber grips, and linseed oil.
Up on the TV screen, the IPL stadium was roaring. A twenty-two-year-old opening batsman had just smashed a 145 km/h delivery over the bowler’s head for a flat six. The commentators were screaming about his "fearless modern genius."
I rubbed the thick, jagged surgical scar running across my left knee.
Fearless genius, I thought, a bitter taste in my mouth. Must be nice to have modern sports medicine.
Back in 2003, I was the one everyone was talking about. I was twenty, opening the bowling for Mumbai in the Ranji Trophy, clocking 140 km/h with a lethal left-arm whip, and batting at number five. The national selectors were already printing my name for the camp right after the World Cup disaster.
Then came that stupid practice match on a muddy outfield. My foot caught a wet patch, my knee twisted, and I heard a clear, sickening pop.
An ACL tear. In 2003 India, that was a career death sentence. The local surgery was botched, the rehabilitation was non-existent, and the selectors moved on to the next hungry teenager within a week. My career died before it even had a name. My dad handed me this shop so I wouldn’t lose my mind, but watching kids chase their dreams every day while mine rotted behind a counter was its own slow torture.
"Just one over," I whispered to the empty shop, looking at a premium English willow bat resting on the wall rack. "If I could just bowl one proper over with a normal leg..."
A sudden, terrifying pressure slammed into the center of my chest.
It wasn’t a dull ache. It felt like a heavy iron vice had clamped onto my heart and twisted. I gasped, my hands flying to my shirt as my lungs completely refused to take in air. The TV screen blurred into a messy streak of blue and green stadium lights.
My balance went out completely. I tipped forward, my shoulder smashing into the glass counter as I crashed hard onto the dusty floor tiles. My hand knocked a loose leather cricket ball off the counter, and it rolled away into the shadows.
Are you serious? A heart attack at forty-three?
The darkness crowded my eyes, heavy and impossibly fast. I couldn’t breathe. My fingers weakly twitched against the cold floor, trying to reach for my phone, but my strength dissolved into nothing.
The stadium noise on the TV faded into dead silence.
"Kabir! Get up, you lazy boy! The rain has stopped, go down and help your father bring the cardboard boxes inside!"
A loud, sharp voice blasted through the quiet.
I bolted upright, drawing a massive, desperate breath of air. My chest didn’t hurt. My lungs filled up instantly, completely clear. I sat there, my heart hammering against my ribs, but the grinding, constant ache in my left knee was entirely gone.
I looked down at the bedsheet underneath me. It wasn’t my apartment bed. It was a tiny wooden cot covered in an old, faded cartoon-print sheet.
"What..." I started, but stopped.
My voice was a high-pitched, squeaky pipe.
I lifted my hands to my face and froze. The rough, calloused hands of a shopkeeper were gone. In their place were two tiny, smooth hands with chubby fingers.
I scrambled off the bed, my feet hitting the cool stone floor. My left knee didn’t buckle. It felt completely light. I sprinted across the small room toward a full-length plastic mirror hanging on the wooden wardrobe.
A kid stared back at me. A five-year-old boy with a mop of messy black hair, huge dark eyes, and round cheeks. I looked exactly like the nursery admission photo my mother kept on the living room shelf.
"No way," I whispered, touching the glass reflection. My small fingers left a smudge. "Did I get reincarnated? Is my brain playing a trick before I die?"
Ping.
A clean, crisp electronic chime rang directly inside my brain, echoing in my ears.
[System Initialisation Complete. User: Kabir Singh.]
[Current Age: 5 Years Old.]
[Current Year: July, 1988.]
A translucent, glowing blue menu materialized in the air right in front of my face, moving smoothly with my line of sight.
[STATUS PANEL]
Name: Kabir Singh
Age: 5
Stamina: 12/100 (Toddler Body Restriction)
Strength: 8/100
Cricket IQ: 95/100 (Future Memories Retained)
[Path Selected: Mythic All-Rounder. 5 Core Templates Loaded.]
[Core Protocol: Templates contain the technical muscle memory and peak playing experience of the masters. Synchronization requires manual physical practice. Unlocking subsequent templates requires reaching 100% mastery on current loadout.]
The blue screen flickered, displaying five distinct, greyed-out cards.
[BATTING TEMPLATES]
Sachin Tendulkar (Locked)
AB de Villiers (Locked)
[BOWLING TEMPLATES]
3. Wasim Akram (Locked)
4. James Anderson (Locked)
[HYBRID ENGINE]
5. Jacques Kallis (Locked)
[System Prompt: Select your initial dual starter templates to begin synchronization. Current body limits mastery loadout to a maximum baseline of 5.0%.]
My mind stall-shifted. I knew every single one of these names. There was no video-game automation here; the system was explicitly telling me that I had to do the physical practice myself to unlock their habits.
I looked at the options. To survive the modern era and build an empire, I needed the ultimate base.
"Select Sachin Tendulkar and Wasim Akram," I thought clearly.
[Starter Templates Selected: Sachin Tendulkar (Batting) & Wasim Akram (Bowling).]
[Synchronization set to 5.0% Baseline. Unlocking initial technical frameworks...]
The cards for Sachin and Wasim dissolved into particles of blue light, shooting straight into my small chest. A strange, cooling wave flew down my spinal cord, branch-lining into my shoulders, my forearms, and my wrists.
The physical difference was immediate. It wasn’t a sudden boost in raw strength, but an explosive wave of knowing. Decades of elite, professional muscle coordination settled into my small limbs. My right hand felt perfectly steady, while my left arm and shoulder felt loose, whippy, and highly flexible. My eyes locked onto a housefly buzzing near the wardrobe, tracking its exact zig-zag flight path with complete, effortless ease.
The bedroom door clicked open.
A young, fit man stepped into the room. It was my dad, Harpal. His beard was pitch black, his face had zero wrinkles, and he looked incredibly full of energy. He was tossing a cheap plastic cricket ball in his right hand, holding a small toy plastic bat in the other.
Seeing him alive and young made my throat tighten up instantly.
"Hey, champion," my dad smiled, tossing the plastic ball over. My left hand moved before I even thought about it, trapping the ball cleanly against my chest. "The rain stopped. Let’s go down to the society playing garden. Let’s see if you can actually hit the ball today."
I looked at the cheap plastic bat in his hand, then down at my tiny arms.
Sachin Tendulkar was fifteen, still a year away from making his international debut. The IPL didn’t exist. The brutal Australian dominance of the nineties hadn’t even started yet. And that miserable 2003 World Cup Final? It was a full fifteen years away.
I grinned, a completely mature, cocky look hitting my five-year-old face.
"Let’s go, Dad," I squeaked, grabbing the plastic bat.
The second my fingers hit the plastic handle, my mind immediately recognized the imbalance of the cheap toy, but the foundational stance memories were already adjusting my feet. The journey was starting from scratch.
