This is a small series 20 chapters only, which I wrote around 2 years ago, I don't know, just thought of releasing it. Here is the book.
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Chapter 1: The Echo of a Ceiling Fan
The first thing Aarav became aware of was the sound.
It wasn't the sterile, rhythmic beeping of the ICU monitors that had serenaded his final moments in 2025. It wasn't the aggressive, synthetic hum of an air purifier, nor the distant, incessant roar of Mumbai traffic that never truly slept.
It was a rhythmic, mechanical wobble-click-wobble—the distinct, hypnotic struggle of an old ceiling fan cutting through heavy, stagnant air.
Aarav opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him was high, painted a pale, dusty cream that had yellowed slightly with age. There were no LED strips, no false ceiling designs, just a single, lonely bulb holder and that fan—a heavy, brown Crompton Greaves model with wide metal blades that looked like they could decapitate a giraffe.
Where am I?
The thought didn't come with panic, but with a heavy, narcotic lethargy. His body felt strange. Heavy, yet paradoxically light. The aches that had plagued his forty-five-year-old joints—the stiff lower back from years of desk work, the knee that clicked when it rained—were gone. In their place was a humming, vibrant silence of the nerves. A terrifying quiet.
He tried to sit up. The movement was explosive. He intended to drag himself up groggily, but his core engaged with a snap, and he shot upright, the sheets pooling at his waist.
He froze, his hands gripping the mattress. It wasn't a memory foam mattress. It was cotton—hard, lumpy, packed tightly into a hand-stitched cover. The texture of the fabric under his fingers was coarse, smelling of camphor and old sunlight.
Aarav looked at his hands.
They were smooth. The sunspots were gone. The scar on his left thumb, a souvenir from a kitchen mishap in 2015, was missing. The veins, usually prominent and ropy, were buried under taut, healthy skin. These were the hands of a boy, or perhaps, a very young man.
He brought them to his face, touching his cheeks. No stubble. No sagging skin under the eyes. High cheekbones that felt sharp enough to cut glass.
"This..." His voice came out, and he flinched. It was his voice, but higher, clearer, stripped of the gravelly depth that cigarettes and age had added over the decades. It was a baritone, yes, but it was fresh. Unused.
He scrambled out of bed, his legs hitting the floor—cold, mosaic terrazzo tiles, speckled with chips of black and white stone. The sensation sent a jolt of reality up his spine. This wasn't a hospital. This wasn't the afterlife.
He knew this room.
The sudden recognition hit him like a physical blow, knocking the wind out of his lungs. He stumbled back, his hip bumping into a heavy wooden study table.
This is my room.
Not his apartment in Bandra. Not the flat he had rented in Pune. This was his childhood room in the independent house in Lajpat Nagar, New Delhi.
His eyes darted frantically around the space, drinking in details he had forgotten for decades. The Godrej steel almirah in the corner, painted a dull grey. The study table cluttered with books—thick, hardcover textbooks. A poster of Hero—Jackie Shroff playing the flute—taped awkwardly to the wall, the corners curling.
He lunged for the table, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. There was a newspaper lying folded under a glass paperweight.
THE TIMES OF INDIANew Delhi, Monday, October 15, 1990
The date stared back at him, black ink on cheap, rough newsprint.
He fell back against the chair, the wood creaking under his weight. The air left his lungs in a rush.
"I'm back," he whispered, the words trembling. "I'm... back?"
He remembered dying. The crash, the screech of metal, the darkness. And now, he was sitting in a room that shouldn't exist, in a body that should have aged and withered. He was twenty years old again.
He stood up, driven by a desperate need to confirm the impossible. He moved toward the dressing mirror attached to the inside of the wardrobe door. He pulled the door open.
The reflection that stared back stopped him dead in his tracks.
It was him, but it was the version of him that he had only seen in faded photographs. He was tall, standing at a solid six feet, with broad shoulders that tapered down to a slim waist. His hair was thick, jet-black, and fell in a natural, slightly unruly wave over his forehead—the kind of hair men in 2025 paid thousands for in transplants.
But it was the face that held him captive.
In his previous life, Aarav had been decent looking, but age and stress had eroded his features early. This face, however, was... striking. It was a face made for light. Strong, defined jawline, a straight, aristocratic nose, and eyes that were a deep, soulful brown, framed by lashes that were unfairly long.
He leaned closer to the glass, touching his own reflection. There was a magnetism in this face, a symmetry that felt almost unreal. He looked like a mix of the era's intensity and a timeless elegance.
