The sun rose lazily over the misty hills of Rampachodavaram, casting a warm golden light on the dense forests and winding dirt paths that connected the scattered tribal hamlets. In this remote corner of Bharat Kanda, life moved at a slower pace, where traditions shaped destinies.
In a crumbling mud house nestled between two mango trees, a boy was born. His cries broke the morning silence like a promise. His name was Veerendra—a name his grandfather had chosen, proud of their bloodline that he claimed descended from forgotten warriors of the Kshatriya caste. But the glory of that heritage had faded long ago, leaving them in poverty and hardship.
Veerendra's family, though upper-caste by birth, struggled to make ends meet. His father, Raghunath, was a schoolteacher with a brilliant mind but a broken spirit, respected in the village for his intelligence yet mocked for his empty pockets. His mother, Kamala, carried their burdens with quiet dignity. Her hands were calloused from years of grinding grain, and her eyes always searched the horizon for a glimmer of hope.
The village elders often whispered that Veerendra was born under the Ashvini Nakshatra—a star associated with healing and rebirth. But in Rampachodavaram, even astrology couldn't shield them from the harsh realities of caste and hunger.
Growing up barefoot, Veerendra's feet toughened on the rocky paths, while his mind sharpened through stories. Every evening, his grandfather, Bhaskar Rao, would gather him close and regale him with tales of ancient battles and wise kings. "We were once rulers," he'd say, his voice rich with emotion, "but we forgot how to fight."
At school, Veerendra shone brightly. He could recite verses from the Mahabharata and solve math problems faster than his teacher. Yet brilliance could feel isolating. The children of wealthy landlords often mocked him for his torn clothes and his pride in their lineage. "What good is your bloodline if you're begging for rice?" one boy would sneer.
Veerendra never snapped back. Instead, he remained quiet, observing, learning, enduring.
Then, at sixteen, tragedy struck. Raghunath died from a snakebite—there was no nearby hospital, no money for transport to save him. Kamala wept silently, her grief swallowed by the forest. In the wake of this loss, Veerendra dropped out of school, trading his dreams for the hard work of the fields, burying his aspirations beneath the soil.
Years rolled on. He grew into a man of quiet strength, someone the village respected but often overlooked. He married a kind woman named Savitri, and together they had two children, living a life marked by modest survival. But the fire within him never truly extinguished; it merely lay dormant, waiting for the right moment to awaken.
At the age of forty-two, while walking to the temple one morning, Veerendra collapsed. A heart attack, the doctor would later say. As darkness enveloped him, his last thought echoed back to his grandfather's words: "We forgot how to fight."
But fate had a different plan for him.
Veerendra awoke in his childhood bed, the familiar scent of mango blossoms filling the air. His hands felt small again, and his voice was high-pitched. Rushing to the mirror, he was met with the young face he had thought lost forever.
Memories flooded back—his death, his life, his missed chances, and his deep regrets. He was sixteen again, filled with a renewed sense of purpose. This time, he would remember how to fight.