Chapter 2: 1001 rebirth
I was in a deep sleep as always, drowning in the same memories—my father's death, my mother's suicide, the classmate who tried to help and then took her own life. I had been broken, driven to the edge, forced to cast off my humanity until I became something else. A demon, I told myself, after eight thousand years of pain.
Then someone rapped me on the head, rude and insistent, and my dream was ripped open. I blinked, the world tilting; for a moment everything was blurry and hollow, like looking through fog. People's voices filled the room, indistinct and close.
"Who?" I asked in a cold voice, forcing my eyes open. My sight cleared enough to make out shapes, but the edges were still soft. My head ached; the memory of suffering clung to me like a bad taste.
"Who else?" came the familiar, exasperated reply. "The bell's already rung and you're still asleep here? Get up—teacher'll be here any minute with the exam papers."
The voice belonged to the boy sitting to my right, all the way in the back of the classroom. He wore glasses that trapped the light and a pale yellow shirt with thin black stripes on the sleeves, a black tie hanging straight, and black pants. He had that calm, annoyed sort of energy—someone who rolled his eyes at the world but knew how to be useful when things mattered.
He tapped a book with one finger as if it were some precious object. A girl drifted over and snatched it, moving with the casual confidence of someone used to getting what she wanted. She wore the same uniform—yellow shirt, black skirt—only she carried herself like the classroom belonged to her.
"Hey, I'm still reading that," the boy complained, louder than the space between the desks warranted. His voice carried a minor indignation, more comical than angry.
I pushed myself up from my seat and scanned the room slowly, eyes moving from right to left. In front of me the boy who'd nudged me awake was secretly shoving chips into his mouth behind his desk. To my right someone was lazily leaning over a table, chatting with the boys next to him. Up front on the left a cluster of girls giggled, forming their usual little island of noise.
Something about the room felt off — then I noticed the blackboard, a little farther away than I remembered. The door by the board opened and a man in his thirties walked in. He wore glasses and carried a stack of papers; with one theatrical motion he slapped them down on the teacher's desk.
"Everyone, take your seats." His voice cut through the chatter. He wore a blue T-shirt and black jeans; the shirt pulled tight over his belly made him look broader than he was.
The room obediently folded back into its rows. Silence settled, thin and expectant, and then a dozen voices in monotone chorused, "Good morning, teacher."
"Good morning, everyone. Please take a seat. Everyone — today's English test. Please take a question paper and pass it along." He pushed a small pile of sheets toward the students in the front row.
I narrowed my eyes, feeling suspicion curl in my chest.
"Neel Jadhav, why don't you sit properly?" the man in the blue T-shirt snapped, suddenly calling my name.
"You are… Ram Patil." The words came out louder than I meant, the recognition sparking like a live wire. His face — the strict jaw, the tired eyes — had flashed through my memories from a past life.
A ripple of surprised sounds escaped from the class. "Uhhhh!" a few people howled.
"What did you call me?" His voice tightened; anger showed now.
"Neel, he's our class teacher. What are you doing?" Aman — the boy who'd woken me — leaned over and hissed, half annoyed, half embarrassed.
"You are Ram Patil, don't you?" I repeated, eyes locked on him.
"Neel Jadhav, are you courting death again, huh?" Ram stepped closer, voice low and dangerous. "This exam is supposed to be your last chance. You had two backs last semester — you're an adult now and this is your behaviour? Go call your mother and ask her to pick you up." He jabbed a finger toward the door.
"Yuppp!" someone two seats over shouted, standing up and clapping like it was a show.
Ram swung his finger and the kid sank back into his chair.
My head swam. The details came back in flashes: the iron window frames, the blue blackboard with a faint graph in one corner, the yellow half-shirts with black pants. Aman sat at my right — my friend in this life. This was my pre-college classroom. Impossible, and yet there it was.
If this was pre-college, then my parents… I felt something I hadn't expected: a small, ridiculous bubble of hope rise in my chest. Were they still alive?
"What are you waiting for? Do you want to take the exam or not? Don't disturb the others." Ram's finger was still aimed at me.
I looked three seats ahead to my right and froze. A girl with hair hanging free, almond-shaped eyes, and skin like porcelain was watching me. Our eyes met, and the memory of her clicked into place.
I shoved past Ram and walked straight to her, ignoring the hush and the turned heads. I took her hand, pulled her up from the desk, and stood beside her.
