Death was quieter than Arjun expected.
No tunnel.No light.Just a long, sinking exhaustion—like the moment after a cover drive mistimed, when the ball dies in the infield and you know the chance is gone.
He lay on a hospital bed that smelled of disinfectant and regret. The monitor beside him beeped with the dull patience of something that had already accepted the outcome. His hands—once quick, once hopeful—were thin now, veins like fading pitch markings after rain.
Forty-two years old.Former Ranji cricketer.Never capped for India.
He had done everything right and still ended up here.
Arjun closed his eyes and the memories came anyway.
Trials where he scored but wasn't picked.Selectors who smiled and said "next season."Teammates who debuted, captained, retired.World Cups he watched on television, knowing—knowing—exactly what India would do wrong in the knockout.
He had seen it all. Too defensive here. Too emotional there. Wrong bowler. Wrong field. Wrong moment.
He had known the answers.
He just never got the board.
The machine let out a long, flat sound.
For a moment, Arjun felt nothing.
Then—
Pain.
Sharp. Sudden. Alive.
He inhaled violently, lungs burning, and screamed—but the scream came out thin, helpless, small.
Too small.
The ceiling above him was not white. It was stained, cracked, with a slow-moving fan creaking like it had secrets. The air was warm. Humid. Heavy with the smell of incense and old wood.
He tried to move his arms.
They didn't obey.
Because they weren't arms.
They were tiny fists, flailing uselessly.
A woman cried out nearby.
"Amma! It's a boy!"
The voice was excited. Shaking.
Arjun's mind froze.
No.
This wasn't possible.
Another voice—older, steadier—cut through the room. "Careful. Hold his head."
The crying woman laughed through tears. "He's strong. Look at him. Eyes wide open already."
Eyes.
Arjun tried to close them.
They wouldn't.
Because newborns don't know how to hide yet.
He saw everything.
The oil lamp in the corner.The peeling blue walls.The open window letting in late-summer air.The distant sound of autos and vendors calling out prices.
And somewhere beyond that—
The unmistakable rhythm of Andhra Telugu.
Guntur.
The realization hit him harder than death ever had.
I'm alive.
No—worse.
I'm early.
His mind raced, terrifyingly clear. He counted automatically.
Sachin would debut in Tests in 1989.India would lose World Cups they should have won.Telecom would explode.Internet would come late—but when it came, it would change everything.Cricket boards would stay backward for too long.Power would always sit one move behind opportunity.
And cricket—
Cricket would break hearts again and again.
Unless—
A large finger brushed his cheek. Instinctively, Arjun grabbed it.
The man laughed. "He's got a grip. Strong one."
"Like his grandfather," someone said.
Strong.
Arjun almost laughed.
You have no idea.
They wrapped him in a thin cloth and placed him against his mother's chest. Her heartbeat was fast, nervous, human. Not like the sterile machines he had died beside.
For the first time since the pain began, something in him softened.
But only for a moment.
Because clarity returned immediately.
This wasn't mercy.
This was a second innings.
And Arjun Verma—no, this Arjun—would not waste it.
He did not cry.
Newborns cry.
He didn't.
He watched.
He listened.
He learned.
Years later, historians would argue about when the Devil was born.
Some would say it was the day he first held a bat.Others would say it was when he captained India at nineteen.A few would insist it was the day Australia realized fear was a thing they could feel again.
They were all wrong.
The Devil was born in silence, in a small house in Guntur, under a tired fan and a flickering lamp—already memorizing a future that had failed him once.
As sleep finally pulled him under, Arjun made a promise no one could hear.
This time, I won't chase chances.
I'll build the board.
Outside, the city went on as usual—unaware that somewhere within it, a den had just gained its master.
And the world, unknowingly, had just lost its balance.