[System Loading: Memory Archive]
It hadn't been long since Rudra had died, and yet here he was alive, breathing, walking in someone else's skin. The sensation was surreal, nightmarish. He who had once dictated the fate of kings and prime ministers now couldn't even understand his own twisted resurrection.
A screen flickered before his eyes again, offering two viewing options:
[FIRST PERSON PERSPECTIVE (FPP)]
[THIRD PERSON PERSPECTIVE (TPP)]
"What are these options?" Rudra muttered, genuinely curious.
FPP felt more intimate. He selected it mentally.
The screen flashed white, then faded into a vivid simulation. A robotic voice filled his consciousness:
"Location: Scaredford. The City of Moksha."
Scaredford. The holy city where pilgrims come seeking salvation. A place where people believe that if your ashes touch the sacred Pureflow River, your soul breaks free from the cycle of rebirth forever. Direct moksha liberation from suffering.
But for the living? The living are left choking on unfulfilled dreams, grinding poverty, and the weight of tradition. Yet there were a few who clutched their aspirations fiercely, refusing to let hope die.
[ERROR: Only the last 15 days of memory retrieved]
[Press CONTINUE to experience]
Click.
The interface dissolved.
Suddenly, Rudra was no longer himself he was Danny, living the last days of a doomed young man's life.
Vallabh Chowk, Scaredford – 15 Days Ago
The air was thick with contradictions the sacred smoke of burning incense mixed with the bitter stench of monkey urine, the aroma of roasting peanuts competing with the acrid smell of poverty.
This was Scaredford, the holy city where souls supposedly came to find peace but the living remained shackled to their circumstances.
I kicked a pebble across the cracked pavement near Har Ki Pauri Ghat, rage bubbling in my chest like acid. My hand throbbed under my kurta sleeve fresh bruises from this morning's beating still tender to the touch.
"Hey Danny "
"Don't." I spun around, fire in my eyes. "Don't try to cheer me up, Amit. Not today."
There stood Amit, with strange white heirs, my best friend since childhood, clutching a half eaten samosa like it was sacred prasad. Premature white hair earned him the nickname Grandpa among our classmates. Son of a civil engineer. Blessed with good looks and natural charm. Everything I wasn't. And yet, he chose to be my friend.
"Chill yaar! Who pissed your mood on this auspicious Sunday morning?" he asked through a mouthful of samosa, oil staining his shirt.
"Same bastard who does every day," I muttered. "My dear uncle. One of these days, I swear I'll toss him into the Pureflow . See if Mother Pureflow can wash that drunkard's sins clean."
Amit's expression shifted. "Belt again?"
"Yeah. This time across the back. "I tried to shrug it off, but my spine ached with every movement. "Left some nice welts for me to remember him by."
"You should've ducked, bro."
"Duck and then what?"
"You could have given him Bruce Lee style kick," he said enthusiastically, eyes full of strange compassion.
"I'm not Bruce Lee, Grandpa," I said bitterly. "I'm just a punching bag who happens to go to school."
"You could learn to be," Amit said, suddenly intense. "You keep talking about power, revenge, fighting back. Then actually do something about it, Danny. Why don't we join those guys at the Desi Gym near the ghat? The bodybuilders. They'll teach us proper fighting skills."
I was about to respond when my gaze drifted toward a procession forming near the cremation ghat.
A corpse wrapped in white cloth, tied to a bamboo stretcher, being carried by family members. Their cries echoed across the holy waters.
"Ram naam satya hai…" (only the god's name is true)
"Ram naam satya hai…"
The chanting was loud, mechanical, practised. Death was routine here.
Amit glanced at the funeral procession, then back at me. "Another soul heading to moksha, huh?"
"Another bill to pay, you mean," I replied cynically.
Near the burning ghats, I could see a dom a member of the untouchable caste who handled cremations negotiating prices with the grieving family.
"Two thousand for the space." "Extra for ghee to make the fire burn hotter." "Wood sold by the kilo."
Even in death, there was no escape from commerce. The crying relatives were forced to haggle over the cost of their loved one's liberation.
"Even the dead can't die in peace anymore," I whispered, disgusted.
Amit sighed deeply. "Sacredford runs on three things moksha, mithai [sweets], and manipulation."
We continued walking. Near the old Shiv Temple, a group of women in white sarees sat behind enormous vessels, ladling out food.
Free food for the poor. Maybe for spiritual merit, maybe for show. Didn't matter food was food.
One woman waved." Son, would you like some food? It's freshly prepared."
Amit didn't wait. He was already accepting a steel plate before she'd finished speaking. I followed, grateful for the hot meal.
The food was piping hot, tangy, and filled my perpetually empty stomach like medicine.
"God bless this charity," I muttered between bites.
"She's not doing it for you, bro," Amit said. "She's probably praying for a foreign son in law or a visa to America."
Despite everything, I smiled. "Still better than our lives."
"Danny..." Amit's voice grew serious. "Results are being announced today. You ready?"
I nodded. "Yeah. Either I top the class and get a scholarship out of this hellhole, or I fail and rot here forever. No middle ground."
"Top the exams and escape from Scaredford," he said quietly. "Or stay and decay with the rest of us."
The weight of that sentence hung heavy. We both knew what was at stake.
Then A girl's voice rang out like a blade slicing through morning noise:
"Who do you think you are, some local goon? I've dealt with thugs like you back in Mumbai!"
We turned. A street vendor. A girl in a peacock blue salwar kameez. Her voice rising.
"What's going on?" I asked, alert.
Amit grinned." Street drama, bro. Free entertainment before exam anxiety kills us both."
The girl shoved a plate of chana chaat toward the vendor. "You said forty rupees. Now you're demanding eighty. That's highway robbery!"
The vendor spat paan into the gutter. "You tourist types think we're fools? You heard wrong, madam. Pay the full price or leave."
"Let's see what's happening there," I muttered.
"Let's go," Amit said, sensing the shift in my tone.
Then I saw her face and everything faded.
Time slowed. Crowd noise dimmed. Even my anger paused.
What a beauty…
Movie star face. Sharp features. Expressive eyes flashing with fire. Confidence that commanded space.
Even in her anger, she was... radiant.
And she was right.
She was fighting for what was fair, refusing to be cheated.
In that moment, something shifted inside me.
This wasn't about helping a stranger anymore.
It was about proving that even in a city of pilgrims and priests Someone still gave a damn about justice.
[MEMORY FRAGMENT ENDS]
[CONTINUE TO NEXT SEQUENCE? Y/N]
[Character Development Unlocked]
What is this character development thing?
He thought for a moment Then another screen popped up:
Current Objective: Understand Danny's final days to identify his killer Time Remaining: 29 days, 14 hours, 23 minutes
Rudra pulled back from the memory, his new heart racing with emotions that weren't entirely his.
Danny had been more than a victim He'd been a young man with dreams, friendships, and a moral compass that refused to bend, even under abuse and poverty.
"So that's who you were, Danny," Rudra murmured, a strange respect blooming." A fighter, even when you had nothing to fight with."
But the questions remained.
Who was the girl in blue? What happened next?
****************************************************
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