Chapter 1: Burned by Fate

On Chaitra Navratri, I died for saving a stranger. Then the gods gave me another chance.

The air was thick with the smell of burning agarbatti from the mandir, dholaks thumping somewhere nearby—Navratri energy buzzing through our mohalla. The Yamuna was restless that morning, muddy banks flecked with wild marigolds, and jalebi fragrance wafting from the tea stall across the road. I was doing my usual round, lathi tapping the footpath, when I saw her thrashing in the water.

Just as I dragged her out, coughing and shivering on the muddy bank, she dropped to her knees, palms joined in a frantic namaste. “Bhaiya, please!” she sobbed, voice cracking. “My Tommy... bachao mera Tommy!” Her salwar kameez clung to her, kohl smudged, eyes wide with panic—her whole world spinning around that little puppy.

Ignoring the biting cold, I dove back in, searching for nearly half an hour. The river stung my skin, silt blinding me as I called, “Arrey Tommy! Kahan hai beta?” Only the river’s silence answered, temple bells echoing far away. Arms numb, vest stuck to my body, I staggered out at last. “Beti, I searched everywhere,” I croaked, teeth chattering. “He’s not there. I’m sorry.”

Suddenly, she went wild—accusing me of not trying, then screaming I’d touched her while saving her. “Tu badtameez hai! Bacha toh liya, lekin haath kyun lagaya? Jab Tommy ki baat aayi, tab haath kaan ko bhi nahi lagaya!” Her voice cut through the air, paanwala on the bridge pausing mid-chew. A crowd started to gather, someone’s phone camera pointing at me, red recording dot burning into my skin. The smell of wet earth, sweat, and incense churned my stomach.

She clawed at my cheeks, her bangles jangling, leaving burning red lines. “Police! Bachao! Yeh admi ne mujhe chhua! He pushed me in! Janwar hai!” she wailed, collapsing Bollywood-style. Constable Mishra appeared, already looking fed up, his chai glass leaving a ring on the thana desk as he scribbled my name into the register.

I was shamed and slandered everywhere. My photo flashed in the Rajpur Park Residents WhatsApp group, captioned with three angry emojis and a warning: “Beware of this man.” The chaiwala stopped giving me extra elaichi. My rented room—barely big enough for a cot—was set ablaze. As the flames swallowed my room, her voice echoed—Teri wajah se mera Tommy gaya! Tujhe bhi marna padega! My last sight was my amma’s photo, garlanded and watching me as the smoke closed in.

Sometimes, even gods forget to protect the innocent, I thought, as everything faded to black.

Maybe this was my kaalchakra—my cycle of fate, spinning back to the same cursed day. Because when I opened my eyes, I was back on the very day the girl fell into the river and called for help.

I blinked, tasting burnt air. Same muddy banks, same chilly wind, same bhajan floating over the water. My feet refused to move. Wasn’t it enough to burn once? Amma always said, don’t poke your nose where it’s not needed. But her voice—so much like my little sister’s—kept pulling me back.

But this time, I turned away, walking straight to the dancing aunties. “Aunties, turn up the speakers! Let’s get hyped!” I yelled, forcing a grin to drown out the guilt gnawing inside me.