Chapter 1 – A Strange Land
Pfft~! Zzz—
The sharp noise dragged out, and Rohan's twisted face slowly relaxed.
Damn it. That wave of release was both blissful and hateful.
Relieving oneself was supposed to be a moment of happiness. But if it happened too often, it turned into torment.
It had been three whole days now, and Rohan had lost count of how many times he had stumbled into the bathroom.
And all of it because of that damned cup of holy water—the one old servant Abhi had insisted on fetching from Varanasi and carrying all the way back to Mumbai.
Yes. Holy water. Straight from the Ganges.
Heaven bear witness—Rohan would never have gambled his life on the "purity" of Ganges water.
That was the misfortune of his body's previous owner.
Thanks to him, after one reckless gulp of Ganges water, a young soul had crossed over and awoken in 1992 India—inside this body called Rohan.
As for the original Rohan, he had long since gone with the Ganges to meet Lord Shiva.
He left quickly enough. The one suffering now was the new Rohan.
For three days straight, his failing sphincter had brought him nothing but humiliation, leaving him too drained to even muster anger.
Countless times he had wanted to curse the foolish Abhi. But with Abhi's ashes sitting quietly in an urn at the corner of the room, all Rohan could do was sigh.
The old servant had joined Shiva too. He had drunk from the same jug of holy water.
Being a devout Hindu, Abhi had even rinsed the jug clean with fresh water and swallowed that as well—wasting not a drop.
The result? Rohan had been stuck on the toilet for three days, while Abhi had gone straight to heaven.
When Rohan was finally certain his stomach was truly empty, his left hand reached almost instinctively toward the bucket of water beside him.
But halfway there, he stopped, cursing his muscle memory, and yanked his hand back in disgust.
He'd already made that mistake once—on the day he first woke up.
No need to revisit the details. All he remembered was the stream of water running the wRohang way and soaking both his legs.
The very next day, his first order of business had been a trip to the market to buy toilet paper.
Thank the ancestors for the invention of papermaking. Even here, in this land of gods and chaos, he had been blessed by their legacy.
Once cleaned up, Rohan rubbed his numb legs and shuffled to the sink.
At least the reflection in the mirror gave him some comfort—a young, handsome face staring back at him.
Fair skin. Gray eyes. The look of a high caste—an Aryan descendant, no less.
And indeed, that was who he was: Rohan Soor, born in Uttar Pradesh, only moving to Mumbai last year with his parents.
"Soor" in Hindi meant "Brave or Warrior of God."
In ancient India, to call oneself a warrior or servant of the gods was a privilege reserved only for the Kshatriya or Brahmins.
Had his appearance been dark-skinned and squat like a Dravidian, then Rohan might have preferred to follow Abhi into the afterlife.
Not every high caste had pale skin—it often depended on north or south.
After washing his face, Rohan tidied up and prepared to head out.
He had someone to meet at the train station today—Abhi's youngest daughter, Nia.
When she learned her father had passed, and with no one else left by Rohan's side, sixteen-year-old Nia bravely boarded the southbound train.
Her family had served Rohan's household for generations, their duty always to care for the Soor family.
Now Rohan's parents were dead—victims of a religious riot—and Abhi was gone as well. That left Nia to inherit the responsibility of looking after him.
Even if the Soor name had long since faded into obscurity, a Brahmin was still a Brahmin.
Three thousand years of caste tradition weighed heavily over India in 1992, as unshakable as ever.
It had been more than a year since Rohan had last seen Nia, and he could barely recall her face.
After counting what little savings he had left, he tucked away a few bills and readied himself to leave.
But just as he stepped forward, doubt gnawed at him. He patted his stomach anxiously.
He still didn't trust his own bowels. With a grimace, he turned back into the bathroom.
Grabbing a sheet of toilet paper, he crumpled it in his hand, gauging the size.
"Mm. That should do."
And with that, Rohan stuffed it firmly into the back of his trousers.
Alright. As long as he didn't suddenly transform into a "jet fighter," things should be fine.
Rohan lived in the Grant community of southwest Mumbai, not far from the coast.
It was only March, yet the heat was already like midsummer.
The sweltering air carried not just the salty tang of the sea breeze but a mess of other odors as well.
The very first time he stepped outside into Mumbai's air, Rohan had gagged for a full five minutes.
No wonder people called it India flavor—thick and pungent.
Carefully dodging a black puddle in the alley and stepping over a suspicious lump of filth, Rohan made his way to the open market.
Here, the scene was even livelier: throngs of people, vendors crammed on both sides of a dirt road that stretched far into the distance.
