When Arjun woke up, the first thing he noticed was the dryness in his throat and the faint smell of antiseptic in the air. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar, a dull off-white with a small crack running across one corner. A heart monitor beeped at a steady pace beside the bed, and an IV line pulled slightly at the back of his hand when he tried to move.
For a few seconds he didn't move at all. His mind was awake, but his body felt… wrong.
Too light.
He slowly lifted his hand into his line of sight.
Smooth skin. No old scars. No faint burn mark near the wrist.
He turned his head toward the glass panel of the cabinet across the room.
The face reflected there was young.
Not "slept well" young.
Seventeen–eighteen young.
The door opened and a nurse stepped in, checked the monitor, then leaned out into the corridor.
"Doctor, he's awake."
She came closer and adjusted the flow of the IV.
"Finally. You gave everyone a proper scare. Don't try to sit up yet — your body's still catching up."
"Where am I?" His own voice sounded unfamiliar.
"City Care. Your uncle brought you in two nights ago. You seriously don't remember anything?"
He shook his head.
"You were completely out. They had to flush the alcohol out of your system and keep you on oxygen through the night. You came in at the right time — that's the only reason you're talking to me."
A few minutes later the doctor entered, flipping through the chart as she walked.
"How are you feeling now? Any dizziness? Nausea? Chest discomfort?"
"Little weak. No vomiting."
"Headache?"
"Not much."
"Breathing okay? No heaviness?"
He shook his head.
She nodded, checked his pulse, then the monitor.
"Good. Oxygen levels are stable."
Then she looked at him.
"When they brought you in your breathing was unstable and your system had already started shutting down. We cleared the alcohol out, put you on oxygen support and stabilized you. You recovered because you're young — don't test that advantage again."
She closed the file.
"You'll stay for a week. Proper meals, fluids. Start walking from tomorrow."
A week.
He nodded.
"My phone?" he said.
The nurse pointed to the side table.
He grabbed it without thinking.
The screen lit up.
No password.
He looked at the date.
January 2004.
He frowned.
Checked again.
Opened the calendar.
Same.
For a few seconds he just sat there holding the phone.
Then he lowered it and looked at his own hand.
And this time the memories came properly.
He was Arjun Malhotra — only son of Rajiv Malhotra, owner of five single-screen theatres across Andheri. Not struggling. Not bankrupt. Running properties, steady income, people in distribution who still took the family name seriously.
Two nights ago his parents had been driving back from Nashik after a land meeting.
The car never made it past the divider.
By morning the house had been full. White sheets in the hall. Relatives on plastic chairs. Incense that wouldn't stop burning. Low voices talking about rituals and paperwork.
And while all of that was happening, he had taken his friends to a rented farmhouse outside the city.
Music loud. Bottles open.
He had said he needed a break.
He had kept drinking until he couldn't stand.
ICU.
Alcohol poisoning.
He stared at the ceiling.
You had money. Running theatres. A ready entry into the industry…
…and this is how you used it.
A short breath escaped him.
Before the thought could go further, the door opened.
Mahesh walked in first, phone still in his hand, like he had come straight from somewhere in a hurry. Aunt Naina followed him, adjusting her dupatta as she entered.
Both of them stopped when they saw him awake.
"Are you okay?" she asked immediately, coming to the bed and touching his forehead. "Feeling dizzy? Any nausea?"
"I'm fine."
"You don't remember anything?" she asked.
He shook his head.
Mahesh pulled the chair closer.
"Your friend called from your phone," he said. "Said you weren't waking up. I reached there and you were completely out. Doctor said another hour and it would have been serious."
"I'm okay now," Arjun said.
"The house is full," Naina added softly. "Everyone keeps asking about you."
Mahesh looked at the IV line and then back at him.
"I'm not starting a lecture here. Just… this isn't the way. Whatever has happened, has happened. There's work at home. You can't disappear like that."
Arjun nodded.
"I know."
Both of them noticed the lack of argument.
