29/08/2018
Morning came, and Rohan woke up from a ten-day-long study marathon on thermodynamics and aeronautics. His mind ached, but something inside him felt… lighter.
A shift had taken place. He began supporting his mother more actively—clearing the dishes before she asked and offering to accompany her on market errands. He comforted Arya at night when she cried, even made tea for his grandfather, and sat through long, meandering chats about Partition, politics, and old cricket legends. After a private nudge from DL—who had remarked that 'the cosmic energy of their home was being blocked by bitterness'—Rohan began helping his aunt too. Reluctantly, yes, but always courteously.
He even started playing with Shiv, his little cousin, who clung to him like a shadow, chasing cricket balls in the narrow alley or watching cartoons together in the afternoon.
School life changed too.
Rohan walked in with a new cheer, a faint glow lighting up his face. His strides were relaxed, no longer weighed down by foreignness or grief.
In his last life, the return to India had been a brutal shift. His accent stood out. His silence was mistaken for arrogance. And when the kids didn't understand his grief, they made him the punchline.
He'd been too timid, too cracked, to defend himself. The laughter, the whispered jokes—they stung. Even though he was good at soccer, he never joined the games. What was the point when no one called his name? He had no friends.
But eventually, something changed. They saw the sadness that didn't leave his eyes. That he wasn't aloof—just broken. Some kids reached out. Tentatively at first. Small jokes. Passing remarks. Slowly, he had made a few friends. They stood by him when his grandfather passed away, but he lost contact with them too after dropping out.
But this time, it would be different.
There was no stutter in his words. No foreign awkwardness. He knew the slang, the banter, and the undercurrents. The know-how that had once been alien was now familiar turf. And this time, he wasn't here to survive—he was here to live.
As Rohan entered the classroom, a wave of déjà vu hit him.
Same faint smell of chalk dust and floor polish. The old desk near the window that caught the morning sun. The peeling green board. And above it, the one ceiling fan that never worked, hanging there like a lazy sentinel.
In the back, the unmistakable voice of Kunal Mehra rang out—short, loud, and impossible to ignore. Kunal, the class clown and chaos generator, had once been his seatmate.
But today was different.
"Class," came a familiar voice.
Ms. Rashmika Saxena stood at the front, still in her crisp cotton sari with her no-nonsense posture and tight-lipped smile. She tapped the board lightly with a duster to get everyone's attention.
"We have someone new with us today. He is new to this country, so try to accommodate him and help him learn the ways here. Rohan Ram Delgado, everyone."
A few scattered claps. A couple of confused glances. One kid at the back muttered, "Isn't he the NRI guy?"
Mrs. Saxena ignored them and gestured toward the second row. "That's your seat, Rohan. First bench in the second row."
Rohan nodded politely and made his way to the desk, a faint smile on his lips. He hoped to see Kunal there—his old seatmate from the last life. Loud, short, unapologetically chatty Kunal, who'd eventually become his first friend when the loneliness had finally worn him down.
Only to pause.
Because it wasn't Kunal.
A girl sat there.
And not just any girl.
Ritika Tripathi.
She glanced up and smiled, brushing her hair behind her ear. "You're Rohan, right?"
He blinked.
She had honey-almond skin that seemed to glow in the soft morning light—smooth, radiant, and effortlessly captivating. Her hair was shoulder-length and sleek, parted neatly to the side, framing a face that looked like it had stepped straight out of a schoolboy's impossible dream. Her eyes—deep brown and sparkling—were curious but kind, and her smile…
That smile.
Wide, genuine, full of mischief and warmth. The kind that could melt frost off glass.
In his last life, Ritika had never even acknowledged his existence—always surrounded by friends, forever engrossed in her own world. She had been unreachable, like one of those girls who lived on the other side of an invisible social barrier. Admired from afar, never to be known.
But now… she was his seatmate. And she was smiling at him.
She wasn't short by any means—probably one of the tallest girls in class—but still a head shorter than him. Her head barely reached his chest, yet there was something about her presence that made her seem taller. She carried herself with the calm authority of someone used to winning. There was a lean athleticism to her frame, sculpted by years on the basketball court—she was, after all, the school's team captain. Her body language was confident but not cocky, elegant yet strong. The kind of girl who could outscore you on the court, argue you down in debate, and still make your heartbeat stutter when she laughed.
