I was not poor when I died.I was not rich either.
That was the problem.
No debt. No achievements. No enemies. No legacy.
Just a life that ended quietly—like a file saved on a desktop no one ever opened again.
The last thing I remember was a hospital ceiling fan, wobbling as if it might fall any second. It clicked with every rotation, uneven and irritating. I counted the sounds, not because I was scared of dying—
—but because I was scared of how little I had done while alive.
I had always thought too much and acted too late.
By the time I understood what mattered, the window had already closed.
Then the light went out.
—
I woke up to noise.
Children shouting. Chairs scraping. Someone crying for no reason.
My body felt wrong—too small, too light. My legs didn't even touch the floor.
The ceiling above me was painted white, stained yellow near the corners. A slow fan spun lazily, fighting the heat.
Heat.
Sticky. Heavy.
The smell of chalk dust mixed with sweat hit my nose.
I looked around.
Green-black boards. Wooden benches. Open windows with iron grills. Outside, palm trees swayed under a harsh sun.
Tamil Nadu.
My throat went dry.
I raised my hands.
Small fingers. Clean nails. No scars. No lines carved by years of stress and indecision.
Second grade.
Not symbolically.Not metaphorically.
Second grade.
This was the earliest point I could remember clearly.
Before I learned how to stay quiet.Before I learned how to adapt too much.Before I learned how to survive instead of build.
A woman's voice snapped through the classroom.
"Notebook open. Quiet."
The teacher walked between the rows, her sandals tapping sharply against the floor.
I knew her face.
I had forgotten her name—but not this place.
We had been transferred here because of my father.
Army.
He was always somewhere between postings—sometimes home, sometimes gone, always disciplined, always distant.
My mother stayed at home. She followed him state to state, packing and unpacking our lives every few years.
I was the youngest.
One elder sister.One big brother—the eldest of us all.
My brother had always walked straight, spoken less, and followed rules naturally.
In my previous life, he joined the army too.
It made sense.
I never did.
I had spent my life thinking about what I should become.
He had simply become.
—
The pencil lay on my desk.
I picked it up.
It felt heavy.
Good.
Dreams are light. Reality has weight.
As I wrote my name at the top of the page, my chest tightened—not with fear, but with clarity.
I regressed.
No glowing system appeared.No divine voice congratulated me.
Perfect.
I never trusted shortcuts.
—
In my previous life, second grade passed unnoticed.
I was quiet. Average. Forgettable.
Teachers liked me because I caused no trouble.Students ignored me because I gave them nothing to react to.
That habit followed me everywhere.
New schools. New states. New faces.
Every transfer reset my life.
Every reset trained me to stay small.
I carried that mindset into adulthood—into wasted years, half-commitments, and watching others move ahead while I prepared endlessly.
Now?
I knew exactly where that road led.
And I refused to walk it again.
—
The bell rang.
Children rushed out, laughing and screaming.
I stayed seated.
The teacher frowned. "Break time."
"I know," I replied.
My voice was thin. Weak.
I hated that.
But voices grow.
Time doesn't.
Outside, the playground buzzed with movement.
Groups formed instantly.
Leaders. Followers. Bullies. Observers.
Hierarchy didn't wait for adulthood.
I watched carefully.
The loud boy would peak early.The talented one would burn out.The disciplined one would survive.
I memorized faces.
Not because they mattered now—
—but because some of them would matter later.
I stood up and walked out.
A boy bumped into me hard.
"Watch it," he snapped.
In my previous life, I would have apologized automatically.
This time, I looked at him.
Not angry.Not submissive.
Just calm.
He looked away first.
Good.
—
At lunch, I ate slowly.
Rice. Sambar. Familiar.
I watched who shared food, who demanded it, who negotiated trades with smiles.
Markets existed everywhere.
People just didn't call them that yet.
I said nothing.
I observed everything.
—
That night, I lay on a thin mattress in a house that felt both familiar and foreign.
My parents spoke softly in the other room.
My father's voice was tired. My mother's was steady.
Some things never changed.
I felt no resentment.
They had done their duty.
So had I.
That just hadn't been enough.
I raised my hand in front of my face.
Small. Weak.
But rich in something I never had before.
Time.
I whispered, barely audible.
"Never again."
I wouldn't chase every path.I wouldn't wait for certainty.I wouldn't confuse thinking with progress.
This time, I would build early. Quietly. Relentlessly.
Not for praise.Not for approval.
To win.
As I closed my eyes, one final thought surfaced, sharp and cold:
The future isn't fixed.
And I already know where most people waste their lives.
Tomorrow, I would take my first step.
Not as a child.
But as a man who had already failed once—and learned.