The morning of September 4th, 2004 dawned clear and sharp, as if the storm of the previous night had never happened. The town of Rajahmundry bustled awake, its streets washed clean, its air rich with the scent of damp soil.
But inside a narrow hospital ward, a boy sat quietly on his bed, staring out at the soaked tamarind trees. His parents fussed at his side, whispering about doctors and medicines. He barely heard them.
Dilli's small hands rested on his knees, yet they trembled faintly—not with weakness, but with the weight of memories.
He remembered climbing Mount Kailash. He remembered roaring against the silence of Shiva. He remembered Chitti's smile, his parents' old age, the burn of betrayal, the ecstasy of faith.
But he was ten years old.
Deja Vu
When the nurse entered with a tray of porridge, Dilli blinked. A flash tore through him: the same nurse, ten years older, weeping over a bedridden patient.
He flinched. The spoon clattered from his trembling hands.
"What happened, kanna?" his mother asked gently.
"Nothing," Dilli whispered. But inside, his heart pounded. I've seen her before. I've seen her years ahead. How can that be?
Return to Atreyapuram
One day later, the family returned to their village house in Atreyapuram. The tiled roof still dripped with leftover rain. Neighbors gathered, whispering about the boy's strange roaring during the storm.
That evening, as his father lit a kerosene lamp, Dilli quietly said,
"Don't lean too close to our buffalo while milking try to avoid milking and handover that task to our Servant,Ramkitta and warn him before hand to be careful. In three days, it will kick anybody hard if they're not careful."
His father laughed nervously. "How do you know that?"
Dilli only looked away, unable to explain. But three days later, as predicted, the buffaloe leapt and kicked the servant hard—and his father's servants two ribs almost fractured leaving him in intense pain. His parents stared at him, shaken.
The Classroom
Back at school, Dilli's classmates treated him no differently—still the thin boy with big eyes and ink-stained fingers. But his teacher noticed something unusual.
During a history lesson, He asked, "Who can tell me about Alexander the Great?"
Without hesitation, Dilli stood. His voice was steady, far beyond his years.
"Alexander conquered lands with swords, but could not conquer his own desire for eternity. He died weeping, wanting to hold the world, but the world slipped through his fingers."
The classroom fell silent. The teacher frowned. "That… is true. But how do you know that?"
Dilli lowered his head. He could not say he had read it decades later, in books his younger self had never touched.
Prophetic Fragments
At night, Dilli's dreams were haunted by fragments of his elder life—visions of Hyderabad streets, of airports, of temples, of endless mountains. He would wake drenched in sweat, whispering names and places his parents had never heard.
One night he told his mother,
"Don't let Dad lend money to his best friend. He will never return it."
She gasped. "What are you saying, child?"
But years later, when the event unfolded exactly as Dilli had warned, the family realized he was carrying something far beyond a child's understanding.
The Maturity
The villagers noticed it too. While other boys played in the muddy fields, Dilli often sat alone beneath the neem tree, writing in a tattered notebook. He scribbled lines about destiny, about choices, about gods and love.
His friends mocked him. "Why do you write like an old man?"
He only smiled faintly. Because I am an old man, he thought. And yet I am just beginning again.
The Parents' Fear
Late one night, his parents whispered in the next room.
"Our son is… different," his mother said, voice shaking. "Sometimes, when he speaks, it feels like an elder is talking through him."
His father exhaled heavily. "Perhaps the storm that night changed him. Or perhaps… the gods marked him."
Neither dared to say aloud what they truly feared: that their boy was no longer entirely their boy.
The Resolve
Dilli himself sat awake that night, staring at the rain on the window. His chest felt heavy, yet clear.
"I cannot waste this chance," he murmured to himself. "I will rewrite my past. I will protect my parents. I will cherish my love, even if it takes a lifetime for her to accept me. And Shiva… whether You bless me or abandon me, You will remain my guide."
Lightning flickered in the sky once more, and for an instant, he thought he saw a figure outside—the shadow of a man with a trident, watching.
He bowed his head, not in fear, but in quiet recognition.
And so began the second life of Dilli,Dileep Varma—a boy of ten, yet a soul carrying the burden of eternity.