Chapter 3 — The Era of Gods
Morning sunlight entered through the thin cotton curtains in broken streaks.
The smell of frying fish drifted through the house.
Riddhiman slowly opened his eyes.
For a few seconds, he forgot.
Then reality returned immediately.
The small room.
The wooden cupboard.
The old ceiling fan.
The calendar on the wall.
He was truly here.
Again.
A child's body.
A second life.
From downstairs came his mother's voice:
"Riddhi! Uthbi na?"
(Riddhi! Won't you wake up?)
Riddhiman stared at the ceiling silently.
His mind still felt unstable. Every morning since waking up in this world felt strange because his memories refused to match his body.
Mentally, he was a grown man who had already lived and died.
Physically, he was a five-year-old boy whose biggest responsibility should have been learning multiplication tables.
The contradiction exhausted him.
He slowly got off the bed and walked toward the mirror near the cupboard.
A small boy stared back at him.
Messy hair.
Thin shoulders.
Huge observant eyes.
Not him.
And yet somehow now completely him.
He splashed water onto his face from the steel jug nearby before walking downstairs.
The kitchen was alive with familiar Bengali chaos.
Oil crackling.
Pressure cooker hissing.
Radio playing old songs softly in the background.
His mother stood near the stove frying fish while his father sat at the table reading newspaper with thick glasses balanced low on his nose.
The moment his mother noticed him, her face softened instantly.
"Jor ache?"
(Still have fever?)
Riddhiman shook his head.
She immediately touched his forehead anyway.
Mothers never trusted verbal answers.
"Bhalo."
(Good.)
Then she placed rice and fish curry onto a steel plate in front of him.
Rui fish.
Fresh.
Mustard gravy.
His favorite.
Riddhiman stared at the plate quietly for a moment.
In his previous life, he used to eat hurriedly before office.
Without noticing taste.
Without appreciating warmth.
Without understanding that ordinary mornings disappeared faster than dreams.
Now even this simple meal felt strangely emotional.
His father folded the newspaper slightly and glanced at him.
"Kalke toh bhoy peye gechilam."
(Yesterday we got really scared.)
"Doctor bollo viral fever," his mother added while turning fish carefully.
(The doctor said it was viral fever.)
Riddhiman nodded absentmindedly.
Viral fever.
That must have been why he woke up suddenly in this body.
His father returned to reading newspaper.
A cricket headline immediately caught Riddhiman's attention.
Sachin scores another century.
Even in this era, that name dominated everything.
The entire country revolved around him.
His father smiled while reading.
"Cheleta oshadharon."
(The boy is extraordinary.)
Riddhiman looked at the paper silently.
Extraordinary.
No.
That word was too small.
He remembered the future.
He remembered what Sachin Tendulkar would become.
Not just a cricketer.
A religion.
An emotion.
A god.
And suddenly Riddhiman realized something terrifying.
He was living in the beginning of that era.
The realization sent a strange chill through him.
After breakfast, his father prepared to leave for the optical shop downstairs.
Before leaving, he adjusted his glasses and looked toward Riddhiman.
"Rest korbi ajke."
(Rest today.)
Riddhiman nodded obediently.
His father disappeared downstairs.
Soon the sound of shutters opening echoed faintly upward.
Another ordinary morning had begun.
But inside Riddhiman's mind, nothing felt ordinary anymore.
Later that afternoon, rain clouds gathered slowly over the city again.
His mother sat on the floor cutting vegetables while television played in background.
Cricket highlights suddenly appeared again.
Young Sachin walking onto the field.
Crowd roaring.
Commentators already speaking about him like destiny itself.
Riddhiman sat motionless.
Watching carefully.
Analyzing unconsciously.
Even at this age, Sachin's balance was absurd.
Head position stable.
Weight transfer perfect.
Timing almost unnatural.
No wasted movement.
No hesitation.
Riddhiman narrowed his eyes slightly.
In his previous life, he watched cricket emotionally like every fan.
But now his perspective had changed completely.
Now he observed mechanically.
Scientifically.
Like his brain automatically searched for patterns.
Tiny details began standing out:
foot placement,
wrist alignment,
bat swing path,
reaction timing.
His heartbeat slowly quickened.