"Vai…shu," I said, the name catching between my teeth like something precious.
Vaishnavi — the only person who had ever given me warmth in those hellish days — had jumped from our pre-college building. I remembered that horrible morning like a fresh wound: me sprinting up the stairs, lungs burning, desperate to stop her. I reached the rooftop too late. She leapt before I could catch her.
I ran down, shouting for an ambulance. When I reached her, she was already a broken thing on the ground, drenched in blood. Her skull had split on impact. I stared at her and could not look away until the sirens came. After that day I had nothing left—hope evaporated, and loneliness moved in to live with me.
Now she sat in front of me, alive and breathing, and the memory slapped into my chest.
I looked at her properly, taking in the curve of her jaw, the way hair fell over her shoulders. Then, without thinking, I pulled her toward me and hugged her.
A chorus of classroom noise exploded. "Ohhhhh!" the students cheered.
"Neel, you bastard," someone spat.
"Quiet!" Ram snapped, his voice sharp as a ruler.
Vaishu shoved me away and struck me across the face hard enough that I stumbled four steps back. I caught the edge of a bench and forced myself upright, hand warm from the impact.
"What are you doing?" she said, furious and trembling.
"It hurts…" I mumbled, fingers rubbing my burning cheek. A smile I hadn't meant to wear crept across my face. This wasn't just déjà vu. This was another loop—1001 rebirths, one more turn of the wheel. Not only had I broken the loop, I'd come back ten years into the past. Dad. Mom. Maybe this time I could stop Gautam Aadani from tearing us apart. Maybe this time I could make him pay—make him bleed for what he did.
"This is not a dream," I told myself aloud, and the words felt like a small, dangerous joy.
"You're not dreaming," Ram snarled, his face close and furious. He raised his hand as if to slap me. I caught his wrist before his hand fell.
The class howled again.
Ram tried to wrench his arm free, and I tightened my grip until his fingers blanched. He used his other hand to pry my fingers off, but I wouldn't let go.
"Don't force me into unnecessary things while I'm in a good mood," I said, voice dropping cold. My eyes went hard.
"What did you say? What are you doing?" Ram demanded, struggling.
I let his hand fall. He staggered a step back and glanced at his palm—there was a red crescent where my grip had dug into his skin.
For a moment he looked almost—afraid.
I stepped closer, then softened my tone like a practiced actor. "I was just kidding, Mr. Patil. Don't mind my little joke." I smiled and touched his forearm lightly. "I understand the seriousness of the situation. I know you're the class teacher and have the authority here. My actions were reckless. This isn't something I can solve with violence. I have no connections to fall back on… though I could dig up a little dirt on you, I won't use it."
Ram's eyes narrowed. "Who are you kidding? Neel, you're going to fail every subject again this semester. If you don't want to learn, don't make your parents come and beg me. That's useless." He jabbed a finger at me.
Before he could finish, my hand snatched an exam paper from the student to my left. I scanned it quickly, my mind working like a trap being set.
"Let's bargain," I said, calm. "What if I fail every subject? I'll drop out myself. But if I pass every subject—and make top ten in class—will you forgive me for today? What do you say?"
"You're a stupid student who only sleeps in class," Ram scoffed. "If you can really get into the top ten, I won't mention today to anyone. I won't pursue it. I'll even apologize."
"Okay. Deal." I slammed my palm on his shoulder and walked back to my seat like a man who'd already won.
I opened the question paper and my answer sheet. As I raised my pen, Ram hovered by my desk, still watching me with a strange mix of anger and curiosity.
"Anything else?" I asked him.
He leaned in, voice loud enough for the room. "Neel said it himself—did everyone hear that?"
"Yes, we heard him!" several voices answered in mismatched chorus.
"When the results come out," Ram said, jabbing my desk with his finger so the whole class heard, "if you're not in the top ten, get out on your own. No one will take you in."
"Hump," I replied, nodding.
"Okay, everyone—start writing," Ram ordered, and moved back toward the teacher's desk. He paused at the front and barked, "Write your name first on the answer sheet!"
I let out a small, private laugh as he turned his back. Then I dipped my pen and began to write—every line of ink a promise, and every word a step toward the reckoning I had burned into my bones.
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Somewhere in Mumbai — A Private Hospital
White.
That was the first thing.
A white ceiling, bright enough to sting my eyes. A steady beep — mechanical, repetitive — like something tapping on my skull from the inside. My lashes flickered, my breathing shallow.
