Darkness.
Then heat. A heaviness in his chest. Then cold.
Vikram gasped and sat up fast, coughing hard. His fingers clawed at his own throat. He could feel sweat on his neck. The air stank of iron, sweat, and something burnt. His heart pounded.
He looked around.
It wasn't a hospital. He was on a thin jute mat. The ceiling above was cracked plaster, yellowed with age. A hole in the roof let in dusty sunlight. A single fan hung from the ceiling — unmoving. He heard goats outside. A street vendor shouting about boiled peanuts. A hand-rung bell. No cars.
He tried to speak but his throat was dry. He felt dizzy. He touched his ribs. No pain. No wound. He looked at his hands. They were smaller. Darker. Rough skinned. Nails bitten.
He crawled to a corner where a rusted mirror leaned against the wall.
The face that looked back wasn't his.
It was a boy. Fifteen maybe. Sunken cheeks. Thick black hair, curled and dirty. A long scar above the left brow. Eyes darker than his own used to be. Not the face of a man who died saving a child. Not the face of a man at all.
He stumbled back and fell, staring at the ceiling. His lungs still shook. His stomach turned.
The door creaked open.
An old woman stepped in. Thin, wrapped in a worn cotton sari. She squinted at him.
"You're awake," she said. "Three days you didn't move. I thought you were going to die too."
Vikram opened his mouth. His voice cracked. "Where… where is this?"
She frowned. "Where is this? You hit your head harder than I thought."
She poured water from a brass pot into a clay cup and held it out. He drank greedily. It tasted dusty, but it cleared his throat.
"You live here," she said. "Your name's Vicky. The newspaper boy. Your family's dead, beta. British shot your Parents, Grandparents, uncle and cousins in Chandni Chowk last week. You don't remember?"
Vikram stared at her. His mind reeled. His thoughts refused to land.
"Who… are you?"
She looked confused. "Ammaji. From next door. You always come by for rotis when you're hungry."
He nodded slowly, but he didn't believe any of it. His name wasn't Vicky. He wasn't from Chandni Chowk. His family hadn't been killed by British soldiers.
He was Vikramaditya. Thirty-five. Software manager. Delhi. 2025. Dead.
But this boy's lungs breathed. This boy's heart beat. This boy's voice came from his mouth.
He looked down at the clay cup in his hand. It shook slightly. His fingertips were thin and rough.
He had woken up in a new body.
Not a dream. Not a vision.
Something else.