Rudra woke before the alarm.
For a few seconds, he lay still, staring at the ceiling fan as it traced slow, uneven circles above him. The habit was old—older than this body. In his previous life, mornings had begun with schedules, meetings, and responsibilities that waited for no one.
Then reality settled.
The room was small. The bed was narrow. His legs barely reached the edge.
Twelve years old.
Bangalore, 2001.
He sat up carefully, letting the weight of the moment press down on him—not to overwhelm, but to anchor him.
Understand the situation first, he told himself.
Panic was useless. Excitement was dangerous.
He needed clarity.
The bathroom mirror confirmed what he already knew. A boy's face stared back at him—soft features, unlined skin, eyes too large for the seriousness behind them. He brushed his teeth slowly, watching his reflection, measuring his movements.
This body can't do what my mind expects, he realized.
Not yet.
Strength would need to be built from the ground up. Stamina earned. Reflexes refined. Pushing too hard too fast would only invite injury.
Restraint, not ambition, would decide everything.
He dressed in his school uniform—shorts, tucked-in shirt, belt a notch tighter than he remembered. The fabric felt stiff against his skin, unfamiliar in a way that no luxury suit ever had.
From the kitchen came the clatter of utensils and the smell of fresh dosa batter hitting a hot pan.
"Rudra!" his mother called. "You'll be late."
"I'm coming," he replied, voice steady.
At the dining table, his father sat reading the newspaper, glasses perched low on his nose. He glanced up briefly. "Today's Monday. Assembly day. Don't forget your tie."
Rudra nodded.
Such small instructions. Such ordinary concern.
He absorbed it all quietly.
I am not a guest here, he reminded himself. I belong.
The walk to school was short.
The morning air carried the mixed scents of wet earth and petrol. Vendors set up carts. Buses groaned to life. Bangalore stretched awake around him, unaware that time had folded itself for one boy.
The school gate came into view.
NITK English Medium School
Bangalore Branch
The letters were faded but familiar.
Rudra paused for half a second before entering.
This wasn't just a school.
This was the place where habits would form, where days would either be invested or wasted without anyone noticing. Where effort could hide behind routine.
Children streamed past him, laughing, shoving, shouting. He joined them, matching his pace, his posture, his silence.
Inside the classroom, wooden desks stood in neat rows. Ceiling fans creaked overhead. Chalk dust hung faintly in the air.
He took his seat near the window.
As the teacher began the lesson, Rudra listened—not with urgency, but with intent. He resisted the temptation to race ahead, to plan years into the future.
I have time, he reminded himself. But time only works if I respect it.
When the bell rang for recess, boys rushed outside.
Rudra walked.
When a group invited him to play immediately, he declined with a smile. "Later."
Restraint again.
The system stirred faintly as he paid attention to posture, to breathing, to the way his body responded to movement. Not numbers. Just awareness.
This was the balance he needed.
A child's body.
A man's patience.
That afternoon, as he returned home, Rudra felt something settle into place—not progress, not achievement, but direction.
He didn't need to prove anything today.
Understanding came first.
And this time, he would build everything on a foundation that could endure.