"Doctor said one week," Mahesh continued. "Stay here. Eat properly. Don't try to run away."
"I won't."
"Phone on," Mahesh added.
"Okay."
"I'll send food from home from tomorrow," Naina said, fixing the blanket.
They stayed a few more minutes, talking about relatives still at the house and which staff had come to ask for instructions, then left.
The room became quiet again.
By evening Aunt Naina came again, this time carrying a steel tiffin in one hand and his laptop bag in the other.
"I told you hospital food is useless," she said, placing everything on the side table. "Eat this while it's still warm."
Mahesh wasn't with her. She looked less rushed than in the morning and pulled the chair closer to the bed.
"How are you feeling now? Still weak?"
"Better," he said.
"Doctor met you again?"
He nodded.
She opened the tiffin and started serving without asking, the way she always did at home.
"The house is quieter today," she said while tearing a piece of roti. "Most of the relatives left in the afternoon. Only the close ones are there now. Your uncle is stuck with the accounts people since morning."
He listened, eating slowly.
"Everyone keeps saying the same thing," she continued. "Take care of him, don't leave him alone, make sure he eats… as if you're five years old."
There was a faint smile on her face when she said it.
She noticed the laptop bag near his pillow and tapped it lightly.
"You had asked for this. Don't sit all night staring at it. Use it for a while and then sleep."
"I will."
"And don't start watching those loud movies here," she added. "Other patients are there."
"I'm not that jobless."
"Very funny," she said, getting up. "Call me if you need anything. I'll come in the morning."
After she left, the room became quiet again.
The hospital at night was different. Fewer footsteps in the corridor. Distant trolley sounds. A TV playing somewhere far away at low volume.
After everyone had gone to sleep, Arjun opened his laptop and searched for the latest news.
The internet was slow, but good enough for what he needed.
So the 2004 elections are coming… everyone is going to get a huge surprise this time. Congress will edge out the NDA and form the government. And Dr. Manmohan Singh will become Prime Minister instead of Sonia Gandhi.
In Bollywood, the multiplex wave has already started. It isn't dominant yet, but it will completely replace single-screen theatres in the coming years.
Kal Ho Naa Ho is still running… it was a hit in my previous life too. This year Veer-Zaara, Dhoom and Murder will become superhits. And several small-budget films will explode at the box office.
He leaned back against the pillow, eyes still on the screen.
In his previous life, Arjun had been an orphan who never studied beyond high school. He survived by doing odd jobs in Bollywood — production assistant, spot boy, line work, anything that paid.
Over time, the real backbone of the industry — the small crew members — began to know him by name. Whenever a unit needed reliable hands on short notice, his phone rang first.
Those contacts eventually helped him co-produce a few films.
He learned everything on the job — budgeting, scheduling, managing actors, handling distributors, fixing disasters overnight.
But after thirty years of struggle, he had remained exactly what the industry had hundreds of — a small-time producer.
No backing.
No strong entry point.
Too many years lost just trying to stand in the right rooms.
Now I have a second chance… and this time I'm starting from the top.
His gaze shifted to his own hand — young, steady, full of time.
Theatres. Distribution contacts. Capital. A respected family name.
I'll start a production house. Begin with low-budget films I already know will work. Build cash flow. Expand slowly. Control distribution through our own screens…
The door opened quietly.
The nurse stepped in, took one look at the light from his laptop, and folded her arms.
"You're not even trying to pretend you were sleeping."
Arjun glanced at the clock. "I was waiting for you to come and scold me. Very punctual service."
"At one in the morning?"
"I heal faster under supervision."
She walked to the bed and checked the monitor, but her attention kept drifting back to the laptop.
"You were unconscious for almost two days," she said, adjusting the IV line. "And now you're running midnight operations."
"Long-term planning," he replied. "Very important phase of recovery."
"For what?"
"Global domination. Maybe start with a small production house."
"That is an ambitious jump from this bed."
"Every empire needs a dramatic origin story."
She tried to stay serious, failed, and picked up his chart.
