The smell of fresh coriander and hot ghee drifted through the courtyard as Ajay stepped into the heart of his home. It wasn't a mansion. It wasn't polished marble and chandeliers. But it was alive—every corner filled with voices, footsteps, and the faint echo of laughter.
The joint Sharma family had lived in this old Delhi house for generations. Red brick walls carried decades of festivals, arguments, and meals shared under the same roof. On the ground floor, Ajay's grandparents occupied the largest room. His parents had the small one next to theirs. Upstairs, uncles, aunts, and cousins filled the rest.
He had forgotten how much space love could take up.
The Morning Ritual
Ajay entered the central courtyard where a few plastic chairs were scattered under the shade of a neem tree. The women of the family were kneading dough and chopping vegetables, while the younger kids chased each other with sticks pretending to be cricket bats. His father sat cross-legged with the morning newspaper, glancing at the headlines before turning to the sports page.
His grandmother spotted him first."Ajay beta, where were you? Your tea is getting cold."
Ajay walked over, taking the glass from her wrinkled but steady hands. "Just went to the ground for a bit, Dadi."
She patted his cheek. "Don't skip meals for cricket. A player needs strength, not just skill."
The words hit deeper than she knew. In his first life, his strength had been stolen—not by lack of skill, but by the weight he refused to lose. Now, every reminder felt like a line in his new playbook.
The Rule of the House
As the morning stretched, uncles and cousins began gathering in the courtyard. It was Sunday—family meeting day. Nothing formal, just the way the Sharmas kept their bonds strong.
Ajay's grandfather, the patriarch, sat in his wicker chair, his walking stick resting across his knees. His voice was soft, but when he spoke, the noise died down instantly.
"Family comes before everything," he began. "Work, money, fame—none of it matters if you forget where you come from."
Ajay nodded, memories from his first life flashing—arguments over property, relatives drifting apart, people showing up only during weddings or funerals. This time, he wouldn't allow cracks to form.
The old man continued. "Never betray family. Never speak against your own blood to outsiders. Protect each other. If one of us falls, we all stand to lift him."
It wasn't a lecture—it was a tradition. And Ajay felt its weight more than anyone else here. In his first life, when fame came, he had let distance grow. Not out of malice, but because success consumed his time. Now, success would have to fit into family, not the other way around.
Shared Meals, Shared Moments
Breakfast in the Sharma house was an event. Stainless steel plates clinked, laughter bounced off the walls, and the smell of aloo parathas filled every inch of space. Ajay sat between two cousins, passing pickle jars and helping the youngest pour lassi without spilling.
The conversation danced between cricket gossip and market prices. One uncle complained about rising onion rates; another teased Ajay about when he'd finally make it big and buy them all a car.
Ajay grinned. "You'll get your car, Chacha. Just give me a few years."
They laughed, thinking it was youthful confidence. Only Ajay knew it was a promise.
Evening in the Courtyard
After lunch, the family gathered again, this time for chai. The elders talked politics; the younger ones played cards. Ajay sat quietly for a while, watching, committing the scene to memory. He knew the world outside was waiting—tournaments, selectors, pressure—but here, time slowed.
When his grandfather called him over, Ajay set his cup down."Beta, your father tells me you've been waking up early. Training?"
"Yes, Dadaji. I… I want to take cricket seriously again."
The old man's eyes softened. "Then do it with discipline. Talent without discipline is like a bat without grip—useless."
Ajay smiled faintly. "I understand."
And he did. More than anyone could guess.