Grandfather Will

The morning sun slipped through the narrow window of Jatin's room, casting a faint golden glow across the wooden floor.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my bare feet pressed against the cool planks, staring at the cracked plaster on the ceiling.

My head still throbbed faintly, a dull reminder of the flood of memories—his memories—that had crashed into me the night before. I hadn't slept much.

How could I? Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the truck barreling toward me, felt the jolt of impact, and then… nothing. Just this.

Rewari, Haryana, February 29, 2002. The calendar on the wall stared back at me, its faded edges curling slightly, as if it too was unsure how I'd ended up here.

I ran my fingers through my hair—Jatin's hair—still adjusting to the way it felt thicker, coarser than mine had been.

The mirror on the dresser reflected a face that wasn't quite mine either: sharper cheekbones, a broader forehead, eyes darker and more shadowed than I remembered. Handsome, maybe, but unfamiliar. I'd spent half the night studying it, tracing the lines of this stranger's skin, trying to make it feel like home.

The voice from last night lingered in my mind, crisp and mechanical, like something out of a sci-fi movie I'd watched as a kid.

"Congratulations, Host… You are bound by the Best Principal System.

To activate the system, own a university and become the principal…" I'd turned the words over and over, searching for meaning, but they still felt like a riddle I wasn't equipped to solve.

A system? What did that even mean? Some kind of cosmic game show? A glitch in whatever force had dragged me back to 2002 and dropped me into Jatin Sharma's body? I didn't have answers, and the silence of the empty house offered none either.

I stood, my knees creaking slightly—Jatin's body wasn't as young as it looked, or maybe it was just exhaustion—and shuffled toward the small kitchen down the hall. The house was modest, a single-story structure with peeling paint and furniture that hadn't been updated in decades.

The air smelled faintly of dust and old spices, a quiet testament to a life that had been lived here long before I arrived.

Jatin's grandfather's presence lingered in every corner: a worn armchair by the window, a stack of yellowed books on a shelf, a brass clock on the mantel that had stopped ticking years ago. He'd been gone three weeks, Jatin's memories told me, but the weight of his absence still hung heavy.

I found a tin of tea, sugar in a cupboard and set a kettle on the stove, the familiar ritual grounding me as the water began to hum.

My hands moved automatically, muscle memory from my own life blending with Jatin's, though his preference for strong, black tea was new to me.

As the steam rose, I leaned against the counter, letting my mind wander back to the plan I'd started forming last night. Sell the house, liquidate whatever assets his grandfather had left, move abroad.

The US, maybe—Boston, where I'd spent those grueling years at MIT. I knew the future: Google's IPO in 2004, Apple's resurgence with the iPhone, Bitcoin's quiet launch in 2009. I could ride those waves, build a fortune, live the life I'd never had a chance to in 2025.

But that voice—the system—kept tugging at the edges of my thoughts, like a loose thread I couldn't ignore.

"Own a university. Become a principal." It didn't fit. I'd been a professor, sure, and a damn good one, but running a university was a different game. It meant bureaucracy, budgets, endless meetings—things I'd avoided like the plague back at Delhi University.

And yet, the way the voice had said "Host," so deliberate, so final, made me wonder. Was this optional? Or was it a command, some kind of condition tied to this second chance I'd been given?

The kettle whistled, snapping me out of my spiral. I poured the boiling water over the tea leaves, watching the dark tendrils swirl and spread, and carried the chipped mug to the small table by the window.

Outside, Rewari was waking up. A bicycle bell chimed faintly in the distance, and a woman in a bright sari swept the doorstep of the house across the street.

It was quieter than Delhi, slower, a world away from the chaos I'd left behind in 2025. I took a sip of the tea—bitter, strong—and let the warmth settle into my chest.

Jatin's memories offered more context as I sat there, sipping slowly. His grandfather, Dr. Ramesh Sharma, had been a towering figure in his life, a man of discipline and quiet ambition.

He'd founded a small university in Rewari fifteen years ago—Sharma University, a modest institution focused on science and engineering. It wasn't prestigious, not like Oxford or MIT, but it had been his pride, his legacy.

Jatin had studied there for his bachelor's, excelling under his grandfather's stern guidance before earning a scholarship to Oxford.

The old man had been thrilled, Jatin remembered, his weathered face breaking into a rare smile when the acceptance letter arrived.

But now he was gone, and the university… well, I didn't know what had become of it. Jatin's memories were hazy on that front, clouded by grief and the whirlwind of his return.

I set the mug down, the ceramic clinking softly against the table, and rubbed my temples.

If I was stuck here, in this body, in this time, I needed to take stock. The house was mine now—or Jatin's, at least. There'd be paperwork somewhere, maybe a will, bank records, something to tell me what I was working with. And the university… could it still be running? Had it been sold off after his grandfather's death? The system's words echoed again: "Own a university." Was it pointing me toward Sharma University, or was that just a coincidence?

I stood and wandered back to the bedroom, pulling open the drawers of an old wooden desk in the corner. Inside were stacks of papers, some yellowed with age, others crisp and new.

I sifted through them, my fingers brushing against envelopes and faded receipts, until I found a leather-bound folder tucked at the back. The words "Sharma University" were embossed on the cover in gold lettering, worn but still legible. My pulse quickened as I opened it.

Inside was a deed, dated 1987, transferring ownership of the university to Dr. Ramesh Sharma. Clipped to it was a more recent document—a will, signed just a year ago, in shaky but determined handwriting.

I skimmed the text, my eyes catching on the key lines:

"To my grandson, Jatin Sharma, I leave my estate in its entirety, including full ownership of Sharma University, to be managed or disposed of as he sees fit…"

There it was. The university was mine. Or Jatin's. Ours.

I sat back on the bed, the folder heavy in my lap. The will didn't say whether the university was still operational, but it gave me a starting point.

If it was, I could sell it—add the proceeds to my escape fund and be done with this place. If it wasn't, well, that'd be one less complication.

Either way, I wasn't about to tie myself to some crumbling institution in a small town just because a disembodied voice told me to. I had bigger plans.

But as I stared at the deed, a flicker of curiosity stirred. What had Sharma University been like? Jatin's memories painted it as a place of quiet rigor, small but respected, a haven for students who couldn't afford the big cities.

I could see his grandfather pacing the halls, barking orders at teachers, adjusting the curriculum to keep it cutting-edge despite limited funds.

There was something admirable about it, something that tugged at the part of me that had loved teaching, that had felt alive in front of a chalkboard at Delhi University.

I shook my head, pushing the thought away. Nostalgia wasn't part of the plan. I'd find out what the university was worth, liquidate it, and move on. Simple.

The tea had gone cold by the time I returned to the kitchen, but I didn't mind. I rinsed the mug in the sink, the water trickling over my hands, and glanced out the window again.

The street was busier now, a few men in kurtas chatting by a tea stall, a stray dog nosing through the dirt. It was a world I didn't belong to—not really—but for now, it was mine.

I'd start tomorrow, I decided. Track down the university, see what state it was in, figure out the next step. The system could wait. If it wanted me to be a principal, it'd have to give me more than cryptic commands. I wasn't here to play by someone else's rules—not again.

For now, I'd take it slow. One breath, one step, one impossible day at a time.