Chapter 2 :-
Part 3: The Aftermath
Back at home, his mother stirred in the kitchen, her hands restless as she checked the pot on the stove for the third time. The water inside wasn’t even boiling yet.
“Why is he so late…?” she muttered under her breath, pressing a hand against her chest as if steadying her heartbeat. “I need to start dinner.”
She wiped her damp palms against her sari, then stepped out into the narrow hallway, her voice carrying a mixture of worry and firmness.
“Shruti! Minakshi! Come here.”
The soft padding of bare feet followed, and her daughters peeked from their room. Shruti, the elder, held her little sister Minakshi’s hand as if she already knew something was wrong.
“Listen carefully,” their mother said, her eyes shifting between them. “I’m going out to look for your big brother. He hasn’t come back yet.” Her voice cracked at the last word, but she quickly forced it back into control. “You two—wash the rice, boil the dal, chop the onions, chillies, and garlic. Don’t waste time, understand?”
“Yes, Maa,” they replied in unison, though Minakshi’s voice trembled slightly.
Their mother reached over, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Shruti’s ear. “Take care of your sister. Don’t let her cut herself.”
Shruti nodded, her chin lifting a little higher. “I will, Maa.”
Without another word, their mother wrapped her dupatta tighter around her shoulders. The night air was beginning to cool, but her restlessness burned hotter than the summer day had. She hurried toward the market, her sandals slapping against the uneven road.
The house grew quieter once she left. The girls stood still for a moment, listening to the sound of her footsteps fading into the distance. Then, Shruti exhaled and tugged Minakshi’s hand toward the kitchen.
“Come on. Maa told us to work.”
Minakshi hesitated, her eyes darting to the front door. “Why hasn’t Bhaiya come home yet? He always comes before dark.”
Shruti didn’t answer right away. She pulled the sack of rice from the shelf, her small fingers struggling with the knot. “Maybe he’s still buying things. Or maybe… maybe he met his friends.”
But even as she said it, her brows furrowed. Bhaiya never made them wait this long.
The kitchen smelled faintly of smoke and raw spices. Minakshi set out the knife and cutting board, her tiny hands trembling as she peeled the garlic. Every scrape of the blade echoed too loudly in the empty house.
For a while, the sisters worked in silence. Outside, dogs barked in the street, and the faint ringing of a temple bell carried through the air.
Finally, Minakshi whispered, “Do you think something bad happened?”
Shruti froze, her knife halfway through an onion. The sting of tears came quicker than the sharpness of the onion’s bite. She blinked hard, forcing them back.
“No,” she said firmly. “Bhaiya’s strong. He’ll come back. You’ll see.”
But her voice wavered, betraying her own fear.
The wind outside rattled the wooden window frame. Both girls glanced toward the door, hoping—just hoping—they’d hear the familiar creak of it opening.
But it never came.
____
Part 4: Awakening
One month later.
“Haaah…!”
A boy’s ragged gasp tore through the silence of the ward. His chest rose and fell like a drowning man dragged from the depths. Cold sweat dampened his temples, sticking his hair against his skin.
He blinked rapidly, pupils shrinking against the sterile white light above him. The ceiling, the walls, the faint hum of a fan—none of it felt familiar.
Where… am I?
His breath quickened, each inhale sharp and uneven. The faint sting of antiseptic filled his lungs. To his right, a metal stand held an IV bag, its needle taped against his thin arm. He tried to move, but his body felt heavy, foreign, as though it wasn’t answering him properly.
“No…” His voice cracked—hoarse, higher, lighter. That’s not my voice.
Panic surged through him. He ripped the blanket away and swung his legs off the bed, almost collapsing under their weight. They looked thinner, smaller. Not his.
With trembling steps, he staggered toward the far corner where a narrow sink stood beneath a rectangular mirror. Each step echoed in the stillness, his bare feet slapping against the cold linoleum.
When he reached it, he gripped the sink so tightly his knuckles whitened. His reflection stared back—except it wasn’t his.
Wide, unfamiliar eyes. A sharper jawline. A different skin tone, lips, nose—everything wrong. Everything alien.
The boy’s breath hitched. His heart hammered so hard it hurt.
“What… what is this…?” he whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. “This… isn’t me…”
He raised a trembling hand and touched his cheek. The reflection copied him perfectly, but the sensation didn’t match the face. His stomach twisted violently.
Did I… die?
His knees buckled, and he nearly collapsed, clutching the sink for support. His mind raced back—flashes of noise, pain, a truck, darkness. Then nothing. Just endless nothing.
And now—this.
