The heavy kerosene sting cut through the thin morning air before Harsh even opened his eyes. Somewhere close by, a brass kettle shrieked in piercing whistles atop a sputtering stove, threatening to boil over. Above him, the rusted blades of the ceiling fan moved sluggishly, beating the humid air with an anxious rhythm.
"Arre, Harsh! Uth ja, yaar! You'll miss the milk queue again!"
The voice was sharp and familiar, bursting from the cracked doorway of the small room. Raju, his childhood friend, was grinning wide, a mop of thick black hair silhouetted against the dull streetlight filtering in.
Harsh blinked blearily at the ceiling and pushed himself upright. His hands caught his gaze next, rough and strong — but younger, tighter-skinned than he remembered. He shifted unsteadily across the creaky floorboards to the chipped mirror on the wall; the reflection that met him was no older than his twenties. Smooth jawline, clear eyes gleaming with restless fire.
Mumbai, 1990. Somehow impossibly, he was back.
"1990?" Harsh whispered, voice rough with disbelief.
"Yeah, and if you don't get moving, you're missing your chance," Raju laughed, tossing a worn cloth sack toward him. "Milk won't wait."
They stepped out onto narrow Bhuleshwar lanes already buzzing with life. The air was thick with the smell of fresh green chilies, frying pakoras, and exhaust fumes from rattling rickshaw engines. Hawkers shouted in Marathi and Hindi, pushing fruits and vegetables into bustling hands. Posters plastered walls, faded images of Amitabh Bachchan staring out from old Bollywood films — Agneepath, Dil — their colors muted by time but their power undiminished.
At the milk stall, Harsh's fingers closed around a crisp $100 bill—the entirety of his worldly wealth. Worth a little over ₹1,800, enough to survive or start something bigger if handled wisely.
Raju nudged him toward a steaming tea stall. The glass was jagged and hot, and inside, the slashed cardamom scent mixed with the bitterness of strong Assam chai. Harsh wrapped his hands around the glass like a lifeline.
"You're too quiet this morning," Raju said.
"Just thinking," Harsh admitted. "About not wasting this chance."
The cloying heat of Mumbai seeped through the walls as Harsh drank. His past life had been a spectator's story. Here, months before the Gulf gap would widen, gold prices spike, and the stock market devour the dreams of many, he had the power to change the course.
Raju laughed, not understanding, but Harsh's mind flickered with new plans, new futures. The streets did not wait, and neither would he.