Chapter 1 – The Mango Man

Hari Varma could smell mangoes in his sleep. Sweet. Overripe. Sometimes fermented. That was just part of owning India's largest mango plantation.

Everyone said he was lucky. He inherited the land, the empire, the fame, and even the family curse of being the "Mango King."

He hated it.

As a child, he thought mangoes were magical. But after 27 years of managing quotas, scolding workers, and talking to shady exporters, mangoes had become just… inventory.

And yet, he was still working late. Again. His shirt clung to his back from the heat. His fingers smelled like mango sap. And his only companion was a plastic-wrapped gas station sandwich he didn't even like.

"Another successful harvest," he muttered sarcastically, slamming the jeep door shut. "Living the dream."

He started the engine, rubbed his bleary eyes, and drove off.

The road was long, dark, and empty. The kind that made your thoughts louder.

"Maybe next year… I'll take a vacation. Maybe Goa. Maybe I'll finally eat a mango without checking its weight and market value first."

A yawn slipped out.

Then he blinked.

And a child stood in the middle of the road.

"WHAT—!"

He swerved.

The world turned sideways.

Metal screamed.

And everything went black.

Hari's eyes opened slowly. The first thing he noticed was the silence. There was no rustling of trees or the constant hum of the mango plantation machinery. In fact, there was no plantation.

He blinked rapidly. Where was he? The world around him was… strange.

Tall, sleek buildings stretched toward the sky, their glass surfaces gleaming in the sunlight. The streets were spotless, the air unnaturally fresh. A gentle breeze carried the faint scent of something foreign, but nothing that smelled remotely like mangoes.

"Am I dead?" Hari muttered under his breath, squinting up at the bright blue sky. No sign of a mango tree in sight.

He stood up, his legs shaky. The asphalt beneath his feet felt different. Smooth. Clean. Definitely not the dusty roads of his plantation in India. His head ached as memories of the car accident flooded back—the swerve to avoid the child, the screeching of tires, the crash. The death.

But now? He was... here. Wherever here was.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Hari started walking down the pristine sidewalk. His shoes clicked against the pavement, the sound echoing in the strange, quiet streets. As he moved, people passed by him, all dressed in sleek, modern clothes, staring at their phones or chatting with each other in fast, fluent speech. None of them seemed to notice him—or at least, they didn't pay him any mind.

"Excuse me," Hari said, approaching a man walking briskly. He smiled, hoping for some clarity. "Do you know where I am?"

The man gave him a quick glance and muttered something Hari didn't understand before walking away without a second thought.

"Okay…" Hari murmured to himself, his confusion growing. He tried again with a woman passing by, but once again, she gave him a strange look and shrugged before walking off.

What the hell is going on? Hari wondered, feeling a little more panicked. "Hello!" he tried calling to a nearby group of people, who were chatting animatedly in a language that didn't sound like anything he recognized.

"Hello? Excuse me! Do you understand me?" he repeated, waving his hands in the air, hoping to get their attention.

Nothing.

Desperation made his mind race through options. Maybe it was just a dialect issue? He tried speaking to them in Hindi, but their faces showed no recognition. Frustrated, he switched to Tamil, then Kannada, then Gujarati—each time his words falling on uncomprehending ears. The group just glanced at him with mild curiosity, then went back to their conversation.

Hari gritted his teeth. This is hopeless.

His head spun. This was way beyond his understanding. He stepped aside, trying to calm himself. There had to be someone around who spoke a language he could understand. He wandered through the streets, asking people in every language he could think of, but each time, they just shrugged or mumbled words he couldn't understand.

Then, finally, he spotted a man in a white shirt and a slightly worried expression, standing outside a café.

"Excuse me," Hari said, walking up to him. "Do you speak English?"

The man blinked, then smiled awkwardly. "Yes. I do."

Relief washed over Hari. "Oh, thank God. You're a lifesaver."

"I'm glad I could help," the man said, shifting on his feet. "What's the issue?"

Hari took a deep breath and began to explain his situation: the car accident, the weirdness of the place, how everything felt off.

The man looked at him, brows furrowed, as if considering what Hari had said. After a moment, he sighed. "Well, it sounds like you've been transported to Dubai. Welcome."

"Dubai?" Hari's eyes widened. "But how? I was in India. I was at my mango plantation—wait, Dubai?"

"Yeah." The man nodded. "You're definitely in Dubai now. You didn't know?"

Hari stood frozen for a few moments, processing the information. Dubai? It was one of the most modern cities in the world. Wealthy, fast-paced, and full of people from every corner of the globe. It was a place to escape, to get away from the endless responsibilities and the crushing pressure of his mango empire.

"I'm in Dubai..." Hari said, his voice growing more excited. "I'm finally free. No mango plantations. No bosses. No work. I'm going to enjoy my life!"

The man nodded. "Yeah, most people here do enjoy their lives. Except for the whole heat and humidity thing."

But Hari wasn't listening. He was already imagining all the possibilities. The freedom. The mangoes. Finally, he could relax, kick back, and enjoy the fruit of his labor—or rather, the fruit he wanted to enjoy.

He smiled widely. "Alright, it's celebration time. I'm going to get a huge mango and—"

The man interrupted him, glancing down. "Mangoes?"

Hari froze.

"Yes. Mangoes," he repeated, still smiling. "You know, the fruit. They're my favorite. In India, we have the best mangoes. I can't wait to—"

The man shook his head. "There are no mangoes in Dubai."

A cold shiver ran down Hari's spine.

"No mangoes?" he repeated, his voice rising in disbelief.

The man shrugged nonchalantly. "Mangoes don't grow here. Not in the climate. Some other places in the world still have them, but here? Not a chance."

Hari blinked, staring at him, completely stunned. No mangoes? The thought was incomprehensible. It was like telling someone there was no air to breathe.

"No mangoes?" he whispered again, his face turning pale.

The man, oblivious to Hari's growing horror, gave a small chuckle. "Yeah, sorry about that."

Hari turned away, his heart pounding in his chest. This couldn't be happening. He walked out onto the street, staring up at the cloudless sky.

"No," he muttered to himself. "No. No, no, NO!"

He raised his arms dramatically, the full weight of his situation hitting him.

"THERE ARE NO MANGOES IN DUBAI!" he yelled into the void.

People nearby glanced over at him, some shaking their heads as they continued walking.

But Hari didn't care. The harsh reality was sinking in. He wasn't just in another world. He was in a world that had taken away the only thing that had ever given him joy.

No mangoes.

It was going to be a long life.