The scent of damp walls.The sound of a leaky ceiling dripping rhythmically onto the floor.The rough texture of a thin mattress scraping against bare skin.
Aarav—no, Ishaan now—opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the unfamiliar light.His vision was blurry, like staring through glass smeared with fingerprints.
The room was small.No AC. No polished marble.Just cracked cement, peeling paint, and a flickering yellow bulb swaying from the ceiling.
"Where… am I?" he whispered, though his voice came out strained, lighter—like that of a boy still growing.
He tried to sit up. Pain seared through his ribs.His arms were thinner. Weaker. His fingers, bony.This wasn't his body.
His breathing grew shallow as pieces of memory came flooding in—Not his memories…Ishaan's.
A mother who worked double shifts as a maid.A house that leaked every monsoon.A boy too sick to attend school regularly.No father. No guidance. No dreams.
Aarav clutched his forehead, struggling to stay calm.
"This is real. I've been… reborn."
His heart pounded—not out of fear, but disbelief.All the money, cars, awards, and cold penthouses—gone.Now, he had nothing.And strangely, it felt… freeing.
A knock came. Then a voice.
"Ishaan, wake up! I made tea. It's getting cold," a woman called out softly.
He recognized the voice instantly.His mother.
Not the one from his previous life.Ishaan's mother—a woman who smiled despite everything, whose hands were rough from labor, whose saree was always faded but clean.
He stood slowly, legs shaking beneath him.
When he stepped out, the sight hit him like a slap.
A small kitchen that was barely more than a corner.A clay stove. Two cracked steel cups.And a woman—early 40s, sunken eyes, a tired but loving smile.
"You look pale. Bad dreams?" she asked, handing him tea.
He held the warm cup in both hands. The heat felt real. Heavy. Comforting.
For a moment, he forgot how to speak.Then finally, he said, "No… just… remembering something I forgot."
She looked at him curiously, but only nodded and sat on the floor to eat.Two pieces of dry bread. A smear of pickle.
That was breakfast.
He looked around the house—two rooms. A cracked photo of some god on the wall. One fan that creaked like it might fall.No framed awards. No trophies. No white silence.
Just life.Raw. Painful. But real.
And somewhere in that rawness, he felt something warm stir inside his chest.
Later that day, he found an old notebook under his bed.Ishaan's scribbles. Some math formulas. A sketch of a man in a suit.The words "Someday I'll be someone" written in the corner.
Aarav smiled sadly."Looks like you and I have the same dream… only I reached it the wrong way."
He turned to a blank page.For the first time in years, he picked up a pen—not to sign a deal, but to write something real.
"Day 1. Rebirth.No money. No power. No fame.Just a weak body, a mother who never gave up, and a second chance I won't waste."
"I lived like a king, but died empty.This time, I'll rise… with heart."