《All the lives I lived》 Prologue Dear Diary, I don''t remember who I am anymore. Once, there was a name they used for me, a face they knew. Was I young, old, scarred, beautiful? It¡¯s all a blur now. I can¡¯t even remember the sound of my own laughter¡ªif I ever truly laughed. What is the purpose of my existence, I ask. Who was I, I question. But no voice answers, only silence remains. Why, you ask? Because my friends, my family, my parents¡­ they have long been swallowed by the abyss of time. I have outlived every soul who once knew my name. They¡¯re gone. Time took them, one by one, while I remained, left behind with a curse I don¡¯t understand. When will it end? I am so tired. I don''t want to live, but I don¡¯t want to die, either. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Death has come for me a hundred times over, each time pulling me into its dark embrace. But it is never true death. Each time, I wake again, in another life, another body, but with the same memories. Perhaps others are trapped here, too, but gifted the mercy of forgetting, the grace of starting anew. But me? I am forced to remember each and every lifetime. My own memories now torment me, like ghosts that follow me from body to body, from era to era. They whisper to me in the night, faces of strangers I once loved, voices calling out to me from the past lives. I hear them even now, calling, pleading. I see them in flashes, fragments of hands reaching out as they withered and died, while I¡­ I remained. Now, even my memories are fading. Maybe this is mercy at last. Or maybe it is the final punishment¡ªa slow erasure of all that I am, until there¡¯s nothing left of me. Maybe this is the end. Because now¡­ I don¡¯t remember. Ch-1, Part -1 CHAPTER 1: The Boy Dear Diary, Today, with all the courage I can gather, I am ready to pen down the very first memory of my first life. It was a life filled with struggle¡ªfar too much hardship, if I¡¯m honest. But even within that life, I had managed to find happiness, however fleeting. The days of my youth are long gone now, buried beneath the weight of time, like the bones of the forgotten who once walked this land before me. But the hunger, the endless hunger, still lingers in the back of my throat, as though it never left. I have lived through many things since then¡ªmy own struggles, my own survival¡ªbut there is a part of me that will never be free from the memories of 1770, from the days when the land itself seemed to wither and die, and everything I knew was slowly, mercilessly taken away. I did not choose to tell this story. It has chosen me. There are times, at night, when the cries of my mother¡ªof all those mothers who lost their children¡ªecho in my ears, and I can feel the burden of their suffering as though it were my own. But I must speak. I must tell what happened, even if the telling is too painful, even if it is nothing more than a confession to the ghosts of the past. The memory is too vivid to forget. And it is a story that cannot be left untold. I may be the only one left to remember what happened, but I carry the weight of it all. This is not just my story; it is the story of every soul who perished in that famine¡ªthe forgotten faces, the lost lives, the broken dreams. As I continue my third life, questions have begun to rise within me. What is death? Why am I living again and again? Maybe I¡¯ll never know. Maybe, one day, I won¡¯t even remember. But perhaps this diary will be my proof¡ªmy link to all I¡¯ve been and all I¡¯ve endured. And so, I begin.
[ The Famine of 1770: A Glimpse of Bharat¡¯s Struggle In the year 1770, Bharat lay in the throes of a disaster unlike any it had seen before¡ªa famine that would come to haunt the land for centuries, branded into the memories of generations to come. The skies above Bengal, which once promised life and prosperity, had turned cruel, their rains insufficient, their clouds empty. The seasons had betrayed the people. The East India Company, a foreign entity that had already tightened its grip over the land, exacerbated the plight of the people. The policies that it imposed were merciless, draining the land¡¯s wealth while stripping it of its soul. The Company¡¯s demand for taxes remained unyielding, while the people, the lifeblood of the land, were left to wither in the heat of the summer. In 1769, the crops failed¡ªrice, pulses, even the mustard seeds that had long been the foundation of Bengal¡¯s agriculture. The rivers, once bountiful and full, had receded, leaving only barren riverbeds and stagnant pools of water. The weather, too, had turned, scorched by an unrelenting sun, leaving the soil cracked and infertile. The harvests that should have been the harvests of life instead became the harvests of death. The British merchants, who controlled the