The sun in Hyderabad was not a star today. It was a giant, flaming tandoor oven aimed directly
at Aditya's head, roasting the pavement and everyone on it.
Aditya wiped the sweat from his forehead and tightened his grip on his prize: two packets of
steaming Chicken Biryani. At twenty-four years old, Aditya was a master of "Life's Great Secret."
His philosophy was simple: Stay humble, stay quiet, and never get into trouble.
● If someone shouted at him? He smiled.
● If someone pushed him? He moved.
He wasn't weak; he was just an expert at energy conservation. He was saving every ounce of
his spirit for the only two things that mattered: his Biryani and his bed.
"Tonight is the night," Aditya whispered to the foil packets, the aroma of basmati rice wafting
through the plastic bag. "Just me, this chicken, and no one to bother me."
Then, he saw her.
An old grandmother—an Ammamma—was standing in the dead center of the road. She wasn't
crossing: she was hunched over, squinting at the asphalt, searching for a lost 5-rupee coin as if
the traffic laws of India didn't apply to her.
Coming toward her was a "Sherry" auto-rickshaw. The driver wasn't looking at the road; he was
busy belt-testing a high note of a Bollywood song while admiring his pompadour in the rearview
mirror. The auto was flying like a rocket made of scrap metal and prayer.
Aditya's brain screamed: "Don't do it. Stay humble. Go home. Think of the masala!"
But his legs had a different, stupider plan.
"Ammamma! Move!" Aditya screamed.
He didn't run like a hero in a Tollywood blockbuster. There was no slow-motion ripple of
muscles. He ran like a panicked duck on a slippery kitchen floor. He reached the old woman and
gave her a massive, desperate shove. She flew through the air, landing with a soft thwack on a
pile of discarded trash bags. She was safe.
Aditya, however, was not.
In his heroic momentum, his left foot found a banana peel. His right foot found a patch of spilled
engine oil. Physics decided to take a holiday. Aditya began to spin like a human top.
The auto-rickshaw clipped his shoulder—not enough to crush him, but enough to send him
flying backward like a kicked football. As he drifted through the air, the world slowed down. He
saw his Biryani packets slip from his fingers, tumbling through the sky.
"Noooooo!" he screamed, his heart breaking. "Not the chicken leg-piece!"
Then came the grand finale.
A roadside tea stall sat just behind him, featuring a massive, heavy brass pot sitting on
the counter. Aditya's head met the metal with a resonance that could be heard three streets
away.
"KHANNANNNNGGGG!"
Aditya hit the ground, his vision swimming and his eyes rolling back. As the darkness began to
swallow him, he felt something warm and greasy land right on the tip of his nose. It was a
single, spicy piece of chicken from his burst packet.
I saved a life, he thought, a flicker of pride warming his chest. But I'm dying in the middle of the
road... smelling like ginger-garlic paste... and I'm still a virgin.
"Abbe Saale..." he whispered.
And then, everything went black.
That "KHANNANNNNGGGG" sound is the universal signal for a fantasy reincarnation story to
begin!