I do not remember a blank void before I woke, but I recall the crushing weight of another life pressing into me in an instant. One moment, I was scribbling code on a glowing screen; the next, I lay gasping in the arms of a woman singing a lullaby I did not understand. Pain and wonder shot through me like lightning. I had been born — and yet I felt the memory and intellect of someone else's life still alive in my mind, vying for control of this tiny body.
My eyes opened to a world of unexpected reality. The ceiling above was woven from dried grass, not the sterile tiles of a hospital. The air was thick with earthy scents — hay, burning wood, and spiced rice simmering in a cauldron over coals. A broad-faced woman with dark, moist eyes held me close. Outside, a rooster crowed loudly and a dog barked at dawn. The sky was pale and golden. It felt impossible, as though I were dreaming — but I was very much awake in this straw-roofed hut.
It took a moment for the flood of old memories to return. Images of asphalt roads and flying aircraft clashed with scenes of wooden huts and oxen in a field outside. The contrast felt surreal, but in that instant I knew the truth: I was myself, an introverted student of data science, reborn into this humble child. A wave of panic and confusion washed over me. My small body trembled, and I cried out — though it sounded like the tiny wail of a newborn.
My old life was gone. All I had known — college courses, friends, and even the taste of hot idli and filter coffee — had vanished. In their place was this new world: a rural village beneath sacred mountains, far from the modern city. I overheard my parents speaking softly nearby. My mother whispered that the gods had blessed us with a healthy baby boy. My father promised to teach me to till the fields and care for cattle when I was older. They spoke words I did not fully understand, but one word I recognized: 'Shudra'. A chill ran through me as I realized the truth of my birth — of the lowest caste, destined for a life of labor.
For now, I could only look, listen, and learn what a baby might. My mother nursed me by the fire, humming a blessing each time she raised me to drink. I memorized everything. Later, when the mid-day sun warmed the floor, my father laid me down on a mat and swept away cow dung beside me for fuel. He spoke gentle words and said I would be a strong boy one day. I recognized the number three when he measured with his fingers, but I could not yet form the word. In that simple moment I felt both a sting of humiliation and a flicker of pride: my father believed I could be more than what others expected.
They had even given me a new name — Bhadrak. My old name vanished like a faint echo. No one here knew who I had been before, and it was safest that way. The villagers treated me kindly, with smiles and gentle pats. Elders pinched my cheeks and praised how handsome I was becoming. I smiled back as best I could, but inside I burned with questions. How could they be so content with so little in life? Everything about this existence — the sour goat cheese I tasted for the first time, the scratchy wool on my skin, the star-filled nights overhead — reminded me how far I had come. I lay awake staring at those constellations, remembering how city lights once dimmed them; I wanted to ask why I was here, but I stayed silent.
I began to notice patterns sooner than any child should. I had studied weather charts in my old life; here I watched the clouds gather in June and remembered it was monsoon time. The distant temple drums at dawn echoed the mantras I once learned by heart. When the river swelled, I predicted heavy rain. I knew that planting seeds in spring would bring grains in autumn, as I had seen in textbooks. To the villagers these were simple truths of nature; to me they felt like reminders of lessons I had learned long ago in another time.
One evening, perhaps just before my second birthday, I sat on a flat rock with my father under a clear starry sky. He shared a piece of jaggery with me, pointing out the brightest star as "Pushya". I, too shy to speak the questions in my mind, quietly hummed the evening hymn my mother had taught me — a prayer to Surya, the sun god. As I sang, something shifted inside. I looked at that star and felt a promise form in my heart. No matter what this world demanded of me, I would find my way.
Thus my early childhood unfolded. I grew from a swaddled infant to a toddling boy under the open sky. Each day I milked goats at dawn and helped sow rice at dusk. I learned to speak the village tongue with a soft accent and a heavy silence beneath. Though my body became strong and my hands adept at chores, inside I remained ever the same introverted scholar. The villagers believed I was blessed by fate — a quiet child of truth. Little did they know how right they were. Days turned into months, and I clung to the silent promise I had made under the stars like armor, as if it were a talisman. Some nights I wept softly, wishing I could wake up back in my old life. But each morning I reminded myself: I would persevere. I was patient and determined, waiting for the day I might finally shape my own destiny.