January 1, 2014
The world was still draped in the hush of winter when his eyes fluttered open.
For a long moment, he lay there in the familiar creak of the old wooden cot, his breath forming tiny white clouds in the morning chill. The plaster ceiling above him bore the same faint water stain from monsoon years ago—a detail he'd forgotten until now. His fingertips brushed against the coarse wool blanket, the same one his mother had patched twice.
A faint murmur of an old Bollywood song drifted from the neighbor's radio, half-muted by the cold breeze seeping through the gap in the window frame.
His heart hammered.
It was 2014. It had to be.
He twisted to the side, eyes landing on the old wooden calendar hanging beside the cupboard. The thin red thread suspending it trembled in the draft. The date, in block print, glared back at him:
January 1, 2014.
He stumbled out of bed, bare feet meeting the cold cement floor with a hiss. His breath quickened—not from the cold, but from the impossible truth settling in. The God's words from the cosmic void still echoed in his head like a lingering dream. "Five wishes… your second chance begins now."
His hand found the dusty remote on the table. He jabbed the power button. The old CRT TV crackled to life, flickering before settling on the morning news.
The anchor was speaking in Hindi about the New Year celebrations in Delhi, showing crowds around India Gate. At the bottom of the screen, the ticker read:
> "Sensex opens the first day of 2014 at record high."
He sat there for a minute, listening to the tinny sound, absorbing every detail. It wasn't a dream. This was before. Before the wars, before the economic collapse, before the disasters.
---
Later that morning
The smell of parathas frying in ghee drifted into his room. His mother's voice called from the kitchen:
> "Uth gaya? Jaldi aa ja, khana thanda ho jayega!"
("You're awake? Come quickly, the food will get cold!")
He stepped out, the weak winter sunlight spilling through the open door, turning the dust motes into drifting gold. His mother turned at the sound of his footsteps, her face lit with the same warmth he'd missed for years.
Something inside him broke.
Without a word, he crossed the small room and pulled her into a tight embrace. She stiffened in surprise.
> "Arre, kya hua? Subah-subah itna emotional?"
("What happened? So emotional this early?")
His throat tightened. He couldn't tell her—not yet. So he only shook his head and muttered, "Bas… aapko dekha toh…" ("Just… seeing you…")
She patted his cheek and smiled, telling him to sit. His father, seated cross-legged on the floor mat, gave him a curious look over his glasses but didn't comment.
---
From the street outside
The cries of vegetable sellers rose and fell. The slow clip-clop of a milkman's bicycle echoed down the lane. Somewhere, a pressure cooker whistled. The air carried the scent of wood smoke from a neighbor's stove.
He ate slowly, memorizing every detail—the chipped steel plate, the warm paratha, the tangy mango pickle on the side. Every sensation was sharper, more precious.
Today, he had returned to the starting line of history.
And this time, he would not waste a single second.