Chapter 10: Journey to the Town

Sitting on the back of the bumpy bicycle, feeling the lingering chill of early spring wind against her skin, Anaya Deshmukh finally woke up completely from her drowsiness.

The road was anything but smooth. It wasn't the flat asphalt she had once known but a rugged dirt path filled with potholes. When it rained, it turned into a thick, unrelenting swamp of mud. The constant jolts and bumps forced her to wake up completely

All the way, Anaya was jolted awake by the relentless bumps.

Honestly, it wasn't just the discomfort—it was the pain. Her backside was sore beyond words.

The constant bumping was unbearable.

Even though Seema Verma had tried to make it easier for her, carefully tying a cushion onto the bicycle seat, every jolt still sent pain through her.

But that pain was nothing.

Not compared to what she had already endured.

(A Memories of a Childhood She'd Rather Forget)

Anaya thought to herself, I really have traveled through time.

Though she now occupied the body of the original Anaya, her soul had carried over the delicate sensitivities and comfort-seeking habits from the 21st century.

The original Anaya had spent fifteen years in that rural village—fifteen years of hardship, of hunger, of being treated as if she were invisible.

At three years old, she had been sent into the fields, barefoot, her tiny hands gripping weeds until they bled.

At five, she had carried water in pots too heavy for her small arms, her legs trembling under the weight. If she spilled even a drop, she was scolded, her meals cut short as punishment.

At eight, she had worked alongside the adults, cutting wheat under the burning sun. Sweat dripped into her eyes, mixing with tears she had long stopped wiping away.

At ten, she had fallen sick—her body burning with fever, her limbs weak and trembling. She had curled up in a corner of the hut, her body aching, her stomach empty.

And her adoptive parents?

They had barely looked at her.

"If you're not dead, you can still work," they had said, pushing her out the door.

So she had gone.

She had walked to the fields, her feverish body swaying with every step, her vision blurring, until—

She collapsed.

She had woken up on the hard ground, surrounded by dirt and dried crops. No one had come for her. No one had called out her name.

She had dragged herself up, dusted off the dirt, and gone back to work.

Because that was her life.

That was all she had ever known.

She had once overheard villagers whispering in confusion.

"How can parents be so cold to their own child?"

She had wondered the same.

But the truth had been far crueler.

She had always sensed it—how her parents' gazes were void of warmth when they looked at her. There was no softness, no tenderness, just something distant and cold.

As a child, she had tried—so many times—to win their love. She had clung to the hope that if she worked hard, if she smiled more, if she behaved better, and obeyed every word without question, they would love her.

But each time, they pushed her away. Their gazes had remained empty. Their touches, are absent.

She had never been held.

She had never been hugged.

She had never even heard a gentle "Are you okay?"

Then came the final blow. The truth that shattered her illusions.

She wasn't their daughter.

Then, after being taken back Rani to the city, her parents told her the truth—she was not their biological daughter. They brought their real daughter home, and she would have to return to where she truly belonged.

Only then did the original Anaya finally understand. They had never truly seen her as their child. It was blood that dictated love, and without that connection, she could never earn a place in their hearts.

And she accepted it.

Despite what others thought, she never clung to the city for a better life. No matter how hard village life was, it was nothing compared to those torturous fifteen years.

She had nearly died several times.

Yet, despite all of that suffering, she still yearned for family. For love.

Her real family lived in the city. Her real parents had found her.

For the first time, hope had flickered inside her.

She had thought—hoped—that finally, she would find the warmth she had been craving. That her real parents would love her. That she would finally belong.

"Maybe now… maybe now, I will finally have a home."

She had imagined it—what it would be like to have a mother who brushed her hair, a father who patted her head, a family that laughed together at the dinner table.

She had stepped onto that train with a heart full of cautious hope.

And then, she had arrived.

And reality had hit her like a slap across the face. that was just another cruel joke.

Because fate had already written her story.

Because there was another girl.

Her real family had their "true" daughter, the one they had always longed for. The one they welcomed with open arms while she, Anaya, was cast aside like an afterthought.

Every glance, every word, every moment reminded her—she was not wanted.

In the original story, she had watched helplessly as her biological family showered Rani Deshmukh with love, while she faded into the background, reduced to nothing but a comparison, a mistake to be forgotten.

And while they embraced her, while they showered her with love, Anaya had been left to the side.

She had stood there, watching as her mother, her father, her siblings—people who were supposed to be hers—looked at another girl with love in their eyes.

The pain, the humiliation—it had slowly crushed her.

She had wanted to cry.

But she hadn't.

She had simply swallowed the lump in her throat and smiled.

She had told herself, "It's okay. I don't need love. I don't need anyone."

