Chapter 2: Chaos in the Kirana

“Arrey, move aside, don’t block the way!” A middle-aged woman shoved me hard, her gold bangles jangling as her dupatta slid off her shoulder. I staggered into a shelf, eyes wide, shoulder throbbing, but there was no time to pause or rub it. The grocery aisle was now a mini wrestling ring.

Ahead, people pushed and fought over a few scattered rice bags on the floor. Children wailed, women shouted and abused, men scuffled—the chaos and noise crashed into my ears all at once.

A lone slipper was flattened underfoot, a toddler howled for his maa, and a hefty man in a banyan was wrestling for the last bag of dal. The security guard, badge askew, had vanished. Everyone was on their own.

What’s going on? Just moments ago, I was still soaking in icy seawater, my eyes squeezed shut in despair.

That sensation of freezing water clinging to my skin wouldn’t leave me. Salt stung my eyes, lungs burned, the taste of loss sharp and fresh. It was as if I’d woken from one nightmare into another.

Could it be…

I couldn’t believe it. Squeezed tight in the crowd, hands trembling, I fished out my phone and glanced at the screen. June 21st.

The date flashed at me, cold and unyielding. My breath caught. For a second, all the noise faded, and only the hammering of my heart remained. I wiped my forehead with my sleeve, the way I used to before board exam results. My knuckles went white gripping the phone.

Hai Ram, I was actually reborn on the day before doomsday arrived.

It was too surreal, like one of those stories people forward on WhatsApp—rebirth, second chance, Bhagwan ka ashirwad, or maybe some cosmic prank. But there I was, right in the thick of it, sweat and all.

On this day in my previous life, the government issued a zombie warning. A mysterious zombie virus suddenly broke out across the world, city alarms blared, and all radio and TV stations broadcasted nonstop lockdown orders. Starting from midnight on June 22nd, everyone was to stay home; anyone lingering outside would be taken away for centralised quarantine.

I still remembered the panic on the news anchors’ faces, the way my neighbour Mrs. Sharma had banged on every door in our building, shrieking, 'Lock all the doors, beta! Zombies are coming!' The TV blared the warning in every language—Hindi, Marathi, English—like a bad fever dream.

Once the news broke, people stormed supermarkets to panic-buy supplies. Even the security guards and cashiers abandoned their posts to join the frenzy. The whole city fell into chaos.

Our local shopkeeper, usually miserly with change, handed out bags like prasad at a temple. Lines snaked all the way to the paan shop. It was madness—people with gunny sacks, schoolbags, even pillowcases, grabbing what they could.

After I finally managed to grab some rice, atta, and biscuits, I barely made it back to my rented 2BHK flat on the top floor just in time. Unexpectedly, the first disaster wasn’t the zombie virus.

The lift was already out—someone had tried to jam too many bags inside. Huffing up the stairs, I’d dumped the loot inside my flat, not knowing I’d never even get to eat any of it.

At 10 a.m. on the 22nd, the ground began to sink, seawater rushed in, and the sea level rose rapidly. In less than a day, the 26-storey apartment building I lived in was completely submerged. The food I’d hoarded was never even touched.

All that effort, all those tense hours of stockpiling, and in the end, it was just the cold silence of water. The city of dreams, washed away in hours, like some angry God had pressed 'reset'.