The memory hit in fragments — the flash of steel, the cold shock in my chest — and my hand flew there instinctively. But there was no pain, no wound. Only the dull throb at the side of my head under a bandage… and a dragging ache in my legs, like I'd been walking for days in a dream.
I sat up. The IV tugged at my arm — I tore it out without thinking, the sting barely registering. My legs protested every step, but I pushed through the limp and shoved the door open.
The hallway felt wrong. Too clean, too bright, too quiet except for the distant echo of footsteps.
Two nurses passed on my left, their faces unreadable. I turned right, heart pounding in my ears louder than the beeping had been. I reached for the nearest nurse's sleeve.
"Where am I?" My voice came out raw, almost foreign.
She yanked her arm back. "What are you doing?" No answer, no pause, just a glance as she walked away.
I stumbled forward again, muttering the question under my breath, like maybe it would make sense if I repeated it enough. I bumped into someone — the solid jolt of a shoulder, the scowl of a patient passing.
"Watch where you're going," he snapped, disappearing into the corridor's endless white.
And then… the clock.
Above the reception, its digital glow carved the air:
TIME — 16:42:11 PM
DATE — 10/8/2013
The numbers pulsed in my vision.
"…Ten years ago." The words escaped without my permission.
"Mr. Rahul!" A nurse hurried toward me. "Why did you come out of the room? Why did you pull out the needle?" Her eyes darted to my empty hand, brows knitting.
I pointed at the clock, my fingers trembling. "Is that broken? Why's it showing 2013?"
"It's not broken. It's working perfectly fine," she said slowly, like speaking to someone unstable.
"Is it 2013… or 2023?" The edges of my vision wavered; I wasn't sure if I was speaking or thinking aloud.
"2013. What about 2023? Did you hit your head again? Lose your memory?" Her voice sharpened.
"Are you lying to me?" My grip on her shoulder tightened. "Why are you lying?"
She jerked back. "Doctor!"
The scene fractured. A doctor appeared with another nurse, their hands firm on my arms, steering me back. My steps were clumsy; my head felt heavier than my body.
From the entrance — two figures. My father. My brother.
I froze. My chest felt both tight and hollow.
"Dad? Brother?" The words barely had breath. They looked… younger. Too young.
"What's today's date?" I asked my brother.
He frowned. "Are you all right, Rahul? Didn't we celebrate your birthday yesterday?"
The corridor spun. My knees gave way. The last thing before darkness was my brother's voice calling for the doctor.
Then — a different voice. Cold. Businesslike. "Look at the market value of Gautam Group…" And my father… clutching his chest, the color draining from his face, falling—
"Dad!" My scream yanked me awake.
But the man before me wasn't the dying figure from my memory. His hair was jet black again, combed neatly. He wore his old triple-breasted suit — the one he'd loved a decade ago. My brother was younger too, the lines in his face erased.
"This isn't important now," my father said, voice stern. "I sent you abroad to study, to learn skills — not to drink and drive."
"It's true, Dad!" My voice cracked between pleading and desperate. "I don't know how it happened, but I'm thirty-two. Neel Jadhav — he's the one. He disguised himself as Mr. Lawrence. He's going to destroy our family."
His hand struck my cheek before I could take another breath. The sting grounded me — or maybe dragged me deeper into whatever this was.
"He injured his head — that's why he's saying these things," my brother said, stepping closer, protective.
"Report to sales tomorrow. Start as a salesman. If you can't be the best in a year, don't come back to the Group." My father's words cut like a sentence. He turned and left with his bodyguards, not looking back.
"Dad!" I called after him, but my voice just dissolved into the empty air.
I turned to my brother. "You have to believe me."
"Rahul… it's my fault. I shouldn't have let you go home alone," he said softly. "Rest for now. Report to the Group tomorrow. Don't worry about performance."
His hand touched my shoulder; I slapped it away.
"Brother!" I shouted as he left with his secretary.
Silence wrapped around me again. My head throbbed. I pressed against the bandage and winced.
How?
Had Neel's knife really thrown me ten years into the past? Or was I still lying somewhere, hallucinating my way through old ghosts?
If it was 2013, then Neha was still in pre-college. Neel too — just a student, not yet the man I knew.
The thought twisted into a thin, humorless laugh.
I reached for my phone, cold metal against my palm, and dialed.
"Hello? Krishna?" My voice was steady now. Steady in the way that makes people afraid.
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