trade, diverted what little grain remained, sending it abroad to fill the bellies of those far away while the people of the land starved. Those who tried to speak out against this injustice were silenced by the colonial administration, their pleas drowned out by the sound of coins clinking in the hands of the foreigners. The people, once proud and resilient, were now reduced to desperate beggars, scraping by on scraps of food, if they were lucky. And even as the famine spread, its fingers curling into every village, the East India Company continued to reap its profits, unbothered by the suffering of the natives. The land had turned into a graveyard of its own, where every step felt like a burial, where every breath carried the scent of the dying. The disease followed soon after¡ªthe sickness of the body that ravaged the people, from fever to dysentery, from the decay of flesh to the slow death of the soul. The land that had once been fertile with promise was now a desolate wasteland. In the midst of this, one boy stood, his life caught between the unravelling threads of a land in agony and his own fading hopes.] I remember the day I first felt the earth beneath my feet crumble. It wasn¡¯t just the land that was dying¡ªit was my family, my people, and everything I had ever known. It was the 1770s¡ªa time of famine, of great upheaval, when nothing seemed to be in the hands of the people. We were living beneath a sky that refused to rain and a land that refused to grow. In a village too small to be on any map and too forgotten for the British to care about, I was born with nothing, into a family that barely had enough to feed itself. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. It was the year 1762, I was born in the early months of summer. Everything had been bright and beautiful until the 1770s¡ªa time when Bengal was already reeling from the weight of exploitation by the East India Company, and the land had begun to wither under both man-made and natural forces. Crops had failed the year before, and the summer rains never came. People whispered that the gods had turned their faces away from us. My father¡ªif I can even call him that¡ªwas a shadow more than a man. His hands were worn from working the dry, cracked earth, his back bent like a tree about to break under the weight of years spent labouring for a land that no longer gave back. He spoke little, but when he did, it was with a bitterness that felt as if the very soul of the land had been drained. My mother, worn from the daily struggle, tried her best to protect me, but there was only so much she could do. They named me Arjun, though it never felt like it belonged to me. We had a small plot of land, a gift from my grandfather¡ªor so they told us¡ªbut that land was dying, cracked and barren, offering only dust in return. The crops wilted before they could fully grow, and the animals grew thin. Every day was a battle, not just for survival, but for the strength to carry on, knowing that tomorrow might bring only more suffering. The famine had already begun to take hold by the time I was born, and people could see it in the distance. And then the famine came. I remember the hollow faces of my neighbours, their eyes haunted by hunger. I remember the whispers about people starving, about mothers boiling tree bark and leaves for their children, doing whatever they could to stave off death. The smell of decay was everywhere, inescapable, as many succumbed to hunger, disease, and the brutality of the British merchants who controlled grain. The merchants had stopped offering advances to the peasants, and the Company itself brought up what little rice there was, stockpiling it for its own purposes. My father fought to keep me alive. He bartered what little we had left¡ªold clay pots, broken tools, whatever he could¡ªto get us rice or grain. He worked for the East India Company at times, doing menial tasks under their cruel gaze, but still, there was always less to go around. I watched him return home empty-handed too often, his eyes hollow, his hope slipping away. I wanted to be strong, to endure it for him, for my mother. But the hunger tormented me, turning my insides into a raw ache that never faded. The pain was constant and there were times when I wondered if it would be easier to stop fighting, to let death take me, to surrender to the endless hunger. But I held on. Because they needed me to. The East India Company did nothing to alleviate the suffering, and the taxes remained unchanged, even as our bodies withered. Rice prices rose exponentially, and soon, even the most basic food was beyond our reach. We would have to wait for the rains, they said, but the rains never came. And when they did, they brought disease with them, sweeping through the weak and the starving like a plague. Entire