Ritika wasn't just beautiful. She was striking.
There was a grace to her —the kind of casual glamour that didn't need makeup or filters to dazzle. And yet, behind all that allure, there was something practical and sharp—Amy Santiago vibes. Organized. Focused. Always prepared. But with enough spark to match his sarcasm line for line, if it came to that.
And here she was, talking to him. Smiling at him. Sitting next to him.
It felt strange at first—her laughing softly when he cracked a dry joke, nodding along when he answered questions, and sharing her notes like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Her gestures weren't forced or performative.
They were casual.
And warm.
Something had changed.
Maybe it was him.
Maybe it was her.
Or maybe fate had just decided to give their story a different start this time.
Later that day, Arya and Rohan walked back from school together, their satchels bouncing against their backs. Arya animatedly told him about a funny moment in class, her hands flying in all directions.
"…and then he actually tried to eat the chalk, Rohan! Like, seriously! Ms. Gupta's face—she was this close to losing it!" Arya flailed dramatically.
Rohan chuckled. "Ms. Gupta sounds like a character."
"She's exactly like Ms. Miller," Arya said, kicking a stray pebble off the path.
He raised an eyebrow. "Who?"
Arya stopped and stared at him like he had grown another head. "You don't know the name of our assistant principal?"
He gave a sheepish grin. "Haha, very funny. Her name is Mrs. Morrison."
Arya rolled her eyes. "You lost a screw in your head or what, Bro?" She pulled out her phone and tapped quickly. "See?"
On the screen was a profile photo—same familiar face, same sharp cheekbones, same no-nonsense expression. First name: Elizabeth. Last name: Miller. Not Morrison.
Rohan's smile faded a fraction. "She's not married?"
"Nope, but soon." Arya said, smirking. "Unless you're planning to propose too?"
He nudged her playfully. "Gross. She's ancient."
But his mind lingered on the screen.
In his last life, Elizabeth Miller had married David Morrison—a British expat who taught literature during his second year in high school. He remembered the congratulatory banners on the school board, even the celebratory cupcakes in the staff room that he and Matt, his friend back in the U.S., had snuck in to steal.
But here… she wasn't married.
Same woman.
Same face.
Different name.
Another fracture in the mirror.
They pushed open the old gate of Sharma Niwas and stepped inside.
On the porch, their mother stood watching them with a smile—soft and quiet, but bright enough to warm the evening air.
At dinner, the air shifted.
Geeta, their aunt, commented snidely on Arya's untied hair and her "wild behavior at school."
But before Arya could retreat or apologize, Veena's voice cut in—firm, even.
"She's doing fine. And if you have a problem, Geeta, speak to me. Not my daughter."
Silence blanketed the table. Arya stared wide-eyed. Even Dadaji paused mid-bite.
What unnerved Rohan was this—his mother's new tone. He noticed the changes. Subtle, yet seismic.
Veena—his mother—was firmer in her stance when dealing with her sister-in-law's passive barbs. Her posture wasn't bent under grief but braced against it.
He pulled DL into a private thought.
"Why is she… different? She never stood up like that in my last life."
DL answered with thoughtful silence.
"Possibly because she senses change. Your presence, your steadiness—it's giving her hope. In your last life, you were broken. She had to bear the burden alone. Now she sees a future, not just survival."
"You changed something," DL added. "Hope is a powerful thing. In your last life, your submission kept her subdued. Now she thinks… maybe she doesn't need to bow anymore."
Rohan nodded. "Speculation?"
"Of course. Want me to go ask her?"
He smirked. "Shut up."
Far beyond Earth, in a realm untouched by time, MahaVishnu sat cross-legged in a radiant void, his eyes half-closed, watching a thread of light.
It pulsed with laughter, dinner warmth, and quiet defiance.
Beside him, his silent Divine Attendant, Verneya, finally spoke.
"My Lord… I think he's starting to notice. That this… is not his world."
Mahavishnu's smile faded.
His eyes opened slowly.
"Hmm," he hummed. "It's sooner than expected."