Morning: Kamakhya Temple
The road up to Nilachal Hill twisted like an ancient serpent. My father, Amit, was driving the old Ambassador, his knuckles tight on the wheel but his eyes calm. My mother sat beside him, her hair tied neatly, a red bindi glinting in the sunlight.
Grandpa and Grandma whispered prayers in the back seat, their voices weaving through the engine's hum. Uncle Rajiv hummed something completely unholy — an old Bollywood song.
I, meanwhile, was busy trying to process the fact that I was going to meet the goddess herself before I could even form complete sentences.
When we reached the temple complex, the air changed — thicker, older, alive with devotion. Bells clanged, smoke rose from incense sticks, and the chants of priests echoed through the stone corridors.
I didn't understand the words, but I understood the feeling.
This was not the sterile, empty temple visits of my past life — this was living faith, raw and human.
Mom carried me inside, her hands joined in prayer.
> "Thank you, Maa Kamakhya," she whispered. "For bringing him back to us, healthy and happy."
I looked up at the murti — the carved stone, the offerings, the flame — and for a moment, I felt it. That same cosmic warmth I'd felt in the white void before rebirth.
The divine wasn't distant. It was right here. Watching. Listening.
And for the first time since I'd been reborn, I tried — clumsily, silently — to pray.
Thank you, I thought. For another chance. I'll make it count this time.
A breeze passed through the temple corridor, cool and oddly familiar.
Grandma smiled. "See? Even the goddess is blessing him."
I didn't know if gods really winked, but I could've sworn the flame flickered just for me.
---
Afternoon: The Village
Our village sat nestled between green fields and low hills, a cluster of about a hundred homes built from old wood and red clay.
Half the people here were related to us by blood, the other half by shared laughter and borrowed sugar.
The Bharadwaj house stood near the main path — two floors, whitewashed walls, and a small veranda where my grandfather drank his tea every evening.
By the time we returned from Kamakhya, the entire neighborhood already knew.
> "Amit bhaiya's boy turns one today!"
"Sunita beti, we'll bring laddoos in the evening!"
Mom blushed and thanked everyone, while Dad got roped into helping hang up decorations.
I was placed in the safest spot in the house — Grandma's lap — while the grownups turned the yard into a festival ground.
Colorful flags, bamboo poles, borrowed chairs, a big blue tablecloth that had seen every family event since the '80s.
The smell of frying puris and ghee drifted through the air. I tried to reach for one. Grandma laughed.
> "No, baba, not yet. You'll get your share at the party."
I grumbled internally. Being a baby really limited my access to snacks.
---
Evening: The Birthday
By sunset, the whole village glowed with the orange-pink hue of lamps and laughter.
Relatives poured in — uncles, aunties, cousins I didn't know existed. Someone set up a tape recorder blasting Kumar Sanu. Uncle Rajiv, naturally, tried to dance.
I sat on my mother's lap in a tiny red kurta, watching the chaos unfold.
Candles flickered on a small cake my father had picked up from the town — chocolate, slightly lopsided, but magnificent.
> "Happy Birthday, Abhay!" they all cheered.
I blinked at the cake, at the glowing candles, and thought, so this is what one year feels like.
It wasn't about the numbers. It was about the living.
Mom kissed my forehead. "Make a wish, my boy."
If only she knew how many wishes I'd already made.
I stared at the candles, pretending to think hard. In truth, I was planning.
The next five years.
The beginning of everything.
When I'm five, I told myself, that's when training starts.
Martial arts — because strength matters.
Drawing — because imagination feeds the soul.
Reading — because knowledge is the key to every world.
Writing — because one day, I'll create worlds of my own.
And many other skills that are helpful in both real world and in the world that he will travel
And maybe, just maybe, when I'm sixteen…
The world-hopping ability would awaken.
The thought sent a thrill through my tiny frame.
---
Night: Quiet Reflections
The party faded. One by one, guests left with laughter echoing through the cool night.
The stars above the fields burned clear and bright — the kind of stars that city eyes never see.
I lay in my crib, full of milk and warmth, listening to my family's soft voices from the next room.
Dad laughing.
Mom humming.
Grandpa's cricket commentary drifting faintly through the radio.
It was peace. Simple, perfect peace.
I looked up at the open window, where a single firefly hovered. Its light pulsed gently — alive, fleeting, beautiful.
Somewhere deep inside, that same light flickered in me.
Adventure will come, I thought. But for now, I'll grow. I'll learn. I'll be ready.
My eyes grew heavy. The world blurred into a soft haze of comfort and quiet dreams.
And as sleep took me, I smiled — the kind of smile that carried both gratitude and promise.
Because this time, I wasn't just born to live.
I was born to live well.