villages were abandoned, and the once-thriving towns turned to ghost towns, overgrown and silent. Still, we survived in the shadows of this terrible time. As the East India Company began to tighten its grip on Bengal, it was clear that the old ways of life¡ªthe customs, the crops, the people¡ªwere slipping away. The land that had been fertile for centuries now seemed to belong to no one. I wanted to believe it could get better. I had to. But the famine stretched long across the land, and even the gods seemed silent. In the end, all we had left was each other, and even that was sometimes not enough. I tried to be strong¡ªfor them. Every day, I¡¯d pick through the fields, gathering whatever weeds or scraps of grain I could find, hoping that maybe it would be enough for a meal. The land that had once given us life had turned against us, like a god forsaking his people. My father called it a punishment, as if we¡¯d somehow earned this misery. But I was too tired to believe in such things. All I knew was hunger and the shame that came with watching my family wither while I stayed alive. As the famine worsened, the village grew emptier. Neighbours became strangers. They¡¯d gather around¡ªsome muttering, some silent¡ªwaiting for food that rarely came. The British trucks would roll in, the soldiers standing guard over sacks of grain that were worth more than any of our lives. The grain was rationed¡ªhandfuls at a time, barely enough for a meal. Those who could afford it would slip the soldiers a few coins, enough for an extra portion. The rest of us could only watch, our mouths watering as we imagined what it would feel like to eat without fear. One day, my father took me along to the distribution. He held my hand tightly, his grip almost painful, as we stood in line beneath the merciless sun. The heat bore down on us, making our skin prickle, our mouths go dry. I remember my father¡¯s face¡ªlined with exhaustion, his eyes fixed on the sacks of grain as if they held salvation. When our turn came, he bowed his head, hands outstretched, and accepted our portion. It was a pitiful amount¡ªbarely enough for a day. But he held it like a treasure, a prize he¡¯d fought for. That night, he gave me most of the grain. ¡°Eat, Arjun,¡± he whispered, his voice hoarse. ¡°You need it more than I do.¡± I wanted to protest, to tell him that he needed it just as much, but the hunger was too strong. I ate in silence, feeling the shame curl in my stomach like a sickness. Days turned into weeks, and I watched as my father grew weaker. His face grew gaunt, his body frail. I tried to take on more of the work to spare him the burden, but he¡¯d only shake his head, insisting on doing his part. It was as if he was determined to fight, to hold on to his pride¡ªeven as his body betrayed him. And then, one night, he didn¡¯t come home. To be continued... Ch-1, Part-2 I found him in the field, his body slumped against the dry earth, his face turned toward the sky. I shook him, calling his name, but he didn¡¯t respond. His skin was cold, his eyes empty, staring at something I couldn¡¯t see. I sat beside him, my heart pounding. The realization hit me hard. He wouldn¡¯t hold my hand ever again. I would not be able to play with him. Now I had no one to call Father. When I returned home, my mother was waiting¡ªher face pale and drawn. She looked at me, her eyes full of questions, but I couldn¡¯t bring myself to speak. I simply took her hand, and we sat in silence, mourning the man who had given everything for us. In the weeks that followed, the world grew darker. My mother and I clung to each other, trying to survive in a world that had turned against us. We shared what little food we had, each of us pretending that we weren¡¯t hungry, that we didn¡¯t notice the hollow look in each other¡¯s eyes. But the truth was undeniable¡ªdeath was coming for us, one way or another. I wanted to be strong, to endure it for her. But the hunger, the pain¡ªit was too much. There were days when I wished for death, when I imagined what it would be like to simply let go, to escape the endless cycle of suffering. And then, one night, my mother fell ill. She lay on our cot, her face pale and slick with sweat, her breaths shallow. I tried to care for her, to comfort her, but I was just a boy, helpless in the face of something I couldn¡¯t understand. I sat beside her, holding her hand, listening to the ragged sound of her breathing as she fought to hold on. ¡°Arjun,¡± she whispered, her voice barely audible. ¡°You must live. Promise me... you¡¯ll live.¡± I nodded, with unshed tears. ¡°I promise, Ma.