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Reborn to Conquer: Cricket’s Legacy

Aryavarta
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Synopsis
Ajay Sharma, once a gifted Ranji batsman, died in 2025 at forty five from heart failure after years of decline. Reborn in 1997 as his seventeen-year-old self, he carries memories of the next twenty eight years and a tier-based cricket skill system. Determined to stay fit, he trains relentlessly, mastering batting, bowling, and fielding. Rising from domestic cricket to captain of the Bharatiya team, he breaks countless records and wins World Cups. Off the pitch, Ajay builds a vast business empire while keeping his close-knit family united. His second life becomes a story of redemption, discipline, and unmatched sporting legacy.
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Chapter 1 - Chapter 1 – The Last Over of Life

The evening sun dipped low over the small ground in West Delhi, painting the dusty outfield in shades of gold and orange. The "stadium" was nothing more than a community park with a half-broken boundary rope, a couple of wooden stands, and a rickety scoreboard operated by two schoolboys. But for Ajay Sharma, this place felt like a different lifetime. He had played here as a teenager, scoring centuries in local club matches before Ranji dreams had whisked him away.

Now, almost three decades later, he was back—overweight, retired from serious cricket, and desperately trying to relive a spark of what used to be. The air was thick with the smell of chai from the corner stall and the faint thump of Bollywood songs from a nearby wedding. Around 200 spectators, most of them locals, leaned on the boundary rope, chatting as the match crawled toward its conclusion.

It was the final over of a neighborhood tournament semi-final. Ajay's team, a mix of old friends and young office-goers, needed 21 runs from 6 balls to win. He was on strike, batting at 6 off 14 balls. Once upon a time, this situation would have been his stage. Today, his bat felt heavier than a sack of bricks, his breathing ragged after each run. His belly strained against his jersey, sweat running down his back despite the mild February evening.

The bowler was a lean college kid with fire in his eyes. Ajay saw himself in that boy—hungry, fearless, with the world ahead of him.

First ball: a quick yorker. His late swing missed it entirely. Dot ball.

Second ball: a slower bouncer. He tried a pull shot, but his timing was gone. The ball bounced harmlessly to short mid-wicket. Another dot.

From the sidelines, an old teammate called out, "Bhai, ek chhakka maar de!" ("Brother, just hit one six!") The tone was playful, but Ajay felt the sting.

Third ball: a full toss on leg stump. Muscle memory took over. Crack! The ball sailed over deep square leg for six. A small cheer went up, louder than this ground had heard all day. For a brief second, he felt like the Ajay of old—hands fast, eyes sharp.

The kid bowler grinned, unfazed. Fourth ball: back of a length, just outside off. Ajay mistimed it, the ball dribbling toward point. Single taken.

Fifth ball: aimed at the stumps. His partner swung and missed, scrambling for a leg bye. The crowd's chatter drowned out the scoreboard update.

Last ball: 13 needed. No chance to win. Still, Ajay wanted to end with something to remember. The delivery was short and wide. He threw everything into a cut shot, but the ball caught the top edge and looped gently into the hands of cover.

Game over.

The other team shook hands, laughing and patting his back. They respected his past, even if his present was far from it. Ajay forced a smile, but inside he felt the familiar ache of failure.

As he walked toward the shade of the trees near the boundary, his chest tightened. Not the usual breathlessness after a short sprint—this was deeper, heavier. He told himself it was nothing. Just the years catching up.

He sat on a folding chair near the tea stall, the steam from a fresh cup curling in the cool air. His knees ached. His lower back throbbed. And now the tightness in his chest was spreading to his left arm.

He looked at the kids playing a scratch game on the practice pitch, their energy boundless. He remembered being one of them—17 years old, lean, with wrists like steel and reflexes sharp enough to send any bowler running for cover. He had dreamed of wearing Bharat's blue jersey, of standing on the World Cup podium.

Instead, his cricket story had been a slow collapse. Disqualified from the Ranji team for poor fitness. Passed over for national selection. Too stubborn to quit, too proud to admit he was fading. The weight had piled on, the injuries never healed, and soon even club cricket had felt like a burden.

The voices around him grew muffled. The chai in his hand trembled. The last thing he saw was a ball soaring over the boundary in his memory—one of the many he'd struck in his youth, when every shot felt like destiny.

And then there was silence.

No noise. No pain. Just a strange, floating calm.

After a while—seconds or centuries, he couldn't tell—he heard it: the sound of a crowd cheering, not the scattered claps of a local game, but the thunder of a packed stadium. The smell of fresh-cut grass filled his lungs.

Ajay opened his eyes.

He was lying in a bed in a small, familiar room. Posters of Sachin, Dravid, and Kumble were pinned to the wall. A desk cluttered with schoolbooks sat by the window. The air was warm with the scent of home-cooked food drifting in from the kitchen.

His heart raced—not from pain, but from shock. His hands were lean. His arms were strong. He pushed himself up and looked in the mirror—black hair, no double chin, no gut hanging over his waistline.

A calendar on the wall made his stomach twist. July 1997.

Seventeen again.

And in his mind, every memory from the next 28 years—every run, every wicket, every regret—was still there.