The Weight of the Past and the Promise of the Future

Mumbai, June 6, 1980 – Early Morning

The knocking continued, gentle yet firm.

"Arjun, beta! Wake up! You'll be late!"

The voice was warm, familiar—his mother's voice.

Arjun felt a lump in his throat. His breath was shallow, his hands trembling slightly. His mother… alive? He hadn't heard her voice in years. The last time he had seen her was in a cold hospital room in 2017, her frail body lying still, robbed of life by a heart attack.

And yet, here she was.

He hesitated, gripping the edge of the wooden cot he was sitting on. His fingers traced over the rough texture of the bedsheet—not a modern, synthetic fabric, but soft cotton, slightly worn from years of washing. The scent in the air was different, too—not the chemical freshness of room sprays but the faint smell of sandalwood incense and homemade food.

Slowly, he turned his gaze to the rest of the room.

It was small but neat—a wooden cupboard with slightly rusted handles stood against the wall, a study table cluttered with books and loose sheets of paper, and a tiny mirror with a crack running along one edge. Everything looked old yet strangely comforting, pulling him back to memories he barely remembered from his childhood.

A wall calendar hung near the door. His eyes locked onto the bold, black numbers.

June 6, 1980.

His pulse quickened. The reality of the situation hit him all at once—this wasn't a dream. He had really been reborn.

"Arjun!" His mother's voice came again, this time with a little more urgency.

Swallowing hard, he forced himself to move. His legs felt weak as he pushed himself up, his body adjusting to the unfamiliar-yet-familiar sensation of being 18 again.

Stepping towards the door, he hesitated for a moment before taking a deep breath and pulling it open.

There she stood.

Madhavi Mehta, his mother.

She looked exactly as he remembered her from old photographs—in her late thirties, wearing a simple cotton saree with a faded floral print, her black hair neatly tied back, a red bindi on her forehead. There were faint lines around her eyes, the kind formed by years of smiling and worrying in equal measure.

But more than her appearance, it was her presence that hit him the hardest. She was alive. She was real.

"Finally!" she sighed in exasperation, giving him a look that was both stern and affectionate. "How many times do I have to wake you up? Do you want to be late for college?"

Arjun just stared at her, his throat too tight to speak. He wanted to say something—to call her "Maa," to tell her how much he missed her, how much he loved her, how much it meant to see her again. But the words wouldn't come.

She frowned, reaching out to touch his forehead. "Are you alright, beta? You look pale."

Her fingers were warm, comforting. A touch he never thought he would feel again.

A choked breath escaped him. "Maa…"

She blinked, surprised by the emotion in his voice. "What's wrong?"

He shook his head quickly, forcing a small smile. "Nothing… just a bad dream."

Her expression softened. "Dreams aren't real, Arjun. The day is. Come, freshen up. Your father is reading the newspaper, and breakfast is almost ready."

She turned to leave, but Arjun couldn't stop himself.

Before he could think, he reached out and gently took her hand.

She looked at him in surprise. "Arjun?"

He swallowed hard, blinking back the moisture threatening to form in his eyes. "I… missed you, Maa."

Madhavi gave him a confused but amused look. "Missed me? Beta, you just saw me last night!"

He forced a chuckle. "I know… just saying."

She smiled, shaking her head. "You're acting strange today."

She lightly patted his cheek before walking away, her saree rustling as she moved toward the kitchen.

Arjun stood there for a long moment, inhaling deeply.

She's real. This is real.

Arjun took his time washing his face, staring at his reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink.

He looked younger, fresher. His skin had a glow it hadn't had in years, his jawline sharper, his hair thicker. The faint dark circles under his eyes—a result of years of stress and sleepless nights in his past life—were gone.

The weight of this second chance settled heavily on him.

"I have 45 years of knowledge ahead of this world."

Stock market trends, business opportunities, technological advancements, medical breakthroughs… he knew it all.

And he had photographic memory now. Every detail of the future was crystal clear in his mind.

He wasn't just an ordinary 18-year-old anymore.

The realization was both thrilling and terrifying.

As he wiped his face and stepped out of the small bathroom, the sound of a radio playing softly in the background greeted him. The familiar voice of Ameen Sayani echoed through the house, his smooth, rhythmic tone announcing the latest film songs on Binaca Geetmala.

The scent of fresh chai and warm parathas filled the air, making his stomach grumble. It had been so long since he had experienced this—a home-cooked breakfast, the simple warmth of a family morning.

Walking into the small living room, he spotted a man sitting at the wooden dining table, reading a newspaper.

Dinesh Mehta. His father.

The man was in his early forties, dressed in a simple white kurta and dark trousers. His black-rimmed glasses rested on the bridge of his nose as he flipped through the pages of The Times of India.

Arjun felt another jolt of emotion. His father had passed away in 1998 due to a sudden stroke. But here he was, alive and well, lost in his morning routine.

Without looking up, Dinesh muttered, "Finally awake? If you keep waking up late, you'll never make anything of yourself."

Arjun smiled. That was his father—strict, practical, but caring in his own way.

Madhavi placed a plate of hot parathas and a small bowl of curd in front of Arjun. "Eat quickly," she said. "You still have to take the bus to college."

Arjun sat down, feeling a strange mix of nostalgia and newness. He picked up a paratha and took a bite. The taste hit him instantly—homemade, rich with ghee, stuffed with spiced potatoes.

After years of eating fast food, protein bars, and bland office lunches in his past life, this was pure heaven.

His mother noticed his expression and laughed. "What? Have you never eaten aloo paratha before?"

Arjun chuckled, shaking his head. "It's just… really good."

Dinesh turned a page of the newspaper and muttered, "Hmm. Looks like Indira Gandhi is making more economic reforms. Let's see if this actually helps the country."

Arjun's mind sparked. He already knew the path India's economy would take. He knew the boom, the crashes, the political shifts.

This was it.

This was the beginning of his second life.

And he was going to make sure it was legendary.