She had repeated those words until they no longer hurt.

Until she had convinced herself they were true.

And then… she had died.

Died in loneliness. Died in silence.

But this life—this life was hers now.

And she refused to suffer the same fate.

She thought she had hardened her heart. She thought she had erased the desire for warmth.

She was no longer that pitiful girl. She was a woman who had survived a ruthless world, who had endured betrayal, neglect, and even an attempt on her life in her past existence.

She didn't crave love. She didn't yearn for acceptance.

So why…

Why was everything unfolding so differently?

Wasn't Anil Deshmukh supposed to think only of Rani Deshmukh and treat Anaya coldly?

Then why had Seema Verma used Rani's fabric to sew her a new dress?

Why was her father Anil personally taking her to see a doctor, riding a bicycle for miles just to ensure she was okay?

None of this was in the script.

She didn't understand it. She didn't want to believe it.

As she sat, dazed, on the bicycle's back seat, the cool morning wind brushed against her face, carrying the scent of fresh soil and dewy grass.

But now, as she sat on this bicycle, her father's deep voice pulled her back to reality.

"There's a ditch ahead, Anaya. Hold on tight."

Before she could react, the bicycle lurched violently.

Her body tipped forward, her hands shooting out instinctively, gripping tightly onto her father's waist.

The fabric of his shirt was rough beneath her fingers, but beneath that—she felt warmth. Strength. And Security. It was a feeling she had never experienced before.

A kind of safety she had never known before. That told her no matter what happened, this man would shield her from the world. That even if the sky fell, he would hold it up for her.

It was… unfamiliar.

She felt his steady breathing, the firm muscles of a man who had worked hard his whole life.

And for a moment, she froze.

She had never done this before. Never held onto someone like this.

She had no memories of her father carrying her on his shoulders, no recollections of being picked up when she fell. He never wiped her tears, never cared if she lived or died.

The father from her past life had been a ghost—a man who left and never looked back.

She had never hugged him. He had never hugged her.

But now…

Her throat tightened.

A voice inside her whispered—"Just hold on a little longer."

She wanted to let go. She should let go.

But she couldn't.

She held on. Just for a little while longer.

Because in this moment, she wasn't the girl who had been abandoned.

She wasn't the girl who had been overlooked.

She was just a daughter, riding with her father.

And for the first time in her life, she let herself feel what it was like to be someone's child.

(Anil Deshmukh's Thoughts)

Anil Deshmukh, pedaling ahead, felt the slight tightening of his daughter's arms around him.

A rare, warm feeling spread in his chest.

She was finally accepting him even for just a little bit of movement.

Finally allowing herself to lean on him.

A soft smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

He didn't say anything. He simply pedaled faster, cutting through the morning wind with ease.

If his daughter wanted to hold on, then let her hold on.

She had suffered enough.

And if she needed someone to rely on—if she needed a father—then he would be that for her.

No matter what.

Unaware that the girl behind him, the daughter he was slowly coming to cherish, was holding onto him—not just out of necessity, but out of a desperate, silent yearning she could never put into words.

(Anaya's Heartache)

As the bicycle sped down the road, Anaya closed her eyes, feeling the wind rush against her face.

She would not cry.

She had never cried for anyone before, and she would not start now.

But deep in her heart, something fragile and broken stirred.

Something that whispered—

"Maybe… maybe this time, I won't have to be alone."

Anaya: Come back to her senses. After a long while.

Now she had to hold on for dear life, fearing that one wrong move would send her flying off the bike.

But to her surprise, despite his speed, Anil Deshmukh was careful. He avoided the worst bumps, taking smoother paths when possible, mindful of her comfort.

After more than half an hour, they finally arrived at the town.

Anaya took in her surroundings.

It was completely different from the towering skyscrapers and neon-lit streets of modern times.

People dressed mostly in muted colours—black, grey, navy blue. Their outfits were simple, and practical. Women rarely wore skirts, instead favouring pants and blouses. The few who did accessorize with a red ribbon or a single hairpin stood out, drawing envious gazes.

The town's buildings were mostly single-story homes, with a few three-story structures towering over them.

From her seat on the bicycle, Anaya saw a bustling supply and marketing cooperative, a state-run restaurant, and even a food factory.

Each place carried the distinct atmosphere of this era.

Eventually, they reached the hospital.

It was nothing like the towering, multi-building complexes of the modern world.

Instead, there was only one three-story building, surrounded by a row of single-story structures that had been repurposed into offices and patient wards.

Anaya saw doctors consulting with patients in open rooms, and inside the smaller buildings, beds lined up neatly with a few people resting in them.

She sighed.

This was the world she had been reborn into.

And whether she accepted it or not, she would have to carve out a place for herself here.