Pffft~! Sssshk—
The sharp sound stretched out, and the twisted expression on Aarav's face slowly relaxed.
Damn it, this kind of relief was both a curse and a blessing.
Squatting on the toilet should have been a happy affair, but when it became too frequent, it turned into misery.
Three days now—Aarav had no idea how many times he had been in and out of the bathroom.
All thanks to that so-called holy water that old servant Abhi had insisted on bringing—the holy water delivered all the way from Varanasi to Mumbai.
Yes, holy water. Authentic, straight-from-the-Ganges holy water.
May the heavens bear witness, Aarav would never stake his life on the purity of Ganges water.
That was something his unlucky predecessor had done.
Thanks to that fool, after one sip of Ganges water, a young soul from the UK had descended into India—into the body of this man in the year 1992.
As for the original Aarav Surya, he had already gone to meet Lord Shiva with the river water.
He passed quickly. The one suffering now was this Aarav.
Three days of losing control of his rear like a broken faucet—it had drained all the energy from his body.
He had cursed Abhi in his mind countless times, but then looked at the urn of ashes in the corner of the room and sighed again.
Old Abhi had gone to meet Lord Shiva as well—he and Aarav had shared that pot of sacred water.
As a devout Hindu, Abhi had even rinsed the inside of the vessel with clean water and drank that too—not leaving behind even a single drop.
The result: Aarav had the runs for three days; Abhi ran all the way to the heavens.
After finally confirming that his stomach had nothing left to offer, Aarav instinctively reached out with his left hand to the bucket of water beside him.
But halfway there, he shook his hand in frustration—damn muscle memory.
He had learned his lesson the hard way—that was the day he had just woken up in this body.
No need for details. All he remembered was water flowing from his backside and soaking both of his legs.
The first thing he did after that? Go to the market to buy some toilet paper.
Thanks to the invention of paper, even in the land of Bharat, he had found relief.
Once he cleaned himself up, Aarav rubbed his numb legs and dragged himself to the sink.
Fortunately, the young and handsome face in the mirror gave some comfort to his lonely soul.
Fair skin, gray eyes—clearly a high caste, and probably descended from Aryans.
Which was indeed true. Aarav Surya was originally from Uttar Pradesh, and only moved to Mumbai with his parents the previous year.
Surya—meaning servant of the sun in Hindi.
In ancient India, only Brahmins had the right to call themselves servants of the divine.
If he had been reborn with the short, dark features of an indian, then even as a high caste, Aarav would have preferred to follow Abhi to the heavens.
(p:s I mean the dirty black color,one who doesn't pay attentions to his skin and have different shades all over his body)
High caste didn't always mean fair skin—it depended on whether you were from the north or south.
After washing his face, Aarav got dressed and prepared to go out.
Today he had to go to the train station to pick someone up—Abhi's youngest daughter, Niya.
Upon hearing of her father's death and knowing Aarav had no one else around, sixteen-year-old Niya bravely boarded a train heading north.
Her family had served the Suryas for generations, their duty being to care for Aarav's family.
Now with Aarav's parents gone, killed in a religious conflict, and Abhi also gone, it fell to Niya to take up the duty of caring for him.
Even if the Surya family name had fallen into decline, a Brahmin was still a Brahmin.
Over three thousand years of caste structure, still deeply rooted in the Indian subcontinent of 1992.
He hadn't seen Niya in over a year—Aarav could barely remember what she looked like.
He counted the little savings he had left, took a few rupee notes, and prepared to leave.
But just as he stepped forward, he uncertainly touched his belly again.
He really didn't trust his sphincter, so he returned to the bathroom.
He pulled out a piece of toilet paper, rolled it up, and measured it carefully.
Yep—looked about right. Aarav stuffed it behind him.
There. Unless he transformed into a high-pressure water cannon, things should be fine.
Aarav lived in Grant Road, located in the southwestern part of Mumbai, not far from the coast.
Although it was only March, the heat already felt like summer back in the UK.
The rolling heat waves carried not only the salty sea breeze but also a mix of other smells.
The first time he exposed himself to the Mumbai air, Aarav had dry-heaved for five full minutes.
No one could match the desi experience—the smell was... authentic.
Carefully stepping over black puddles in the alley and a pile of unknown filth, Aarav turned into the marketplace outside.
It was even livelier there—crowds of people, all kinds of vendors, lining a dirt road that stretched far ahead.