Most men wore brown or white robes, some with turbans, some with white caps. The only splashes of bright color came from the women's saris.
Almost everyone went barefoot. Many balanced goods right on top of their heads.
Rohan's attention was first caught by the rows of stalls—each one a different kind of noise generator.
At the coconut stand, a vendor hacked away at shells with a rusty machete.
The sugarcane stall rattled with the clank-clank of a hand-cranked juicer.
A dark-skinned hawker carried yogurt buckets, shouting as he walked.
The milk tea stall's smoke drifted down the entire street.
Arguments, snake-charmers' flutes, children shrieking, shopkeepers yelling as they chased monkeys, and the slow, lazy mooing of oxen—
It was chaos. Pure, deafening chaos.
But then again—this was India. What else could he expect?
Ignoring the clamor, Rohan walked straight to a milk tea stall.
"Ganesh, the usual!"
A 20-paise coin clinked neatly into the clay jar on the counter.
"Namaste, master!" The brown-skinned vendor grinned at him.
In less than two minutes, after ladling milk, boiling tea, and adding sugar, a steaming clay cup of chai was passed to Rohan.
He took a sip. Tch—sweet as syrup!
This taste was pure British legacy, copied perfectly by the locals.
But a cup of chai alone didn't make a breakfast.
So Rohan turned to the neighboring stall and bought a crisp flatbread.
Thin and crunchy—"tandoori," as it was called in Hindi.
He politely refused the vendor's curry sauce and settled for chai with bread. That was breakfast.
Anything fried or meaty he stayed away from.
That Ganges-water "buff" was still active, and he wasn't about to tempt fate for at least a week.
Chai and bread cost him 70 paise in total—less than one rupee.
A hundred paise made a rupee. One U.S. dollar was worth about twenty five rupees.
Unbelievable. India's prices were absurdly cheap.
But cheap didn't mean Rohan wasn't broke. Quite the opposite—he only had sixty rupees left. Not even enough for next month's rent.
His apartment was old and crumbling, yet the landlord demanded 200 rupees every month, not a paisa less.
Not a great start, Rohan thought as he munched his bread and sipped chai.
"Rohan! Out for a stroll again today? Let me give you a ride!"
A pudgy Indian man pedaled up on a cycle rickshaw, grinning from ear to ear.
Rohan ignored him and headed toward the bus stop.
"Really! This time I'll give you the cheapest fare ever—so cheap no sane man would dare refuse!"
"Anand, I'll never trust you again! Last time, less than two kilometers and you charged me twenty rupees!"
"But I gave you a free guided tour that day! And I'm Mumbai's best, number-one guide!"
Anand's round face nearly bumped Rohan's nose. He smiled so brightly and earnestly it was hard to stay mad.
"First of all, I live here. I've been in Mumbai for over a year. Why would I ever need a guide?" Rohan spread his hands.
Anand muttered under his breath, "You acted like an idiot that day, couldn't even find your way home. Fat sheep like that—you think I wouldn't shear?"
"What was that?!"
"I said, Rohan, you're kind and generous! Compassionate to poor souls like me!" Anand declared loudly.
"And besides, as a Brahmin, how could you walk on the same streets as Dalits?"
Rohan stopped short. "How do you know I'm Brahmin?"
Anand just wiggled his neck smugly, grinning as though he'd uncovered a great secret.
"Alright, enough. I'm taking the bus today."
Rohan waved him off and stood by the crooked bus stop sign. He was determined not to be tricked again.
"The bus? You really plan to ride that bus?"
Anand pointed to a double-decker lurching down the road.
Yes—lurching. It leaned badly to one side, weighed down by the crowd crammed at the door.
Worse, the roof had a huge dent caved in.
How could the top of such a tall bus even get dented? That was Rohan's first thought.
And yet, the bus didn't stop. It merely slowed as it passed, carrying a doorful of dangling arms, heads, and legs before rumbling off again.
"Haha! Rohan, you didn't know? In India, buses don't stop! You're supposed to jump on!" Anand burst out laughing.
Rohan sighed. "Fine. Anand, how much to Victoria Station?"
"100 rupees!"
"10 rupees!"
"Deal!" Anand clapped his hands in triumph.
Rohan froze. The hell?!
"Come on, hop in. The road to the station isn't easy." Anand patted the backseat of the rickshaw.
"I have a question. You knew 100 was impossible, so why bother opening that high?"
"Rohan, you don't understand the joy of bargaining. Besides—this is India. Cunning is the noblest virtue here!"
Rohan chuckled and shook his head.
India… what a truly magical land.