ch-2

Chapter 2: A Second Chance

Suraj's last memory was of fading into the blackness, a final sigh of regret escaping his lips as the world went dark. He was ready to disappear—ready for whatever came next after death. But when his eyes flickered open again, he wasn't greeted by the nothingness he'd expected.

Instead, he was lying on a small bed in a dimly lit room. The air was heavy with the scent of incense and something else—flowers, maybe? He blinked, confusion flooding his senses. His body felt strange. Everything felt wrong. He sat up abruptly, only to feel a wave of dizziness crash over him. His hands shot up to steady himself, and that's when he noticed.

His hands weren't his own.

Suraj's breath hitched in his throat. He stared down at the unfamiliar, slender fingers in front of him, flexing them, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. He felt younger—lighter, as if the weight of a decade spent as a stuntman had vanished. His scars were gone, his aching bones were healed.

"What the hell..." he muttered to himself, his voice sounding wrong, too. He stumbled out of the bed, his legs shaky but functional, and moved toward a mirror hanging on the wall. What he saw nearly sent him reeling backward.

The face staring back at him wasn't his. He wasn't Suraj, the stuntman—well, not the Suraj he knew. This was the face of a boy, no older than twenty-four. Wide, curious eyes, messy hair, and a youthful energy that his old body hadn't possessed in years.

He touched his face—his new face—and panic welled up in his chest. His thoughts raced, trying to piece together what was happening. He couldn't be alive. He died. That last moment—the light rig falling, the child, the darkness—it was all real. Was this...a dream?

Before he could spiral any further, the door creaked open. A young boy, no older than twelve, peeked into the room, his eyes filled with concern.

"Bh...Bhaiya?" the boy asked softly, voice trembling.

Suraj froze. The word tugged at something deep in his chest—Bhaiya. He hadn't been called that in years, not since his younger days when his own siblings were still small. But the boy wasn't talking to him. No, he was addressing the boy whose body he had...taken over.

"Are you okay?" the boy asked again, stepping closer. His face was drawn, a mixture of worry and exhaustion etched into his young features.

Suraj blinked, struggling to find his voice. "I...I'm fine," he managed, though the words felt foreign. "What's your name?"

The boy tilted his head, confused by the question. "It's Aryan... Bhaiya, are you sure you're okay?"

Aryan. The name felt familiar in a way Suraj couldn't explain. And then, like a floodgate opening, memories began to surge into his mind—memories that weren't his own. This body, this world—it wasn't the one he had known. No, this was something entirely different.

In a haze, Suraj stumbled to the window, pulling back the curtains. The sight outside took his breath away. The sprawling city before him was vibrant, bustling with life, but it wasn't the world he had come from. The architecture was modern, but the streets had an unfamiliar feel to them, the cars sleek and futuristic. Flags waved proudly on poles, the symbol emblazoned on them foreign yet familiar at the same time. Bharat.

He wasn't in India anymore. No, this wasn't the India he knew at all. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut.

This is a parallel world.

The pieces started to click into place. The country was called Bharat here, not India—a nation uncolonized, unbroken by the British Empire. The partition that had fractured his homeland had never happened. There was no Pakistan, no Bangladesh. Akhand Bharat—an undivided, unified land.

The shock of it was overwhelming. How? he thought. How is this possible?

In this world, they hadn't followed Gandhi's path of peace and nonviolence. There had been no Salt March, no Satyagraha. Instead, Bhagat Singh's revolutionary spirit had prevailed, igniting a fire of resistance that had driven the British away before they could ever fully conquer the land. Here, Bharat had risen as a powerful, independent force, untouched by the chains of colonization.

Suraj's heart pounded in his chest. He tried to calm himself, tried to think rationally, but the enormity of it all was too much. This world was...different. So vastly different. And yet, here he was—alive. In the body of a young man named Suraj, a man who had died from a drug overdose.

Suddenly, the weight of the situation pressed down on him. The Suraj whose body he now inhabited had been a troubled soul. He had lost both parents in a tragic accident, leaving behind a significant inheritance for him and his younger brother—Aryan. The boy who stood before him now, looking up at him with wide, concerned eyes.

Suraj clenched his fists. He didn't know how or why this had happened, but one thing was clear: he couldn't waste this second chance. He had been given a new life, a new opportunity, and this time, he wasn't going to let it slip through his fingers.

"I'm sorry," Suraj whispered, more to the old Suraj than to anyone else. "I'll take care of Aryan. I'll live the life you didn't get to."

Aryan looked up at him, puzzled. "What did you say, Bhaiya?"

Suraj forced a smile, his heart aching for the boy who had lost his brother. "Nothing," he said softly, ruffling Aryan's hair. "Don't worry. Everything's going to be okay now. I promise."

And with that promise, Suraj felt a strange sense of purpose settle over him. This wasn't his world, but it was his life now. A life he would live not only for himself, but for the Suraj who had passed away.

It was his second chance—a gift from the heavens. And this time, he wouldn't waste it.