¡± But in my heart, I knew it was a lie. I didn¡¯t want to live¡ªnot in a world without her, without my father. I didn¡¯t want to endure the pain, the hunger, the endless cycle of suffering. All I wanted was escape, to close my eyes and leave it all behind. When she passed, I felt as if a part of me had died with her. I buried her beside my father, marking the spot with a small pile of stones. I sat there for hours, my mind numb, my heart hollow. There was no one left to fight for, no one to hold on to. "They died. I survived. And so, I decided to live." "The Book Thief" by Markus Zusak. I wandered the village aimlessly, a ghost among the living, clutching my promise to my mother. But it felt hollow, like an oath made in another life. No one spoke to me anymore. The village was now a wasteland, its people too consumed by their own despair to notice a starving boy drifting among them. Days bled into each other, and I found myself in Calcutta, having walked barefoot for miles. I was just one among the many who had come to the city seeking salvation, but Calcutta had nothing to offer. The streets were choked with people¡ªthin, hollow-eyed figures who looked as though they¡¯d stepped out of the underworld. Children with sunken cheeks and eyes too big for their faces clung to their mothers, who clutched whatever rags they had left. In the corners of alleys, people huddled together, sharing scraps of food they¡¯d begged or stolen. But food was scarce, and kindness scarcer. Every day I saw men, women, and children lying in the gutters, their bodies twisted in unnatural shapes, flies buzzing around their faces. It was said that even the morgues had stopped taking the dead; there were too many, and they could not keep up. I spent my days wandering, begging for scraps of bread, learning to steal when begging wasn¡¯t enough. My body shrank, my skin stretched tight over my bones, and my stomach was a constant ache. But the hunger was nothing compared to the loneliness¡ªthe crushing emptiness of knowing that I was alone in a world that no longer cared if I lived or died. One evening, I found myself at a railway station, watching as trains rumbled in and out, carrying soldiers and goods for the British. I stood on the platform, my gaze fixed on the tracks, feeling a strange sense of calm. The noise and chaos of the station faded, and for a moment, I felt as though I were floating¡ªweightless and free. But then a voice broke through my reverie. A British officer, tall and stern, was shouting at a group of beggars, his face twisted in disgust. ¡°Get out, you filthy wretches!¡± he bellowed, his words laced with contempt. ¡°This station isn¡¯t for the likes of you.¡± I watched as he drove them away, his cane lashing out at anyone who dared to protest. I felt a surge of anger¡ªa fierce, burning hatred for the men who had taken everything from us, who had left us to rot while they lived in comfort and wealth. But the anger faded as quickly as it had come, leaving only a hollow emptiness in its place. What was the point of hating them? They would go on living, go on feasting, while we withered and died. I turned away from the station and wandered into the night, my heart as heavy as my feet. I had nothing left¡ªno family, no home, not even the will to keep fighting. All I wanted was release, an end to the endless cycle of pain and hunger. And so, I made my way to the river. The Hooghly stretched out before me, dark and silent, its waters reflecting the faint glimmer of starlight. I stood at the edge, feeling the cool breeze on my skin, listening to the gentle lap of the waves. I thought of my mother, of her last words to me, and a pang of guilt twisted in my chest. I had promised her that I would live, that I would survive. But I was tired, so very tired. I couldn¡¯t keep fighting¡ªnot when every step felt like a burden, every breath an effort. I took a step forward, feeling the cold water seep into my feet. It rose up my ankles, my knees, my chest, until I was submerged in its icy embrace. I closed my eyes, letting the water carry me, feeling the weight of the world lift from my shoulders as I sank deeper and deeper. The darkness surrounded me, taking me in its embrace, comforting and silent, and for the first time in my life, I felt at peace. But death did not come as easily as I¡¯d hoped. I awoke on the riverbank, my body aching, my lungs burning as I coughed up water. A fisherman had found me, had dragged me back to shore, and now he stood over me, his face a mix of pity and confusion. ¡°Why, boy?¡± he asked. ¡°Why did you try to throw your life away?