CHAPTER 4: THE SPARK BENEATH THE ASHES
Three days had passed since Ishan Malhotra—the once untouchable billionaire, the tycoon who had ruled continents with the flick of a finger—collapsed outside the modest tin-roofed house he now called home.
He hadn't stepped out since.
The room he stayed in was barely the size of one of his old walk-in closets. The bed was thin, barely more than a woven mat stuffed with cotton, and the walls had cracks wide enough for lizards to peek through. A rusted fan creaked above him, and the air smelled of dust, old books, and the faint scent of kerosene.
He stared at the ceiling for hours, unmoving, unspeaking.
His name in this life was Ishaan—with two A's. The cruel irony wasn't lost on him. Not only was he thrown into a new life without his wealth or power, but even his name had been downgraded. As if the universe had stripped him down, pixel by pixel.
No one could recognize him now. Not even the mirror.
The boy's body he inhabited was thinner than his old shadow. Skin too tight around the bones, a faint scar near the collarbone, weak joints. The first time he tried to do push-ups, his elbows gave out. He'd hit the floor so hard he'd bitten his tongue.
But that wasn't what stung most.
It was the helplessness.
The waiting.
The silence.
He hadn't cried. He hadn't screamed. He hadn't begged.
No. He was still Ishan Malhotra, even if the world refused to see it.
He sat cross-legged by the window now, watching the narrow lane beyond the grilled bars. Children ran barefoot outside, laughing. Some chasing a punctured football. Others splashing water from a broken pipe. Laughter echoed in the alleys like mocking ghosts.
He turned his head away.
The first time his new mother came into the room, he pretended to be asleep. She tiptoed in, placed a glass of water near his bed, and quietly adjusted the mosquito net. She didn't touch him, didn't scold, didn't beg. Just waited a moment, then left with a gentle sigh.
He opened one eye.
He didn't remember being touched like that. Not since he was six, maybe. After that, it was all nannies, governesses, and cold efficiency.
Why was that sigh stuck in his chest?
He tried to forget it.
By the fourth morning, Ishan's old mind had fully kicked back into gear.
He sat on the bed with his arms folded, face hard. He had a routine when facing a corporate disaster—first, stabilize. Then, analyze.
He had stabilized. Now it was time to ask questions.
What happened to me? Who killed me? Why?
The memories of the crash were fuzzy—flashes of headlights, brakes screaming, glass shattering, and a sharp stab in his chest. That's all.
But the instincts screamed: It wasn't just an accident.
Who was in the car with him? Was he alone? Who reported it? Did the media cover his death? Was there a funeral? Did anyone cry?
He let out a cold breath.
Crying isn't the metric.
He wanted facts. He wanted closure. Even if this body was weak, the brain inside it was still the one that built a global empire by age twenty-eight.
And yet, there was no laptop here. No assistants. No security clearance. No Swiss account. Just a rusted box fan and a cracked mirror.
"Damn it," he muttered.
His little sister, Aaru, peeked in from the door that day.
"Bhaya… mummy says come eat."
He turned to her. She had large, dark eyes like their mother. Her nose crinkled a little when she spoke, and her hair was tied in two uneven braids.
He hadn't really looked at her before.
Aaru.
The girl had tried giving him a toffee on day one. He'd brushed her off.
Now, he nodded silently. She smiled and ran.
He followed.
The dining area was barely a corner of the house. A metal plate sat on a wooden stool. Rice, some thin daal, two slices of onion. No butter. No ghee. Not even pickle.
He sat on the floor.
Their elder brother, Kabir, was already eating. Strong shoulders, a hint of stubble, rolled-up sleeves. His hands were calloused—working-class, practical.
They didn't look alike at all.
Kabir didn't speak much. Just passed Ishan a spoon and looked away.
Their mother placed a papad on each plate. Her eyes were tired but kind.
"You feeling better today?" she asked softly.
He didn't respond. Not with words.
But he nodded.
Later that day, he overheard his sister whispering to their mother.
"Bhaya's quiet now… do you think something is wrong in his head?"
He smiled grimly.
You have no idea.
By sunset, Ishan was sitting on the steps outside the house, alone.
He stared at the sky as the orange bled into violet.
And then, for the first time, a whisper rose inside him like a memory.
"What happened after I died?"
He needed answers.
Not because he planned to go back—not because he thought the gods would undo the karmic curse—but because the truth was still his right.
He didn't need justice. He needed clarity.
Just like a good CEO analyzing a company's fall.
But how would he get that information? There was no internet in this house. No news channels. No archives.
He could ask Kabir. But the man barely talked.
He could sneak to the local library. If one even existed.
Or… school.
Yes. He remembered hearing Aaru talk about school.
Children always talked. Teachers even more.
If the crash was recent—say, within the last month—there might still be chatter. Whispers of the billionaire's death. Obituaries. Maybe even tribute videos.
It was thin. But it was a thread.
That night, he surprised everyone by speaking.
"I'll go to school tomorrow," he announced quietly.
Kabir raised an eyebrow.
Their mother blinked.
"Really?" Aaru grinned. "But you always say school is stupid!"
He almost said, "School is stupid."
Instead, he replied, "It's not the school. It's the way they teach."
That shut her up.
The next morning was a ceremony.
His uniform—a second-hand set of khaki trousers and a blue shirt—barely fit. Shoes were old, with the sole coming off. No watch. No brand. No perfume.
He hated it.
But he endured.
The walk to school was long. Dusty paths. Crowded alleys. Cows. Vegetable vendors. The occasional stench of open drains. Stray dogs barking.
Aaru held his hand tightly the whole time.
School was worse than he imagined.
A crumbling building. Teachers who barely remembered their syllabus. Classrooms filled with noise. No fans. No computers. No sense of order.
He sat quietly at the back.
Listened. Observed.
And then he heard it.
Two boys whispering at the front desk.
"Did you see that billionaire died last week? Car crash. Boom! Gone!"
"Yeah, the one with the skyscraper in Dubai. What was his name? Ish— Ishaan?"
"No, idiot, Ishan. Ishan Malhotra."
He froze.
He didn't move for a full minute.
He let their words soak in like ink on paper.
So it was recent.
A week or two, at most.
His heart slowed. His mind sharpened.
It wasn't all in vain. He could still trace it. Still find the breadcrumbs.
As the teacher scribbled something on the board, Ishan leaned back and stared out the window.
No one here knew who he was.
No one saw the fire that still burned behind those calm eyes.
Let them see a poor boy.
Let them laugh.
Let them underestimate.
Because the ashes still held a spark.
And when the time came…He would rise again.
Not as a king.But as something stronger.