The morning air in Rampachodavaram was crisp, laced with the scent of damp earth and mango blossoms. Veerendra sat frozen on the edge of his cot, staring at his small hands. His heart pounded—not from fear, but from awe. The mirror across the room confirmed what his soul already knew: he was back. Not metaphorically, not in a dream. Truly, physically back in his younger body.
He leaned closer to the mirror, tracing the contours of his face. The boy staring back was no older than ten. But inside, he carried the memories of a man who had lived, loved, lost, and died.
He needed to know the exact time. He rushed to the wooden calendar hanging near the kitchen window. The date read December 13, 2009. He did the math—born in November 2000, he was nine years old.
A wave of emotion surged through him. His father was still alive. His mother, his grandparents—they were all here. He had another chance.
Without wasting a moment, Veerendra sprinted barefoot toward the fields. He remembered this land well—three acres, tucked near the forest edge. Fertile, but undervalued. The soil was rich, but the market was far, and the forest's proximity made buyers wary.
As he reached the fields, he saw them—his mother Kamala, bent over a row of crops, and his grandfather Bhaskar Rao, inspecting the soil with practiced hands. The sight of them alive and well overwhelmed him. Tears welled up, but he masked them with a wide grin and ran straight into his grandfather's arms.
Bhaskar Rao chuckled, ruffling Veerendra's hair. "What's gotten into you, boy? No school today?"
Kamala looked up, amused. "It's Sunday. He's just being playful. But don't forget, Veeru—your grandmother's alone at home. You promised not to leave her."
Veerendra nodded, his heart full. His grandmother, frail but loving, was resting at home. His father, Raghunath, had gone to the Sunday market to buy essentials—rice, oil, and the occasional sweet if the budget allowed.
As he walked back toward the house, the dirt path familiar beneath his feet, Veerendra's mind began to race—not with confusion, but with purpose. He knew the struggles that lay ahead. He knew the limitations of their land, the weight of caste, the cruelty of poverty.
But now, he had foresight. He had knowledge. He had time.
And he had a plan.
His first thought: How do I make the first piece of gold? Not literal gold, but the first step toward elevating his family's condition. He would start small, smart, and silent. No one needed to know what he carried inside him—not yet.
As the house came into view, Veerendra looked up at the sky, the same sky that had watched him die once before.
This time, he would rise.