¡± A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. I had no answer. I could only lie there, staring up at the night sky, wondering why I was still alive. The hunger still tormented me, but it was no longer the most pressing thing on my mind. I had wanted escape, release, an end to the endless suffering, but the world had refused me even that. I was trapped, condemned to live on in a world that had long since lost its meaning. The fisherman took me in, gave me food and shelter, and I found myself once again clinging to life, if only out of habit. He was kind, a quiet man who spoke little but offered what little he had without question. I worked for him, helping him with his nets, hauling in the day¡¯s catch, feeling the ache of hunger ease as my body regained its strength. But the emptiness remained, a hollow void that no amount of food or rest could fill. Months passed, and I grew stronger, my body recovering from the ravages of hunger and despair. But my heart remained weary, my soul burdened by the past. I couldn¡¯t forget my family, the faces of those I had lost, the promises I had broken. I was a coward, a betrayer, a boy who had chosen death over life, who had abandoned the ones who had loved him. And yet, death would not have me. I spent those months with the fisherman, watching the sun rise and fall over the river, listening to the quiet lapping of the water as it flowed past us, carrying with it the memories of my old life. The fisherman, Suraj, was a kind man. He gave me a cot to sleep on, a bowl of rice each night, and never asked me why I¡¯d tried to take my life. Perhaps he understood, or perhaps he simply didn¡¯t want to burden himself with a stranger¡¯s sorrow. In his silence, he offered me a refuge, a place to hide from the world, even if only for a little while. But hiding was not the same as healing. Each night, as I lay on that small cot, I felt my memories resurfacing, suffocating me. I could still see my father¡¯s face, hollowed out by hunger, his eyes full of desperation as he fought to keep us alive. I could still hear my mother¡¯s voice, soft and steady as she tried to soothe me, even as her own strength faded. And I could still feel the hunger that had driven me to the edge, that had made me believe that death was my only escape. In those moments, I felt as though I were drowning all over again, sinking into a darkness that no amount of kindness could lift me from. I had betrayed them. I had chosen to leave, to abandon their memories, to seek an end for myself, even though they had fought so hard to keep me alive. And yet, here I was, still breathing, still eating, still existing in a world that no longer felt like it belonged to me. One night, as the monsoon rains pounded against the roof, I asked Suraj a question that had been haunting me. ¡°Why did you save me?¡± He looked at me, his expression unreadable. ¡°I didn¡¯t save you, boy,¡± he said quietly. ¡°I only pulled you from the water. The rest was up to you.¡± I didn¡¯t know what to say to that. I wanted to argue, to tell him that I hadn¡¯t wanted to be saved, that I had been ready to let go. But his words silenced me, forced me to confront a truth that I had been avoiding. I was still here, still alive, not because someone had saved me, but because, deep down, some part of me hadn¡¯t been ready to let go. The monsoon dragged on, and with it came a strange quiet, a sense of stillness that settled over the river and the village. The fields flooded, the crops washed away, and once again, hunger became a constant companion. Suraj and I would go days without eating, our meals reduced to a handful of rice or a thin broth made from fish bones. But even in the face of this new hardship, he remained calm, his spirit unbroken. He taught me how to cast nets, how to read the river¡¯s currents, how to survive in a world that seemed determined to swallow us whole. In those days, I learned a new kind of strength¡ªnot the strength that comes from fighting or resisting, but the quiet resilience that comes from enduring, from accepting the world as it is and finding a way to keep going, even when there seems to be no reason to. One morning, as the rains began to ease, I felt a strange sense of clarity. The river stretched out before me, calm and endless, and for the first time, I felt a glimmer of something that I hadn¡¯t felt in a long time¡ªa sense of peace. I wasn¡¯t happy, and I wasn¡¯t whole, but I was alive, and that was enough. But peace, like all things, was fleeting. The British soldiers came to our village that day, their boots heavy on the muddy ground, their voices sharp and cold as they demanded food, supplies, whatever we had to offer. Suraj and I stood by the river, watching as they moved from house to house, taking what little the villagers had managed to save. I felt the familiar surge of anger, the same burning hatred that had flared up in me at the railway station, but Suraj placed a steady hand on my shoulder, holding me back. ¡°Let them be,¡± he murmured. ¡°They are only men, doing as they are told. Hating them will do you no good.