Chapter 2 — Rebirth
Darkness.
Endless darkness.
Then—
Sound.
Soft.
Distant.
A woman crying.
Riddhiman's consciousness floated slowly upward through the void like something being dragged toward the surface of deep water.
His body felt strange.
Light.
Weightless.
And yet unbearably heavy at the same time.
He tried opening his eyes.
Failed.
Tried again.
A faint blur of yellow light appeared above him.
Shapes.
Voices.
Smell.
Incense.
Warm milk.
Mustard oil.
His breathing suddenly quickened.
Where…?
Someone touched his forehead gently.
"Chokh khuleche!"
(His eyes opened!)
A woman's trembling voice.
Emotional.
Relieved.
Riddhiman forced his eyes open properly.
Everything looked distorted.
Blurry.
Bright.
A ceiling fan spun slowly overhead.
Beside him sat a young woman wearing a faded cotton saree, eyes red from crying.
And beside her—
A younger version of his father.
Riddhiman froze.
His heartbeat stopped for a second.
No.
That was impossible.
His father looked almost twenty years younger:
black hair instead of gray,
stronger shoulders,
fewer wrinkles,
thinner glasses.
Riddhiman stared in shock.
His mother suddenly held him carefully against her chest.
"Bhoy peye gechilam re…"
(I got so scared…)
Warmth.
Heartbeat.
The smell of coconut oil in her hair.
Riddhiman's mind collapsed into confusion.
What was happening?
Why did she feel younger?
Why did HE feel smaller?
He tried speaking.
Only a weak childish sound came out.
The room went silent.
Riddhiman's eyes widened slowly.
No.
No no no—
He looked down instinctively.
Tiny hands.
Tiny fingers.
A child's body.
Panic exploded inside him instantly.
He began breathing heavily.
His mother immediately grew frightened.
"Ki holo? Ki holo?"
(What happened?)
His father touched his forehead quickly.
"Jor bere gelo naki?"
(Did the fever rise again?)
Fever?
Riddhiman tried sitting up desperately but his body lacked strength.
His movements were clumsy.
Unstable.
Wrong.
His chest tightened violently.
This wasn't possible.
He remembered:
the rain,
the headlights,
the impact,
death.
He remembered dying.
So why—
His eyes suddenly shifted toward the nearby calendar hanging on the wall.
Riddhiman stopped breathing.
The world around him became silent.
Not possible.
Not possible.
Not possible.
His mother gently stroked his hair.
"Doctor bolechilo jor komle thik hoye jabe."
(The doctor said he'll be fine once the fever goes down.)
Riddhiman stared blankly at the calendar again.
He looked toward the mirror near the cupboard.
A small child stared back at him.
Maybe five years old.
Messy hair.
Thin face.
Large frightened eyes.
His body began trembling uncontrollably.
He had truly—
come back.
The realization hit harder than death itself.
For several moments he simply sat frozen while his mother continued speaking worriedly beside him.
But he couldn't hear her anymore.
His mind raced violently.
This wasn't a dream.
Wasn't hallucination.
Wasn't afterlife.
It was real.
He was alive again.
Alive.
The emotion struck suddenly and brutally.
Tears began falling from his eyes without warning.
His mother panicked instantly.
"Abar kanna korchis keno?"
(Why are you crying again?)
But Riddhiman couldn't stop.
Because for the first time since his death, he truly understood what had happened.
He had been given another chance.
Another life.
Another beginning.
And somehow that realization hurt almost as much as it healed.
His father sighed in relief.
"Dekhle? Thik hoye jacche aste aste."
(See? He's getting better slowly.)
His mother hugged him tighter.
Riddhiman buried his face against her shoulder and cried silently.
Not from fear.
Not from pain.
But because he suddenly remembered every moment he wasted in his previous life.
Every hesitation.
Every unfinished dream.
Every cowardly decision.
And now somehow—
impossibly—
he had returned.
Hours later, after medicine and endless concern from his parents, the house finally became quiet.
Rain tapped softly against the windows.
Riddhiman lay awake on the small bed staring at the ceiling.
His mind still refused to fully accept reality.
Beside the bed hung the familiar framed image of Kali.
Dark eyes watching silently.
As a child in his previous life, he used to fear those eyes.
Tonight they felt different.
Terrifying.
But almost merciful.
He slowly sat up and looked around the room.
Small wooden cupboard.
Schoolbooks.
Toy cricket bat leaning against the wall.
A child's life.
His new life.
Riddhiman's eyes slowly fixed on the toy bat.
Something shifted inside him then.
Not excitement.
Not happiness.
Obsession.
Because suddenly one realization became painfully clear:
He remembered the future.
Not perfectly.
But enough.
Enough to know:
cricket would change,
batting would evolve,
the game itself would transform.
And this time…
he would not stand on the sidelines watching greatness belong to others.
Never again.
His small fingers tightened slowly around the bedsheet.
The fear from his previous life still remained deep inside him.
Fear of becoming ordinary.
Fear of wasting another chance.
That fear now mixed with something far more dangerous:
Ambition.
Outside, thunder rolled faintly across the sleeping city.
Riddhiman looked once more toward Maa Kali's image and whispered softly into the darkness:
"You gave me another life."
"This time…"
"I'll use every second of it."