"You're not even sleepy, are you?"
"I am. I just don't trust sleep yet."
That made her pause.
"Why?"
"Woke up here. Lost two days. Feels like if I sleep again, the set might change."
Her expression softened — not pity, just understanding.
"Nothing is changing tonight," she said. "Same room. Same irritating nurse. Same terrible ceiling."
"Reassuring. Especially the nurse part."
She pulled the blanket up properly. "You talk too much for a patient."
"That's because you haven't left."
She sat on the chair for a moment instead of standing.
"What were you looking at?" she asked.
"News. Films. Business."
"You don't look like someone who should be worrying about all that right now."
"And you don't look like someone who should be doing night shifts."
"That's the tube light. Very misleading."
"So in daylight it gets worse?"
"In daylight I look like I've slept."
He smiled. "If you ever get bored of this job, I'm hiring."
"For what exactly?"
"Head of Night Operations. You already control my schedule, my food, my sleep and my survival. Very senior role."
"And what is your qualification to hire people?"
"Vision. Future billionaire. Currently under medical observation."
"That is the weakest resume I've ever heard."
"Early stage startup. High growth potential."
She shook her head, hiding a smile behind the chart.
"You don't seem scared enough for someone who almost died."
"I'm saving the dramatic reaction for visiting hours. Better audience."
"Make sure I'm on duty. I don't want to miss it."
There was a small, easy pause.
"You're not in pain?" she asked.
"No."
"No dizziness?"
"Only when I sit up too fast or when people threaten injections."
"I can still arrange that."
"Abuse of power."
"That's my job."
"And you're very dedicated. I appreciate professionalism."
She stood and reached for the switch.
"You should sleep," she said, softer now. "Not because I'm telling you to. Because your body really needs it."
"And if I don't?"
"I come back in ten minutes and close the laptop myself."
"That sounds like a threat."
"It is."
He lay down immediately. "Very obedient patient."
She dimmed the light and started walking toward the door.
Halfway there she stopped.
"Will you be on the morning round?"
"Yes."
"Good. I need confirmation that I survived the night."
"You're very dramatic."
"Well, I come from a film family, so you can say this is a permanent side effect. Everything in my head plays like a scene whether I want it to or not."
She reached for the door.
"And don't open the laptop again."
"I'll try to behave like a normal patient… but I'm not making any legally binding promises."
"I will check."
"In that case I'll sleep. I have a reputation to maintain."
She looked at him for a second, then smiled despite herself.
"Good night, Mr…?"
"Arjun."
"Good night, Arjun. Sleep."
"Good night, Ms…?"
"Ananya."
"Good night, Ananya. You're officially part of the founding team."
She rolled her eyes and walked out.
By the time the discharge morning arrived, the room no longer felt temporary.
The curtain had been tied up properly instead of hanging loose, the side table had acquired a permanent arrangement of water bottle, medicines and Naina's steel tiffin, and the nurse from the afternoon shift no longer asked his name before checking the chart.
Arjun walked back from the corridor without anyone beside him for the first time.
Not fast — the floor was still cold and the hospital slippers made that soft dragging sound — but steady enough that the ward boy, who had once hovered like a bodyguard, only watched from a distance and nodded in approval.
"Last round," Ananya said when she saw him enter. "After today you won't get this VIP walking track."
"I'm considering extending my stay," Arjun replied, sitting on the bed. "The service here has been consistently excellent."
"That extension will include injections and bland food again."
"In that case I suddenly feel very fit."
She checked his file, but the tone between them had changed over the past few days — less patient and nurse now, more the easy familiarity of people who had shared the same routine long enough to stop performing it.
"You've packed?" she asked.
"My aunt packed yesterday. According to her I am not capable of folding my own clothes without medical supervision."
"That sounds accurate."
"Well, after observing me for a week, you should be the one writing my discharge character certificate."
"I already have," she said. "Talks too much, recovers fast, tries to negotiate with doctors."
"Add 'follows instructions when threatened.' That shows growth."
