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When I opened my eyes again, I expected… well, anything but blinding white hospital lights.
There was crying — loud, wet, and embarrassingly close. It took me three horrifying seconds to realize that the crying was me.
Great. My reincarnation debut, and I was performing like a broken car alarm.
The smell hit next — antiseptic, metal, and milk. Somewhere nearby, a fan rattled like an exhausted bird. People were talking — fast, nervous voices, echoing off tiled walls.
Then came her voice. Soft. Shaky. Full of warmth that seemed to melt through the noise.
> "Amit… dekho na, he's smiling already."
I wasn't. My mouth was still busy wailing its protest against reincarnation.
A deeper, calmer voice replied — my father's, though I didn't know it yet.
> "Of course he's smiling. He knows he's in safe hands now."
Ah, yes. Classic fatherly delusion. I'd just been forcefully ejected from metaphysical limbo, but sure, I was "smiling."
The nurse muttered something about "a healthy boy," and before I could gather my very limited baby dignity, I was wrapped up like a spring roll and handed to my mother — Sunita Bharadwaj, 26 years old, eyes glowing like she'd just witnessed a miracle.
She looked down at me with that mix of awe and exhaustion only new mothers have. I stared back, my face twitching as if to say, You have no idea what you've signed up for.
And just like that, I was born — again.
15th August, 1995. Guwahati, Assam. 8:47 AM.
Week One: Existential Crisis in a Crib
The first week of my new life can be summarized in one word: humbling.
I went from being a fully functional adult — capable of sarcasm, caffeine addiction, and existential dread — to a drooling blob whose greatest achievement was discovering his own thumb.
The human body is an engineering marvel, but the baby version? It's a software still in beta.
I couldn't control my arms. They flailed around like I was trying to signal an airplane. My neck? Useless. My only reliable system was the crying function — and boy, it came with no cooldown timer.
Still, lying in that crib under a slow-turning fan, I had time to think.
Reincarnation. Random selection. Four wishes.
This was my second shot — in the same family, in a slightly altered world.
I'd see my parents again, grow up with them again… maybe do things right this time.
Also, note to self: never underestimate diapers.
---
Month One: The Struggle Is Real
By the end of my first month, I'd become an expert at doing absolutely nothing efficiently.
My father, Amit Bharadwaj, visited my crib every night after closing his small furniture workshop. His hands always smelled faintly of varnish and sawdust — comforting in a weirdly nostalgic way. He'd lean over, whispering,
> "Grow up strong, champ. You'll make this house proud."
No pressure, Dad. Just redefining the family legacy from my current position as a burrito.
My mother, Sunita, was warmth personified. She handled sleepless nights like a seasoned general and laughed off every sneeze and burp I threw at her. Sometimes, I'd watch her humming while balancing house chores and wonder, how did she do this twice?
Then there was Grandma Sita — the temple of discipline wrapped in a sari. She'd chant every morning, sprinkle holy water around my crib, and tell me stories of gods and demons I could barely comprehend.
I liked her voice though. It felt like home.
Grandpa Ram Prasad was my favorite. He'd sit by the window, listening to cricket commentary on the radio, occasionally leaning over to whisper,
> "You'll be a cricketer, my boy. Mark my words."
At this point, I couldn't even hold a ball without drooling on it, but hey — dream big.
And then there was Uncle Rajiv — the carefree bachelor who smelled of cologne and bad decisions. He'd visit every weekend, poke my cheeks, and say,
> "Look at him! Already judging us with those eyes."
Accurate.
---
Month Two to Five:
By month two, I'd made progress — I could now raise my head for approximately two seconds before gravity reminded me who's boss.
My internal monologue became my best friend.
Day 45: Attempted to grab my own foot. Failed spectacularly. Retrying tomorrow.
Day 61: Learned that drooling isn't optional. It's a lifestyle.
Every small victory felt like conquering Everest. My biggest achievement? Making eye contact with my father without crying. We both celebrated that silently.
The family routine settled — morning prayers, my mother's lullabies, my father's occasional workshop tales, and my grandmother's endless supply of blessings. Life, though simple, had rhythm.
Sometimes, in the quiet moments, I'd think about the omnipotent being — the way he'd spoken, the calm in his voice.
Was this what "second chances" felt like?
---
Month Six:
Half a year in, and I was practically royalty. The entire Bharadwaj household was preparing for my Annaprashan — the traditional ceremony where a baby eats their first solid food.
Grandma Sita went full command mode. The living room was decorated with marigolds, incense filled the air, and every auntie within a five-kilometer radius had been notified.
I sat in the center of the chaos, dressed in tiny silk clothes, my hair oiled and combed into a swirl. My expression? Pure existential panic.
"Look at those cheeks!" someone squealed.
"Yes, yes, our little prince," another auntie added, pinching them.
This is how supervillains are made, I thought.
Father lit a small lamp. Mother held me steady. Grandfather beamed like he'd just scored a century. Uncle Rajiv was already filming with the family camcorder, providing useless commentary.
> "Abhay's first rice! Let's see if he drools or devours!"
Spoiler: I drooled. A lot.
Still, everyone clapped and laughed like I'd just won an Olympic medal.
For a few moments, between the laughter and camera flashes, I felt something warm bloom in my chest — something that said, this is what living feels like.
After the ceremony, as relatives drifted away and the house quieted down, I lay in my crib watching the golden light fade through the window.
Six months in this small body, in this simple house — and yet, it felt like I'd seen more love here than in my entire previous life.