¡± I wanted to argue, to tell him that they were monsters, that they deserved to be punished for the suffering they had caused. But his words silenced me, forced me to confront a truth that I had been avoiding. The world was not as simple as I had once believed. There was no clear line between good and evil, no easy answer to the pain and suffering that had consumed my life. There was only survival, the quiet, unrelenting struggle to keep going, no matter the cost. As the soldiers left, their bags heavy with stolen grain, I felt a strange sense of emptiness. I had once believed that death would be my escape, that it would free me from the endless cycle of pain and hunger. But now I understood that death was not an answer¡ªit was only another part of the cycle, another step in a journey that had no end. And so, I chose to live. Not out of hope, or faith, or love, but simply because I had no other choice. I would endure, I would survive, not because I wanted to, but because I was still here, still breathing, still bound to this world by the weight of my memories and the promise I had made to my mother. In time, the famine ended, the rains returned, and the land began to heal. The fields grew green once more, the rivers swelled with life, and the village slowly began to rebuild. But I was changed, marked by the scars of my past, by the memories of a life that I could never truly leave behind. And as I looked out over the river, watching the sun rise over the water, I felt a quiet resolve settle over me. I would live, I would endure, not because I wanted to, but because it was all I had left. And perhaps, in the quiet moments between breaths, I would find a way to make peace with the world that had taken so much from me. And so, I walked on, carrying the weight of my memories, the burden of my choices, and the quiet, unyielding strength of a boy who had once chosen death, but had been forced to live. For in the end, life was not a choice¡ªit was a curse, a gift, a burden that I would carry for as long as the river flowed, as long as the sun rose over the land, as long as there was breath in my body. And so, I endured. Years passed and I was already 18 years old. That morning, the air was unusually still, the kind of eerie silence that precedes a storm. I didn¡¯t think much of it as I set off with Suraj, the two of us making our way to the river to cast our nets for the day. He hummed a tune, something soft and simple, and for the first time in a long time, I found myself listening. In that moment, a fragile sense of peace washed over me, a quiet acceptance of my life as it was. I hadn¡¯t wanted this life, hadn¡¯t chosen it, but I was here, and for the first time, I felt a small hope. But fate has a way of twisting happiness, turning even the smallest flicker of peace into something tragic. To be continued... Ch-1, Part-3 As we worked the nets, my gaze wandered up the river, where the water twisted around a bend and disappeared. There, I caught sight of something odd¡ªa group of figures moving quickly along the bank, their clothes heavy with mud and desperation. I recognized them as soldiers, but not British¡ªthey wore the clothes of rebels, men who had fought against the Raj, who had refused to bow down. My heart quickened, an unbidden spark of respect flaring up within me. They were like us, surviving against all odds, fighting for a cause they believed in. But then I saw the look in their eyes. They moved closer, and I could see that these men were beyond exhaustion. Their faces were gaunt, their eyes haunted, their bodies caked in grime and blood. They were the kind of men who had nothing left to lose, who had been hunted like animals and had come to the edge of their endurance. And as they approached us, I felt a cold shiver of dread. "Get down," Suraj whispered, pulling me behind a rock. But it was too late. The rebels spotted us, their gazes hardening as they saw our fishing nets, our sacks of rice. In that moment, we became something to be taken, something to be consumed in their desperate hunger for survival. ¡°Give us everything,¡± the leader demanded, his voice low and edged with a feral desperation. He pointed to the sacks of rice, to the thin broth we had brought for lunch, to the small knife that hung at Suraj¡¯s side. I tried to speak, to tell them that we had little, that we were barely surviving ourselves, but the words stuck in my throat. My mind raced, torn between fear and the realization that we were about to lose everything, once again. Suraj stepped forward, his hands raised, his voice calm. "Take what you need, brothers. We have no fight with you." But the man¡¯s eyes were wild, his desperation consuming him. He grabbed Suraj by the collar, yanking him forward, and before I could react, he drew a knife across Suraj''s throat. The sound was sickening, a gurgling gasp as Suraj collapsed, his hands clutching his neck as his life spilled out onto