Cremation Site, Bandra, Mumbai
He had not slept deliberately. He had waited and watched, a statue against the metal gate, until the first official opened the padlock and the morning's business began.
"Say Jade, why is all this happening to me? We worked hard, didn't complain. All sacrifices and suffering were acceptable—but death… injustice… betrayal? Where did we go wrong?"
Arjun was throwing his heart out.
"..."
Jade was silent for long time, unable to tell more
"I can analyze your pain, Arjun. But I cannot rewrite the past. My function is not to erase… but to rebuild. If it's the future you wish to change, I will stand with you. That's what I was made for."
Arjun was silent now, he was in deep thoughts.
"Say Jade, will you help me if I say I want justice for what my family suffered? Will you help me fight for others crushed by financial, political, or social injustice? I want to save them all—or at least fight till their needs are met."
Her answer came almost instantly, light but unwavering.
"Yes. Without hesitation. Justice is the system I serve."
He looked up, eyes wet but fierce. "Then let's start our fight."
A short pause, then the voice softened again.
"Before we begin, you must accept a truth. You are no longer Arjun Rao. You live as Aarav Das now. His memories, his identity—they're sealed within you. You'll need them to walk this world again."
Arjun stared into the pale sky. "Alright… merge the memories."
"Acknowledged. Initiating memory synchronization. You may experience disorientation. Don't resist—it's only your past and his aligning."
The world tilted, colors bending inward. Arjun felt his consciousness folding inwards like paper touched by flame. Then—nothing but a blur of lives: a child's laughter, teenage rage, debts, sweat, love, failures. Aarav's entire existence rushed through him, a flood compressed into minutes.
....
Aarav slowly opened his eyes—yes, Aarav, not Arjun—woken with the sky gone from ink to pewter. The locked gates of the cremation ground kept their silence until the sun climbed higher; people came and went in slow currents—mourners, relatives, municipal staff with forms and clipboards. The place smelled of wood smoke and boiled tea, dust and the sharp metallic tang of machinery used to stack bodies and manage the pyres.
"Sir," a man in a plain shirt and a faded badge approached when he saw Aarav sitting on the pavement. "You can wait in the visitors' area. We'll call names out—ashes are released only after the formalities. Do you have an ID and the receipt?"
Aarav took some time to gather his thoughts and said,"my friend and his mom both died in accident yesterday, and hospital told me that they were cremated yesterday evening, i am here to collect their Ashes"
"Oh! that pair? Hmm... sorry we can't give away to everyone that claim as relatives and friends, that to in a accident case one? get letter from the police, as you are not even directly blood related" clerk incharge of the site blantly disregarded Aarav's claim over the ashes, and began to address other people waiting next to him.
Aarav blinked. The bureaucracy felt obscene. "Who do I speak to? Police? Sir... heres the issue, my friends family is no more, all died, i am the only person that will even be remotely interested in this, i wanna perform the last rituals and put these ashes in Ganga... please help me bring peace upon their souls"
The man's eyes flicked to the Porsche parked down the lane — an anomaly in a place used to scooters and cycles. He softened slightly. "Name?"
"Das. Aarav Das, here is my ID— my friends name is Arjun Rao and his mother's name is Priya Rao" he shows the ID card from his wallet automatically; the truth was more complicated, but the name fit. Small lies at this moment were a bridge to the dead.
The man checked a list, shrugged, and pointed to a shabby booth. "The release fee is two thousand rupees, sir. Standard. Cash only. Fill this form, sign there. Then wait. We issue the urn after verification."
Two thousand. For Arjun, who had counted a day's work as survival, it felt like a fortune. For the world outside, it was a fee and a formality. He had nothing in his pocket but cards. He could feel panic rising like bile.
He thought of the Porsche keys in his pocket, the watch he'd given away at the hospital. He thought of the boy in the mortuary who'd whispered the cruel truth. He thought of his mother's hands. He fumbled for his phone, thumbed through apps he did not know, tried to call numbers he didn't recognize. His temple started to pound.
He found Rohit's number, his childhood friend, if called, he knew he will definitely come
"You alright, sir?" the clerk in booth asked, irritation and pity warring in his voice.
Before Arjun could answer, the ward boy from the hospital appeared, as if fate had made him punctual. "I told you I'd help,"
"You gave that watch last night. I… I managed a favour."He pressed the notes into Aarav's palm. "You still need cash?"
Aarav stared. "How—?"
"Don't know, sir. Just take it. Maybe it's that friends family is paying back in kind."
he nods at the clerk in the booth, exchanges few documents, and leaves the premisis.
There are moments when the world folds in on itself and something very small keeps you afloat. Aarav took the notes as if they burned. He signed the form with a hand that would not stop shaking, and the clerk in booth disappeared into the steel shed where the urns sat.
A muffled clank; then a carton was handed over — plastic lid, small metal urn within. It was neither beautiful nor dishonorable. It was what remained.