The doctor came in a little later than usual, without the morning rush behind her.
She closed the file after reading it and looked at him — not the quick clinical scan from the first day, but the slower, satisfied look of someone checking the final result of something that had gone right.
"So," she said, "Mr. Disciplined Patient is officially being discharged."
"I was hoping for a longer treatment plan," he replied. "I was just getting used to the routine."
"You're walking normally, your vitals are stable, and your reports are clear. There is no medical reason to keep you here."
"That sounds very final when you say it like that."
"That's because it is."
She started explaining the medicines, the follow-up, the diet — but the tone had lost its distance somewhere in the last few days.
"You'll feel normal very quickly," she said. "But don't go back to the same habits immediately. Your body recovered because you're young, not because it enjoyed the experience."
"I've had a very strict training week," he replied. "I think I've been reformed."
"I'll believe that when I don't see you here again for the same reason."
"Well," he said, "if I come back, I'll make sure it's for a proper consultation."
She gave him a brief look — the kind that acknowledged the layered meaning without allowing it to become obvious.
Naina arrived in the middle of the conversation, carrying a bag and the blue pillow from home.
"I told him not to get up and start walking on his own," she said immediately. "He doesn't listen."
"He walks properly now," the doctor replied. "You don't need to worry."
"I will still worry," Naina said. "That is my job."
Mahesh came in behind her, already handling the billing file, talking to someone on the phone about the payment and the pharmacy.
The room filled the way it had on the first day — but the air was completely different.
Lighter.
After the final signatures were done, there was that strange empty half-hour when everything was finished but no one had left yet.
Naina was repacking things that were already packed.
Mahesh had gone downstairs to bring the car.
Ananya came in once more to remove the last bandage from his hand.
"There," she said. "No more hospital accessories."
"I feel underdressed."
"You'll manage."
"Are you on evening shift today?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll miss your official farewell."
"You've been saying goodbye for two days."
"I believe in multiple closing ceremonies."
She shook her head and left.
The doctor came back after the rest of the staff had moved on to other rooms.
Not with a file this time.
Just to check once more.
"Everything done?" she asked.
"Yes," he said. "Apparently I am medically fit for the outside world."
"That's a good thing."
He nodded.
For a moment neither of them spoke — not awkward, just aware that the routine that had created their conversations was ending.
"You'll come for review after a week," she said. "Don't skip it."
"Well, if the doctor personally insists, I don't think I have a choice."
"That is not what I said."
"That is how I understood it."
She almost smiled.
He picked up the prescription, then looked at her.
"Well… thank you, Dr. Mehra," he said — and for once there was no humour covering it. "Not just for the treatment. For… the week."
Her expression changed in a way it hadn't before — not professional, not amused — just real.
"You were an easy patient to take care of," she said.
"That is a statement no one has ever made about me."
"That means you've improved."
The corridor outside was quiet.
Voices far away.
He stepped a little closer — not enough to be inappropriate, just enough that the distance between doctor and patient stopped being formal.
"Take care of yourself," she said.
"I plan to," he replied. "I have a follow-up to attend."
That time she did smile.
Not the small controlled one — a real one.
For a second neither of them moved.
Then, in that narrow space between the bed and the window, the goodbye became something that didn't need to be spoken — a brief, unplanned closeness, warm and immediate, gone almost as soon as it happened.
Not dramatic.
Not rushed.
Just something that belonged to the week they had shared and nowhere else.
She stepped back first.
"Go home, Arjun," she said, her voice back to normal. "And don't come back for the wrong reasons."
"I won't," he replied.
Mahesh called from the corridor.
"Car is here!"
Naina picked up the bags.
Arjun took one last look at the room — the crack in the ceiling, the chair where everyone had sat, the place where he had woken up between two lives.
Then he walked out on his own.
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I used some AI assistance while writing the first chapter, so there may be minor inconsistencies. From the second chapter onward, the writing will be entirely written by me.
3k+ words for this chapter