Sometimes you need to kill your past self to live in the present.
These valuable words took long enough for Deepak to understand. He understood them while his entire life flashed right before his eyes as he choked due to the sheer pain that spread inside his head like a parasite, eating up his consciousness bit by bit. It was not the kind of pain that came from a single blow or a fall; this was something alive, something deliberate, burrowing deeper with every heartbeat, turning thoughts into static and memories into shards of glass. The campus of his business school in Hyderabad stretched out around him in a hazy blur — the familiar gray buildings, the scattered students rushing to morning lectures, the faint smell of wet earth from last night's rain still clinging to the air. He should've killed his past self long ago. That bright-eyed graduation self who had packed his bags with so much hope, believing that a post-graduation degree in this cutthroat business school would finally silence the whispers, the accusations, the endless comparisons that had followed him since childhood.
He should have ended that version of himself before it dragged him here, lying on the hard concrete with his vision tunneling and his lungs burning for air that refused to come. The world tilted sideways, slow and merciless, as if the universe wanted him to see every detail one last time. The laughter he once heard in school corridors. The disappointed sighs from his parents. The way people stepped back when he entered a room. Everything he had tried to bury under good grades and quiet obedience was now rising up to greet him in his final moments.
"That's right. It is your fault. It has always been your fault."
The voice — whether it was real or only in his head — sounded exactly like the one that had haunted him for years. Cold. Certain. Final. Deepak tried to shake his head, tried to deny it, but his body only convulsed in response. The pain flared brighter, a white-hot parasite gnawing through the last threads of his will.
"You're right. He was right. Everything was my fault. I am sorry baba, maa. I am sorry for being so….faulty. Parle khoma kore dio. Please forgive me if possible."
The words slipped out in a broken whisper, half prayer, half confession. He could almost see his mother's tired face, the way she would clutch the edge of her sari whenever relatives started comparing him again. He could almost hear his father's quiet sigh in the background, the one that carried years of unspoken disappointment. Tears — or maybe blood — slipped down his cheeks and mixed with the dust on the ground. His dimming sensory organs still picked up the thudding of heavy footsteps rushing toward him, probably the security guards of the institute sprinting across the courtyard. There was also the growing murmur of students crowding around his fallen body, their voices a chaotic blend of shock, curiosity, whispers, and the occasional shout for help. Some were pulling out phones. Others were backing away. None of it mattered anymore.
Deepak had chosen to die right at the time when their classes started.
At sharp 9:30 A.M.
The irony cut deeper than the pain. He had always been the punctual one. Even in death, he was on time.
"G-----"
The voice sounded far away, distorted, like someone calling through water.
"Gerff-------"
It grew louder, more insistent, pulling at something inside his chest that no longer felt like his own.
"Greffro---------"
"Lord Gerffron!"
Deepak woke up as if he had been sleeping off his alarm clock and someone had doused him with ice cold water. His body jerked upright with a violence that made his head spin. Heart hammering against his ribs, he looked around frantically, met with a sea of completely unfamiliar faces staring back at him with a mixture of expectation and mild annoyance. The environment he found himself in was something he could swear he had never ever seen before — soaring vaulted ceilings painted with intricate golden patterns, tall arched windows spilling soft multicolored light across polished marble floors, heavy velvet drapes swaying gently in a breeze that carried the scent of burning incense, fresh roses, and something faintly metallic. This was not Hyderabad. This was not India. This was not even the twenty-first century he had known.
His hands — pale, slender, trembling — clutched at fabric that felt too rich, too heavy for anything he had ever worn. The air itself felt different, thicker, older. A deliberate clearing of the throat cut through the haze like a blade.
When he turned toward the sound, he found an old man dressed in ornate robes that strongly resembled those of a Christian priest staring at him with expectant eyes. The man's long silver beard brushed against a heavy golden stole embroidered with symbols Deepak had never seen in any book or movie. The priest's face was lined with age but his gaze was sharp, impatient, waiting.
"Your answer?"
Of what? Deepak's mind screamed in silent panic. What answer? What is happening? One second he was dying on cold concrete with students murmuring around him, and the next… this?
"Uh…. yes?" The raspy reply that floated out of his throat was more of a question than any real affirmation, but the priest took it as one. His face broke into a wide, triumphant smile.
"With all the affirmations, promises and vows made by both the bride and the groom, I hereby pronounce them as man and wife before God Arbestas!"
The words rang out through the grand hall like a thunderclap. Cheers erupted instantly — loud, joyous, echoing off the high ceilings. People clapped. Someone whistled. A wave of congratulations rose around him like a tidal wave. Deepak sat frozen on what he now realized was a raised platform, his new body feeling alien and wrong in every possible way. His heart pounded so hard he could feel it in his fingertips. Married? To whom? How? He had just died — he was sure of it. The pain, the footsteps, the students, the 9:30 A.M. class bell — it had all been real. Yet here he was, apparently someone's husband in a world that looked like it had stepped straight out of a history book.
Huh?
Did he just get married?
The thought looped in his head, louder and louder, drowning out the cheers. He glanced to his left and caught a glimpse of burgundy hair and golden-amber eyes, a tall figure in masculine aristocratic clothing with a sword resting at her waist. The woman — his wife? — was smiling at the crowd, but something about that smile felt off, practiced, almost hollow. Deepak's mind reeled. This couldn't be real. He was dead. He had apologized to his parents with his last breath. Yet the cold metal band now circling his finger told a different story. The weight of the bouquet in his other hand told a different story. The roaring applause told a different story.
He clutched the bouquet tighter, knuckles turning white, and forced his lips into what he hoped was a smile. Inside, everything was screaming. The parasite that had eaten his old life had apparently spat him out into something far more confusing, far more terrifying. And as the cheers continued to swell around him, Deepak — now trapped in a body that was not his — could only wonder how many more times he would have to kill his past self just to survive whatever this new nightmare was.