the riverbank. I screamed, lunging forward, but rough hands grabbed me, pulling me back, forcing me to my knees. I could feel the blade pressing against my own neck, the sharp sting of metal biting into my skin, and for a moment, I welcomed it. I thought of my family, of the life I had left behind, and I thought that perhaps, at last, this was the end. But then, just as suddenly, they released me. The rebels tore through our belongings, taking what little we had, leaving only scraps in their wake. And as they turned to leave, one of them looked back, his gaze cold and empty. "Live with it," he said, his voice a bitter sneer. "Live with knowing you couldn¡¯t save him." And then they were gone, disappearing into the trees, leaving me alone with the body of the only man who had shown me kindness, the only person who had given me a reason to keep going. I sank to the ground, my hands trembling as I reached for Suraj, my mind numb with shock. His eyes stared up at the sky, unseeing, his face frozen in an expression of calm acceptance. I wanted to scream, to tear at the earth, to rail against the heavens that had allowed this to happen. But all I could do was sit there, grief crushing me until I could barely breathe. Hours passed, or perhaps only minutes. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the river, and still, I sat there, unable to move, unable to think. I was alone, truly alone, in a world that had taken everything from me, a world that had shown me only cruelty. A bitter thought crossed mind. Perhaps this was my punishment, my curse for choosing death, for abandoning my family, for betraying those who had fought so hard to keep me alive. Perhaps I was doomed to live, to carry the burden of my memories, my failures, my endless suffering, for as long as the river flowed, for as long as the sun rose and set. I looked down at Suraj''s face, his lifeless eyes staring back at me, and I knew that I would never find peace. Not in this life, not in any life. I was bound to this world, to this pain, to this endless cycle of loss and regret, and no matter how many times I tried to escape, it would always pull me back, dragging me down into the darkness. And so, I stood up, my heart heavy with grief, my mind numb with despair, and I walked away from the river, from the body of the only friend I had ever known. Again I survived. I lived.
1783, 1784,...The years kept flowing like water. And it was the year 1792. Now I am 30 years old. But what kind of life was it? One year bled into the next ¡ª 1783, 1784... And still, I kept on breathing, kept on walking through the world. But each year only seemed to drain me further, hollowing me out until I could barely remember what joy felt like. The world around me changed slowly. New faces came and went, new lives began and ended, but nothing could touch the emptiness inside me. I was 30 years old now, in the year 1792, and I felt far older. I thought of Suraj often. His face, lifeless, staring up at me from the riverbank ¡ª it was etched into my mind. And the sadness, the helplessness I felt then¡­ it never left. Sometimes, in the silence of the night, I would whisper his name, hoping maybe he¡¯d answer, but of course, there was only silence. I¡¯d tried to make peace with it, to tell myself that I could move on, but it was a lie I told myself over and over, and one I could never truly believe. It wasn''t until much later, that something stirred within me again. I don''t know when it happened. It was as if my heart, which had been shattered and cold for so long, suddenly decided to beat once more. A small ember of life was rekindled inside of me. I couldn¡¯t name it, at first ¡ª this sensation of being drawn to something beyond the agony, beyond the memory of my parents and Suraj''s lifeless body. I met someone ¡ª a stranger who saw something in me that I had almost forgotten. I hadn¡¯t intended to speak to her. I hadn¡¯t spoken to anyone in so long; I was used to passing by unnoticed, like a shadow. But she noticed me. Her name was Anjali. I had seen her occasionally, walking through the village with her mother or talking to the elders in the temple, but it wasn¡¯t until that day, when the rain was so fierce that it soaked us both to the bone, that I felt something stir in me. I had been standing by the temple, seeking shelter, when she appeared, her figure emerging from the mist and rain. Her long black hair, now drenched, clung to her face, and her sari, once a vibrant red, was now darkened by the rain. Yet she walked with a grace that made it seem as though the world had paused for her. When she noticed me, she didn¡¯t shy away, but her gaze lingered for just a second longer than was usual. It was enough. she approached me, her dark eyes searching, as if she understood something about me that even I couldn¡¯t grasp. She didn¡¯t ask why I was there or what I was waiting for, but after a long silence, she said something that caught me off guard. ¡°You look like you¡¯ve been carrying a burden too heavy for one person,¡± she said, her voice soft. ¡°Like you¡¯ve been wandering for too long.