As he stared into his own eyes, trying to reconcile the forty-five-year-old mind with the twenty-year-old eyes, a soft chime rang in his head.
It wasn't a sound from the room. It was internal, crisp, and digital.
A semi-transparent blue panel materialized in the air, hovering just beside his reflection in the mirror.
[SYSTEM ACTIVATED][Welcome, Host Aarav Pathak]
Aarav blinked. He waved his hand through the air. His fingers passed through the blue light like smoke. He wasn't hallucinating; the text remained stable, anchored to his vision.
[Synchronization Complete][Current Timeline: October 1990][Location: New Delhi]
[STATUS]Name: Aarav Pathak Age: 20 Occupation: Unemployed / Student (Graduated) Physical Condition: Peak Health
[ATTRIBUTES]Charisma: 85/100 (Natural Magnetism) Voice: 78/100 (Clear, resonant, untrained) Stamina: 70/100 Dexterity: 65/100
[SKILLS]Acting: Level 57/100 (Professional Grade) Dancing: Level 05/100 (Novice) Singing: Level 12/100 (Bathroom Singer)
[INVENTORY]Empty
[CURRENT OBJECTIVE]None selected.
Aarav stared at the "Acting" stat. Level 57.
"Fifty-seven..." he muttered. "Is that good?"
As if answering his thought, a small tooltip expanded.
> Level 0-20: Amateur / Street Play> Level 21-40: TV Serial Supporting Actor> Level 41-60: Professional / Method Actor / Film Material> Level 61-80: Superstar / Iconic Performer> Level 81-100: Legend / Global Icon
He was already at 57. He was starting his second life with the acting ability of a seasoned professional.
The panel faded after a few seconds, retreating into the periphery of his vision. Aarav closed the wardrobe door, his breath fogging the glass for a fleeting second. The shock of the supernatural System was immense, but it was quickly overshadowed by a much more human, much more visceral realization.
He turned toward the door of his room.
Beyond this door lay the house. And if this was 1990...
His throat tightened, a lump forming so hard it hurt to swallow.
He walked to the door, his hand hovering over the brass handle. It felt cold. He turned it and stepped out into the hallway.
The house was silent. It was a silence he recognized now. It wasn't the silence of a sleeping house; it was the silence of a house that had lost its heartbeat.
He walked into the living room. The flooring changed from the terrazzo of the bedroom to a darker, polished red oxide. The morning light filtered through the wooden slats of the windows, casting stripes of gold across the room.
The furniture was covered in white dust sheets—not all of it, but the sofas where guests would sit. It gave the room a ghostly, preserved quality.
And there, on the wall, hung the garlanded portraits.
Aarav's knees gave way. He sank to the floor, not gracefully, but collapsing under the weight of a grief he thought he had processed decades ago.
Two faces smiled down at him from black-and-white photographs framed in sandalwood.
Rajat Pathak. Priya Pathak.
His father. His mother.
In his previous life, the pain of their loss had dulled over twenty years. It had become a scar—toughened, insensitive, just a part of his history. But now, seeing them here, in this timeline, the wound tore open as if it were fresh.
Because here, it was fresh.
The memories of this body flooded his mind, merging with his future knowledge. They had died two years ago. 1988. A car accident on the highway returning from Agra. A truck driver fell asleep at the wheel. Instant.
He was eighteen then. He was twenty now.
Aarav crawled forward until he was sitting beneath the photos. He looked up at his father's face—a kind man with thick glasses and a moustache, who looked nothing like a hero but worshipped them like gods.
"Papa," Aarav whispered, the tears coming hot and fast, burning his cheeks. "Maa."
He sat there for a long time, the silence of the 1990 morning broken only by his jagged breathing. He was a man of forty-five crying in the body of a twenty-year-old, mourning the same loss for the second time.
But amidst the tears, a different feeling began to take root. A realization.
In his first life, after they died, Aarav had crumbled. He had taken the safe route. He had listened to the relatives who told him to sell the house, take the bank job, get married, settle down. He had buried his father's dream along with his ashes. He had spent his life in a cubicle, wondering "what if," until the day he died.
He wiped his face with the back of his hand. He stood up, his legs shaky but holding.
He walked over to the heavy teak cabinet below the television—a shuttered box that held a generic Onida TV. He opened the bottom drawer.
It was stuffed with VHS tapes. Bobby. Karz. Amar Akbar Anthony. Deewaar. Sholay.