Because suddenly he understood something important.
Future cricket would evolve far beyond this.
He remembered glimpses:
unorthodox batting,
360-degree shots,
impossible chases,
power mixed with creativity.
And if he remembered correctly…
then theoretically…
he could build himself ahead of this era.
The thought hit him like lightning.
His breathing slowed.
No.
Not theoretically.
Definitely.
He slowly leaned closer to television.
The commentators praised textbook technique constantly.
Traditional cricket thinking still dominated this era.
Which meant: future ideas did not exist yet.
That meant he possessed something priceless.
Perspective.
For the first time since rebirth, excitement truly appeared inside him.
Not childish excitement.
Dangerous excitement.
The kind ambitious people feel when they realize the world has not caught up to an idea yet.
His mother glanced at him curiously.
"Ki dekhchis eto mon diye?"
(What are you watching so seriously?)
Riddhiman answered without looking away from television.
"Batting."
His mother laughed softly.
"Boro hoye cricketer hobi naki?"
(Will you become a cricketer when you grow up?)
The question hung in the air.
Riddhiman's eyes remained fixed on the screen.
Would he?
No.
That answer felt too small.
Not just a cricketer.
Something greater.
Something impossible to ignore.
Something history itself would remember.
For a moment, the memory of his previous life flashed painfully through his mind:
office cubicle,
exhaustion,
regret,
fear,
mediocrity.
Never again.
His fingers tightened slowly against the sofa cushion.
Never again.
That evening, after rain finally stopped, children gathered outside in narrow lane cricket matches.
Tennis ball.
Plastic stumps.
Loud arguments.
Pure chaos.
One of the boys shouted toward the balcony:
"Riddhi! Khelbi?"
(Riddhi! Will you play?)
His mother immediately replied before he could:
"Ekhono osustho!"
(He's still sick!)
The children groaned dramatically before resuming their match.
Riddhiman watched silently from the balcony.
Something inside him stirred painfully.
He had loved cricket in his previous life too.
But back then it was distant.
Untouchable.
Now the game stood right in front of him again.
Reachable.
Changeable.
A second chance.
The boys below played carelessly:
wild swings,
random bowling,
instinctive movement.
Riddhiman suddenly noticed something automatically.
Angles.
Field gaps.
Movement inefficiencies.
One boy repeatedly missed shots toward leg side because his balance shifted too early.
Another exposed cover region every delivery.
Patterns.
Everywhere.
His eyes sharpened slowly.
Cricket suddenly looked different to him now.
Not emotion.
Geometry.
Possibility.
System.
That realization frightened him slightly.
Because it no longer felt like simple passion.
It felt like obsession beginning.
Night arrived slowly over Siliguri.
After dinner, his mother lit incense before the image of Kali while evening prayers echoed softly through the room.
Riddhiman stood nearby silently.
The flickering lamp light illuminated Kali's dark face.
Powerful.
Terrifying.
He remembered praying as a child in previous life for silly things:
exam marks,
cricket bats,
school holidays.
Now his desires felt far more dangerous.
After prayer ended, his mother smiled gently.
"Ki chaili Maa-r kache?"
(What did you ask from Mother Kali?)
Riddhiman remained quiet for several seconds.
Then softly answered:
"Ar ekbar chance."
(Another chance.)
His mother laughed lightly, misunderstanding completely.
"You already got better after fever. Maa toh diye diyeche."
(You already recovered from fever. Mother Kali already gave it.)
Riddhiman looked once more toward Kali's image.
No.
Not recovery.
Life itself.
And this time he would not waste it.
That night, long after everyone slept, Riddhiman quietly picked up the small toy cricket bat near his bed.
Moonlight entered faintly through the window.
He took batting stance instinctively.
Then froze.
Something felt wrong.
No—
inefficient.
His grip adjusted slightly.
Front foot moved unconsciously.
Balance changed.
Even without training, his adult mind automatically searched for improvement.
He slowly shadow-practiced a straight drive.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Hours passed unnoticed.
The tiny room remained silent except for the soft movement of bat through air.
And somewhere during that endless repetition, one terrifying thought settled completely inside his mind:
This life would not belong to fear anymore.
It would belong to greatness.