His lips trembled as tears gathered in his eyes. “Who… am I?”
The hospital room remained silent, offering no answer. Only the faint beep of a heart monitor across the room, mocking his confusion.
For the first time, the boy realized the truth—
He was alive. But not as himself.
_______
Part 5: Flashback
A memory flashed into his mind.
Doors burst open. A woman stumbled through the hospital entrance, eyes wild, sweat and tears streaking her cheeks. In her arms lay a limp body.
“Please! Doctor, save this boy!” she screamed.
People moved like the current of a scared river—doctors into motion, nurses clearing corridors, a stretcher pulled at a run. The head surgeon barked orders; voices folded into a controlled chaos as they barreled toward the operating theatre.
They laid Veer—broken, blood-soaked, barely breathing—onto the table. Bright lights carved the room into slabs of white. Gloved hands fussed over him, checking pupils, fastening lines, drawing blood. The smell of disinfectant and copper filled the air.
A needle slid through his skin. Anaesthesia crawled up his arm, cold and sweet and soft; sound and shape blurred at the edges. For a breath, the world narrowed to the rasp of his own breath and the distant shoes of the rushing staff.
Then, impossibly, his eyes opened again.
He whispered, barely audible above the beeping monitors. “Doctor…”
The surgeon paused, head bent close. “Save your strength. Don’t speak.”
Veer’s lips moved with a terrible deliberation, as if each word cost him the last of himself.
“Don’t treat me. Please.” His voice trembled, dry as paper. “Take my organs and blood and body parts…and give them to patients who need them. I’m not doing this for free—sell them to the hospital…give the money to my father.” He swallowed, each breath a small victory. “His account details are in my phone. Password…1010. Destroy the phone after that.”
Panic and disbelief flashed across the team’s faces. A nurse’s hand hovered over a tray of instruments; the anesthetist’s brow furrowed. The surgeon’s jaw tightened, then softened into something like pity.
“Tell my parents… I died. That’s all. I…don’t want to live anymore.” The words were thin, final. Then, as if to make his surrender perfect, he smiled—small and fragile, a smile oddly serene for a soul slipping away. “I’m happy about this.”
His eyelids fell.
For a stunned moment, everything stopped—the flurry of hands, the clack of shoes, the rhythm of monitors. Then the room surged back with noise and motion as the staff processed what they’d just heard. Faces paled; eyes shone with private recognition—shocked not only at the request but at the raw, human ache behind it.
Whispers threaded the room: ethical lines tangled with compassion, the bitter knowledge of how fragile life and dignity could be. Some felt anger, some pity, some an aching understanding. The surgeon looked at the phone resting in Veer’s pocket, then at the boy’s closed face. He swallowed hard, as if deciding between two impossible paths.
No one spoke of the money then. No one spoke of protocol. For a long second, the hospital held its breath, carrying the weight of a life offered as currency and a boy’s whispered plea to be erased.
And the memory splintered—shoving him back into the present, the sterile ward, the stranger’s face in the mirror—and that small, haunted smile burned behind his eyes.
___________
Part 6: Realisation
Back in the ward, the boy clenched his fists. The stark white room seemed to mock him.
“I… I should’ve died,” he whispered, the words catching in his throat. “I wanted to die. I even begged them to let me go.”
Yet here he was. Alive. In a body that wasn’t his own. A wave of shame washed over him, hot and bitter. He had surrendered. He had given up. For a long moment, he stayed silent, the weight of his past choice pressing down on him.
Then, a laugh escaped him, small at first, then growing into a loud, hollow sound that echoed in the quiet ward. A nurse passing by glanced in, startled by the sudden noise.
"How pathetic," Veer muttered, the laughter dying down. “What a stupid thing I did. What a waste.”
He thought of his old life. The songs, the anime, the stories that had once given him strength. Characters like Naruto, Asta, and Goku who never gave up, no matter the odds. The pride of Vegeta, a source of self-respect. And most importantly, his devotion to Hanuman. He had been a devotee in his past life, but his faith had been tested by his tragic death. He had failed.
Now, as a Hanuman bhakt once more, the shame of his surrender felt unbearable. He had a deeper connection to the deity now, and with that came a fierce, new sense of purpose.
“Agh!” he groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I’m so ashamed. As a bhakt of Lord Hanuman, I did the most foolish thing. I wasted everything.”
He looked up, a newfound fire in his eyes.
"But this is it. From now on, I will never give up. My pride, my confidence—it's all me. I'll earn it back.”
And so, Veer—the boy who died under a runaway truck—decided to live again.
To be continued...