And next to them, stacks of Stardust and Filmfare magazines, kept in pristine condition.
This was his father's treasure. Rajat Pathak, the Chartered Accountant who spent his days balancing ledgers and his nights dreaming of the silver screen. He had never had the courage to try. He had pinned all that hope on Aarav.
"You have the face, beta," his father used to say, ruffling Aarav's hair when he was a kid. "You have the face of a hero. One day, the world will see it."
Aarav picked up a copy of Filmfare from 1988. The cover featured Vinod Khanna.
He looked around the house again. 900 square feet. A 3BHK in Delhi. In 2025, this property alone would be worth crores. But right now, it was just a house full of ghosts.
He needed to check his reality.
He moved to his father's study, a small room adjacent to the kitchen. He opened the steel filing cabinet. The keys were exactly where he remembered—hidden inside a hollow decorative elephant on the shelf.
He pulled out the files.
Bank of India Passbook. Account Holder: Aarav Pathak (Joint holder deceased). Balance: ₹10,00,000.
Ten Lakhs.
In 1990, this was a fortune. A middle-class family could live comfortably on ₹3,000 a month. With ten lakhs, he had a runway that most aspiring actors could only dream of. He didn't need to wait tables. He didn't need to sleep on railway platforms. He had the ultimate weapon for an artist: security.
He also had a B.A. in Economics degree certificate, freshly printed, sitting in a folder. The backup plan was complete.
Aarav sat in his father's chair. The leather was cracked and smelled of Old Spice.
He leaned back, closing his eyes. He summoned the System again.
Acting: 57/100
He didn't know where this skill came from. Maybe it was the accumulation of all the lies he had told himself in his previous life. Maybe it was the raw, unshaped talent he had suppressed for twenty-five years, now refined by the System.
It didn't matter.
He stood up and walked out of the study, moving through the living room, past the photos of his parents, and out onto the small balcony that overlooked the street.
The air outside was crisp. It was October, the sweet spot before the Delhi winter truly bit. A vegetable vendor was pushing his cart down the lane, calling out "Aloo le lo, gobhi le lo" in a melodious, practiced rhythm. A group of kids were playing cricket with a tennis ball and a wooden plank. A kinetic honda scooter zipped by, leaving a trail of white smoke.
It was real. It was vibrant. It was the beginning of a decade that would change India forever.
Liberalization was around the corner. The Khans were about to rise. The era of melody was fighting the era of action.
Aarav gripped the iron railing of the balcony. The metal was cold, grounding him.
"I won't be an accountant," he said to the empty street. His voice was steady now. The tears had dried, leaving behind a crystalline resolve.
He looked back into the room, at the photo of his father.
"I won't sell the house. I won't take the safe job."
He looked at his hands again—the hands of a twenty-year-old with the mind of a strategist and the talent of a professional.
"I'm going to Mumbai," he whispered. "But not yet."
He knew the history. He knew the mistakes. Going to Mumbai now, without a portfolio, without a name, would be a gamble. He needed to sharpen the blade before he went to war.
He needed to test this "Level 57."
"Theatre," he decided. "Mandi House."
The cultural heart of Delhi. That's where the National School of Drama was. That's where the plays happened. That's where the serious actors cut their teeth before the lights of Bollywood blinded them.
Aarav Pathak smiled. It was a small, terrifying, exhilarating smile.
He turned away from the balcony and walked back inside. He went straight to the bathroom.
He turned on the tap. The water sputtered and then flowed clear. He splashed his face, the cold water shocking his skin. He looked in the mirror above the sink, water dripping from his chin.
He didn't see a boy anymore. He saw a contender.
"System," he thought.
[System Ready]
"Set a goal."
[Please state the objective.]
Aarav looked straight into his own eyes.
"Goal: Become the greatest actor in the history of Indian Cinema."
The blue screen pulsed.
[Main Objective Accepted: The King of Bollywood][Path Calculation: Initiated][Recommendation: Begin at the foundation. Improve Reputation.]
[New Quest Generated: The First Act]Objective: Audition for a stage play in Delhi. Reward: +2 Acting Skill, ₹500 System Currency, Passive Skill: Stage Presence (Low).
Aarav grabbed a towel and wiped his face. He tossed the towel onto the rack with a newfound casual grace.
The game had begun.
He walked to his wardrobe and pulled out a white shirt and a pair of high-waisted trousers—fashionable for the time. He dressed quickly.
He had a play to find.