Aarav held it like a relic. Memory came back in spikes—his mother feeding him on the floor of their one-room hut; her lullabies that smelled of cumin; the way she had smiled bravely when the landlord came. He had failed to give her a proper goodbye. This urn was both everything left of her and nothing at all.
He whispered into the lid, words that had no ceremony but were heavy with meaning. "Ma. I'm sorry. I couldn't— I couldn't be there. Forgive me. I will make it right."
Around him, the cremation ground moved in merciless efficiency: men unloading pallets, families arguing about small details of rites, a child crying for a biscuit. Life continued, miserly with solace, generous with routine.
J.A.D.E. was quiet while he returned to the Porsche. Her voice came finally, soft and present. "You did what you could. That action has moral weight."
Aarav stared at the dashboard. "Will that matter? For karma?"
"It matters," J.A.D.E. said. "You petitioned, you paid, you honoured a life even when the system did not. Actions register."A small chime dictated a change on his internal view: Karma Points increased. +20 KP.
He felt nothing like victory. But it was proof: the system recorded, measured, could not be fooled by grief.
"Now go home," Aarav wispered "Or, better—go to Dharavi. I have few things there, that needs to be collected."
....
Dharavi, Mumbai
Dharavi is the worlds largest slum area, was a different planet folded against the city—sweat and spices and satellite dishes, alleys so narrow that, once you were in them, a hatchback seemed metropolitan excess. He could not take the Porsche deep inside; even trying would be sacrilege. He parked where motorbikes clustered and walked, the urn cradled like a newborn.
Neighbors stopped and stared. None recognized him from the faces that walked these alleys. A little girl pressed her face to the dust‑smudged window and waved. People whispered: Why is the car here? Who is this? In Dharavi, questions were blunt and immediate.
He found his old home by instinct and memory more than sight. The door was ajar. Inside, everything echoed with absence—clothes scattered, a broken radio, a cup on the counter with dried milk. Someone had ransacked the place hours after the news spread that all family members died; there was no one to stop it. Only the shape of loss remained.
He walked the rooms slowly. On a shelf, there was huge Urn, why did Aarav come to pick it up? Because it has his fathers and sisters ashes in it. The room smelled faintly of coriander and old smoke—his mother's kitchen though the stove was cold. He gathered the objects as if salvaging bones. Each item fitted into him like a key, unlocking a folder of memory: his sister's laugh, the time his father fixed the television with chewing gum, his mother scolding him for wasting sugar.
Outside, a neighbor—an elderly woman with wrist bangles and a face like a map—peeked over the threshold. "You Are?" she asked.
Aarav held up the tiny things. "I— I am Arjun's friend, I came to pickup this and say goodbye." shows the Urn in his hands.
She nodded slowly, understanding, because in places like this people understood the vocabulary of loss. "Take care of them for now," she said. "We kept what little was left. Rest of the things… they took long ago."
He stayed a long time, sitting on the stoop where the heat of the afternoon rolled up off the concrete. People drifted past with errands, children shrieked and chased, an old man argued about electricity bills. Dharavi was noisy, alive, mercilessly continuing.
When he left, he double‑locked the door as best he could and tucked the small relics into the glove compartment. He had nothing to give to the neighbors. The Porsche waited like a misplaced star on the narrow lane. He slid in, palms praying the wheel; J.A.D.E. was there, quiet for a beat.
"Jade," he said, voice steadier than he felt, "I'm ready. Let's begin properly."
A soft mechanical laugh, almost affectionate, answered: "I knew you would come. God believed in you. I—" Her tone darkened with the reminder of urgency — "It's already noon. You have roughly six hours left, excluding the time your actions will consume. Your life span will continue to tick. Hurry."
He let out a bitter sound that might have been a laugh. Six hours, a list of tasks, a ledger that measured sorrow and salvation like coins. He tightened his grip on the wheel and, for the first time since waking in another man's flesh, felt a plan form around the grief.
Forgive me, he thought, not to his mother this time but to himself. I will not squander this chance.
The Porsche pulled away. The city swallowed him again—fast, bright, indifferent. The list of missions gleamed in the air behind his eyes. He had ashes in the passenger seat and memories in his pockets. He had a clock counting down and an old life's debts to pay.
Somewhere, J.A.D.E. catalogued the act. Somewhere, the world continued to misplace lives. He would, he decided, become the one who retrieved them.
================================================================================================================================================================================================
KP : 70
life span: 6 Hrs [100KP = 1Day]
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DAILY MISSIONS
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Failure to complete within time reduces -0.5 Life Day
"A sound mind demands a stronger vessel" (0/3)
• Run 5 KM +20 KP
• 100 Pushups +20 KP
• 100 Squats +10 KP
"Knowledge sharpens justice as a blade sharpens truth." (0/3)
• Review one case of injustice today +20 KP
• Study one page of Law Acts / Statutes +10 KP
• Write any legal or social ethics article +20 KP
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