Maybe being a baby wasn't so bad.
At least for now.
If the first six months of babyhood were confusing, the next six were an odyssey.
Somewhere between Month Seven and Month Eight, I made the greatest scientific discovery of my second life: gravity is rude. Every time I tried to sit up or roll over, gravity would just smirk and say, "Nice try, kid."
Still, progress came. Painfully, clumsily, hilariously — but it came.
---
Month Seven: The Great Push-Up Disaster
By now, I'd become something of a local celebrity in the house. Grandma claimed I was blessed by Hanuman himself ("Look at his arms, so strong!"), while Uncle Rajiv maintained I was plotting world domination through drooling.
They weren't entirely wrong.
Each morning, my training began — I'd push my chest off the floor, wobble like a malfunctioning jelly, and collapse dramatically.
My mother, ever the cheerleader, would clap and say,
> "Good job, Abhay! So strong!"
Meanwhile, I was lying there thinking, Ma, I just face-planted into the bedsheet for the fifth time. Are you sure we're celebrating this?
But her laughter always made the embarrassment fade.
---
Month Eight:
Crawling is supposed to be natural. Instinctive. A rite of passage.
In my case, it was a battlefield.
Day one: I managed to move backward instead of forward.
Day two: I got stuck under a chair.
Day three: I accidentally kicked the family cat and was promptly ignored by her for a week.
By the end of the month, though, I could finally move forward — a slow, determined shuffle that made everyone cheer like I'd just won an Olympic medal.
> "He's crawling!" Dad shouted from across the room, abandoning his newspaper to record the moment.
Grandpa Ram Prasad even wiped a tear from his eye. "My little cricketer's on the move."
Uncle Rajiv said, "Now we're in trouble."
He was right. The house would never know peace again.
---
Month Nine:
Speech — or whatever passed for it at that stage — arrived like a thunderstorm.
Random syllables, sudden bursts of nonsense, occasional screams of joy that made Grandma jump.
My first recognizable word? "Ba."
Was it "Baba"? "Ball"? "Banana"? Nobody knew. But my father decided it meant "Baba," and I didn't have the linguistic ability to correct him.
So "Baba" it was.
After that, the floodgates opened. "Ma," "Da," "Ta," "Gah," and a lot of creative baby opera at 3 A.M.
I could see my mother's expression every night — that look of exhausted love that said, I haven't slept in weeks, but you're worth it.
And she meant it.
---
Month Ten: The Standing Saga
Standing up was an adventure that could have been narrated by Morgan Freeman.
One day, I decided the floor was boring. The bedpost looked taller, more majestic. My mission was clear.
Step one: grab the post.
Step two: pull up.
Step three: experience immediate regret.
I fell, of course. Repeatedly. The floor and I were in a committed relationship by now.
But then one evening, when the radio hummed an old Kishore Kumar song and the orange light of sunset filled the room, I stood up.
Wobbling, arms out like a tightrope walker — but I stood.
Dad saw it first. His chair scraped the floor.
> "Sunita! He's standing! Look!"
Mom rushed over, her face glowing like the lamp in front of the gods.
I stood there, legs trembling, drool proudly displayed, and thought, Behold, humanity. Your chosen one has ascended.
Then I promptly fell on my butt.
---
Month Eleven: Small Steps, Big Cheers
Walking. The Everest of infancy.
I'd seen adults do it all my previous life — simple, automatic. But now, it felt like defying the laws of physics.
Every attempt began with hope and ended with gravity reminding me who's boss.
Yet my family never gave up on cheering. Dad would extend his arms, saying,
> "Come on, champ. Just one step."
Grandma would clap. Mom would whisper prayers. Grandpa would grin, muttering, "Just like Kapil Dev on the crease."
And one fine morning, between a prayer bell and the smell of frying puris, I did it.
One step.
Then two.
Then a glorious, uncoordinated tumble into my father's waiting arms.
Cheers erupted like we'd won the Cricket World Cup. Uncle Rajiv even set off a party popper in the living room.
I giggled, my tiny heart pounding, and for the first time, I felt something deeper than pride — the thrill of movement, the joy of progress.
This was what living felt like. Again.
---
Month Twelve: The Edge of Something New
As winter rolled in, the house filled with warmth — the kind that comes from small lives lived with love.
Dad worked longer hours now, taking more orders for furniture. Mom handled accounts with the calm precision of a general. Grandma's morning prayers became my daily soundtrack. Grandpa still tried to teach me how to hold a cricket ball, despite me using it mostly as a chew toy.
The year was turning, and so was I.
I could stand now, walk a few steps without assistance, and mumble enough to make my mother tear up with joy.
I wasn't just surviving. I was growing.
And sometimes, when the house grew quiet at night, I'd lie in my crib staring at the shadows on the ceiling.
Memories from before — faint, blurred, but still there — would flicker through my mind. The white space. The being of light. The promise.
Four wishes. A new beginning.
Adventure.
I couldn't remember the exact details anymore — maybe this small brain wasn't built for cosmic recall — but I felt it. Deep down, a spark waited, quiet and steady, like a whisper from my past life.
Something was coming. Something bigger.
As the calendar moved closer to my first birthday, I'd catch myself staring at the window — the blue sky beyond, the sunlight spilling in — and think, One day, I'll go beyond all this. To worlds, to dreams, to something more.
But for now… I had mashed bananas to eat and a family to make laugh.
Because adventure could wait.
Living couldn't.
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