The rain had been relentless that night.
Bangalore's Outer Ring Road shimmered under yellow streetlights, each puddle reflecting a city that never truly slept. Rudra tightened his grip on the steering wheel as the wipers struggled to keep pace. At forty-four, he had driven these roads thousands of times—between hotel sites, meetings, late-night inspections. This road, this city, had built him.
And somehow, it would end him too.
A truck horn screamed. Headlights bloomed white.
For a fraction of a second, Rudra thought—not of money, not of success—but of how quiet his hotel rooms felt after guests left. Of trophies gathering dust. Of a bat he had once owned, long ago, abandoned for "practical life."
Then metal folded.
Sound vanished.
There was no pain.
Only silence.
And then—awareness.
Rudra found himself standing, though he had no body. No weight. No breath. Before him stretched neither darkness nor light, but something in between—vast, patient, unmoving.
A presence existed there.
Not towering. Not threatening.
Simply there.
"You have finished your innings," the presence said—not aloud, but directly inside him.
Rudra didn't argue. Arguing felt childish now.
"I did well," he replied, after a pause. "Didn't I?"
"You did well at surviving," the presence answered. "Not at living."
That stung more than death itself.
Images rose uninvited—him at twelve, playing cricket on a dusty ground, barefoot, laughing. The weight of a bat felt heavier than any balance sheet he had ever signed.
"You loved two things," the presence continued. "The game… and play."
Cricket. Video games. Simple joys he had outgrown before they could grow him.
Rudra exhaled—though he had no lungs to do so.
"I don't want sympathy."
"Good," the presence replied. "Then take responsibility."
Something unfolded before him. Not light. Not screen. Just information.
"A second innings," the presence said. "No guidance. No shortcuts. Only effort."
Rudra understood instinctively—this was not mercy.
This was work.
"I accept," he said.
The presence did not respond.
The world collapsed inward.
Rudra gasped.
Air tore into his lungs like fire.
He sat upright, coughing, heart pounding wildly. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar—low, off-white, with a faint crack running across it like a scar. A ceiling fan rotated lazily, creaking with every turn.
The smell hit him next.
Oil. Spices. Something frying.
His head spun.
He looked down.
Small hands. Thin wrists. No watch. No scars.
He scrambled out of bed, feet slapping against a cool mosaic floor. A narrow room greeted him—wooden cupboard, schoolbooks stacked neatly, a cricket bat leaning in the corner. Not decorative. Used.
A calendar hung crooked on the wall.
2001.
His breath caught.
He stumbled to the doorway just as a voice drifted in from the kitchen.
"Rudra! Brush your teeth properly, not like yesterday!"
His knees nearly gave out.
That voice—firm, warm, familiar in a way that hurt.
His mother.
He walked out slowly, as if afraid the world would shatter if he moved too fast.
The kitchen was small. Gas stove. Steel utensils. A pressure cooker rattling softly. His mother stood there, hair tied back, bangles clinking as she stirred something aromatic. Sambar, he realized distantly. She always made sambar on weekdays.
A small framed picture of a deity sat on the shelf above the sink, incense smoke curling gently upward.
Religious. Devout. Unwavering.
She turned, frowning. "Why are you staring? You'll miss the bus."
Rudra's throat tightened.
She looked younger. Tired, but peaceful. A housewife who measured her days in meals and prayers, not profits and losses. A woman who expressed love through food and routine.
"I—" His voice cracked.
She sighed. "Wash your face first. Breakfast will get cold."
He nodded and retreated to the bathroom, splashing water on his face. The mirror confirmed what his hands already knew.
Twelve years old.
Outside, another voice spoke—calm, authoritative, clipped.
"Did you finish reading that civics chapter?"
His father sat at the dining table, newspaper folded neatly beside a leather briefcase. Glasses perched low on his nose. The posture was unmistakable.
A lawyer.
Even at home, his father carried the courtroom with him—measured words, expectation without cruelty. A man who believed discipline was love, even if he didn't know how to say it.
Rudra stood there, watching the steam rise from the plates his mother served, listening to his father comment on a recent court ruling, and something inside his chest loosened.
This wasn't nostalgia.
This was return.
A subtle sensation stirred at the edge of his vision.
Not light.
Not sound.
Just presence.
When he focused, it clarified.
Information arranged itself quietly.
Name: Rudra
Age: 12 YEARS OLD (2001)
No fanfare. No greeting.
Just truth.
Rudra lowered his gaze, hiding the tremor in his hands.
Death had ended.
Breath had begun again.
And this time—
he would not waste the innings he had been given.