Most people wore brown or white robes, some with turbans, some with white caps. The only bright colors came from the saris of the women.
Nearly everyone was barefoot, and most balanced things on their heads.
What caught Aarav's eye first were the tightly packed stalls on either side—the source of most of the surrounding noise.
A coconut seller was chopping shells with a rusted machete—chop, chop. The sugarcane stall had a hand-cranked juicer that clanked loudly.
A dark-skinned man carrying yogurt shouted while walking by. Smoke from the tea stand stove filled the entire street.
Shouting voices, snake charmer's flutes, children playing, shopkeepers yelling at monkeys, the slow mooing of an old cow—
Too loud! Too chaotic!
But this was India, after all.
Ignoring the shouts all around him, Aarav walked straight to a tea stall.
"Ganesh, the usual!"
A 20-paise coin landed firmly in the clay jar on the table.
"Namaste, sahib!" the brown-skinned man behind the table greeted him with a big smile.
Then it was scoop milk, boil tea, add sugar—a full set of motions done in two minutes. The warm chai in a clay cup was handed over to Aarav.
He took a sip—ugh, sweet!
This taste had definite British roots—the desis had perfected it.
But one cup of chai didn't count as breakfast.
Using the same method, Aarav walked to the tandoor next door and bought a portion of tandoori flatbread.
It was thin and crispy. In Hindi, they called it "roti".
He declined the salan(curry sauce) the stall owner offered. Holding the chai in one hand and the flatbread in the other, Aarav now had his breakfast.
He refused all oily and meat-based foods.
That cup of Ganges water had given him a long-lasting status debuff—he expected it to last at least a week.
Tea and roti cost him a total of 70 paise—not even one rupee.
100 paise equals 1 rupee. And 1 US dollar was worth about 18 rupees.
That was Indian pricing—absurdly cheap.
Of course, that didn't mean Aarav wasn't broke. Quite the opposite—he only had 60 rupees left. Not enough to cover next month's rent.
His apartment was old and crumbling, but the landlord still demanded 200 rupees every month without fail.
Not a promising start. Aarav drank his tea and thought aimlessly.
"Aarav! Out for a walk again? Want a ride?"
A chubby Indian man pedaled up on a rickshaw, beaming with enthusiasm.
Aarav ignored him and continued toward the bus stop.
"Really, this time I'll give you the cheapest price possible! So cheap no sane person would take it!"
"Anand, I'll never trust you again! Last time you charged me 20 rupees for less than two kilometers!"
"But I acted as your guide that day! I'm the best guide in all of Mumbai!"
Anand's round, cheerful face leaned dangerously close to Aarav's, grinning with such sincerity it was hard to stay mad.
"I've lived in Mumbai for over a year. I'm Indian. Give me one reason why I'd need a guide?"
Faced with Aarav's outstretched arms, Anand muttered, "You acted like a total idiot that day. Didn't even know the way home. A fat sheep like that—you think I wouldn't take a bite?"
"What did you say?!"
"I said Aarav, you're kind and generous! So compassionate toward the less fortunate like me!" Anand shouted.
"And besides, as a Brahmin, how can you walk on roads used by Dalits?"
Aarav stopped. "How do you know I'm a Brahmin?"
Anand shook his head mysteriously, smugness all over his face as if he had discovered some incredible secret.
"Alright, Anand, stop bothering me. I'm taking the bus today."
Aarav waved him off and walked under the crooked bus sign. He had made up his mind—he wouldn't be conned again today.
"The bus? You're really going to take that bus?"
Anand pointed at a tilting double-decker bus wobbling toward them.
Yes—tilting. Probably from too many people hanging off one side.
Not to mention the massive dent on the roof.
How did the roof of a double-decker even get dented? That was Aarav's first thought.
The bus didn't stop. It only slowed down, then drove off, full of arms, heads, and butts hanging out the door.
"Haha, Aarav, Indian buses don't stop—you didn't know?" Anand laughed gleefully.
"Fine," Aarav sighed. "Anand, how much to Victoria Station?"
"100 rupees!"
"10 rupees!"
"Deal!" Anand clapped his hands excitedly.
What the hell…? Aarav stared, confused.
"Hop in! The road to the station isn't easy."
"I've got a question. You knew 100 was impossible. Why quote that?"
"Aarav, you don't understand the joy of bargaining. This is India—being clever is a noble trait!"
Aarav chuckled and shook his head.
India. What a strange, magical land.