The last thing Raghav remembered was the shriek of tires, the flash of headlights, and the overwhelming sensation of weightlessness. He had been driving home late after another overtime shift at the tech firm. Rain had smeared the windshield, and exhaustion dulled his senses. The truck had come from the side—too fast, too close. Then, darkness.
No pain. No sirens. Just… silence.
And now, warmth.
It was a different warmth from the one he knew. Not the dry, artificial heat of Bengaluru's late summer or the clinical warmth of a hospital bed. This was earthy. Real. The scent of clay walls mixed with cow dung, fresh ghee, and something like turmeric. The air was damp, but pleasant. Birdsong, roosters crowing, and the faint chant of a distant temple bell surrounded him like a lullaby.
Raghav's eyes fluttered open. He blinked, stared at a ceiling made of wooden beams and woven thatch, and frowned. This wasn't his apartment. There was no ceiling fan, no buzzing inverter. Just rustic quiet.
He sat up—and gasped.
His body was smaller. His hands were not his. His voice, when he whispered, sounded younger.
"What… is this?" he murmured, then stared at the sound that came out of his mouth.
He struggled out of the handwoven cotton blanket. The room around him was simple: a clay floor, wooden shelves lined with bronze utensils, a few cotton garments hanging from pegs on the wall, and an oil lamp still burning faintly in a corner niche.
A polished bronze plate hung on the wall—its reflection rough but usable.
He stumbled over and stared into it.
The face that stared back was not his own. A boy of about ten. Dusky skin, wide eyes, and shoulder-length hair tied in a loose topknot. He reached up, touched the top of his head. The sensation felt real.
Suddenly, the door creaked open.
"Arey, Aarav beta!" a woman gasped. She was perhaps in her thirties, wearing a saffron-colored cotton sari and a red bindi on her forehead. Her eyes shimmered with tears. "You're awake! Oh, thank the gods. You fainted yesterday and wouldn't wake up!"
She rushed to his side, placed a warm hand on his forehead, and then hugged him tightly.
Aarav. That must be the name of this child—this body.
Raghav—now Aarav—felt overwhelmed. Everything was real. The touch. The smell of her sari. The vibration of the wooden floor under his bare feet. He wasn't dreaming.
The woman handed him a brass tumbler filled with yellowish milk. "Drink this, beta. Fresh cow's milk with turmeric and jaggery. You'll feel better."
He drank. The warmth spread through him like firewood on a cold winter morning.
It was delicious—rich, soothing, earthy. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.
Whatever this place was… it was not 2025. No electronics. No machines. Just nature, family, and simplicity.
His thoughts raced. Is this a dream? A coma? Or… am I really dead?
He had read enough isekai novels in his spare time. Was this like that? Reborn in another world?
The woman, still fussing over him, placed a cloth on his forehead. "You always play too much in the fields, I told your pitaji not to let you chase after those buffaloes."
Aarav blinked. "Pitaji?"
"Gone to the temple to offer thanks. He stayed up all night, praying. The village priest said your soul had wandered too far, but Lord Vishnu must've brought you back."
He didn't know what to say. This woman—his new mother—loved him deeply. Her eyes were tired, her fingers calloused, her sari patched in places, but her affection was real.
He had no memories of Aarav's past. Just his own. His long years of corporate slavery, the weekends spent playing games, the parents he never visited enough, the dog he wanted but never adopted.
Now, he had another chance. A new life.
And he had no desire to waste it chasing promotions or productivity metrics.
After finishing the milk, he was helped to his feet and led outside. The courtyard was sun-kissed, surrounded by mud-brick walls. A mango tree stood in the center, its roots massive, its branches home to a chorus of birds.
Beyond the courtyard, a narrow dirt path wound through fields and groves. He saw a few women balancing pots on their heads, men leading bullocks to plow, and children shouting near a stream.
Everything smelled alive.
He inhaled deeply, his chest filling with something he hadn't felt in years: peace.
Later that morning, his father returned from the temple. A tall man with a thick mustache, dark skin, and deep-set eyes. He was dressed in a dhoti and kurta, his forehead smeared with sandalwood paste.
"My son," he said, voice trembling, as he hugged Aarav close. "Thank you, Vishnu. You've brought him back."
That night, under a sky ablaze with stars, Aarav sat with his new family outside their modest home. His mother made chapatis on a clay stove, his father told stories from the Ramayana, and the village slowly wound down for the night.
Aarav thought of smartphones, Netflix, and food delivery apps.
He didn't miss them.
He looked at his mother's smile, the wind in the trees, and the cows lazily chewing cud nearby. Maybe this life was a gift. A chance to slow down. To live differently.
He still had all his knowledge of the modern world. Agriculture. Health. Sanitation. Even a bit of first aid. But he wouldn't rush.
He didn't want to be a king or a warrior.
He wanted to live.
Truly live.
And tomorrow, he decided, he'd start by improving the family's compost pit.