¡± I looked at her, unsure what to say. No one had ever looked at me that way before ¡ª like they could see past the layers of grief, past the years of silence and emptiness, to something real and broken underneath. ¡°I have,¡± I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. ¡°I don¡¯t know...¡± She didn¡¯t press me for answers, didn¡¯t ask for my story. Instead, she simply nodded, her face full of a kind of quiet understanding. ¡°Sometimes, we carry things that were never meant to be ours alone,¡± she said. ¡°Maybe it¡¯s time you let someone help you with it.¡± I didn¡¯t know what to say and neither of us spoke for a long time. Time passed slowly and she did not press me for any answers rather she just gave a kind smile before going on her way. The rain had stopped quiet a while ago. Perhaps she waited, waited for me to answer her. But the coward I was, couldn''t even say anything. Her words lingered with me for a long time. In the days that followed, I found myself seeking her out, drawn to her in a way I couldn¡¯t explain. She was different, willing to sit with me in my silence. Slowly, cautiously, I began to open up to her. She didn¡¯t ask for much ¡ª only that I let myself be there, fully present, with her. And somehow, in her presence, the years of loneliness and grief began to feel a little lighter. She showed me things I had long forgotten ¡ª the beauty of a sunrise, the peace of a still morning, the way laughter could chase away even the darkest of thoughts. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. I can¡¯t say when it happened, but bit by bit, she became my anchor. She pulled me out of the numbness that had surrounded me for so long, teaching me how to feel again, how to breathe again. She didn¡¯t heal me ¡ª I was still a man haunted by memories, by regrets that clung to me like scars. But she reminded me of something I had almost forgotten: that even in a life filled with loss, there could still be moments of warmth, of connection. She would find me at the edge of the rice fields, gazing out at the horizon, or at the old well where I would collect water. She would walk up to me, unbidden, and stand in silence beside me. Sometimes she would talk about the world, about her dreams of leaving the village one day, escaping the confines of this place, just like I had longed to escape my own fate. She spoke of books she had read, of lands far away, of things I had never dared to hope for. She was full of life, a stark contrast to the hollow shell I had become. One evening, as we stood together near the river bank, surrounded by the sounds of the waves, she asked me a question that stopped me in my tracks. ¡°Do you believe in hope?¡± she asked, her gaze steady on mine. I hesitated. It was such a simple question, but I realized I didn¡¯t know how to answer. Hope felt like something foreign to me, something fragile and impossible to hold onto. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I said honestly. ¡°I¡¯ve lost so much¡­ I don¡¯t know if I can believe in it.¡± She didn¡¯t respond right away, but I could see the sadness in her eyes. She reached out, taking my hand in hers, and I felt a warmth I hadn¡¯t felt in years. She looked at me for a long time, her eyes searching, as if she could see the depth of the scars that marked my soul. She saw the weariness, the pain, the years I had spent in my own despair. But she didn¡¯t look away. She didn¡¯t recoil, as most people would. Instead, she nodded, almost imperceptibly, as if accepting me for what I was ¡ª a broken man. ¡°You¡¯re here now,¡± she said. ¡°You¡¯re alive now. That¡¯s something. It¡¯s okay to be afraid,¡± she said softly. ¡°But sometimes, all it takes is a small step forward. Just one step toward something better.¡± Her words touched something deep within me. For the first time in years, I felt a flicker of something I hadn¡¯t dared to feel ¡ª a faint, fragile hope. And so, slowly, I began to hope. I began to imagine a life where the weight I carried didn¡¯t crush me, where the memories didn¡¯t haunt me quite as deeply. I began to let myself feel, to let myself dream of a future, a future that included her. I realized then that she had given me something I thought I¡¯d never have again: a reason to live. And then came the day when I finally told her. The words were clumsy, tumbling out of me before I could stop them. I didn¡¯t know how to say it properly. I didn¡¯t know how to make her understand that what I felt wasn¡¯t just gratitude. It was more than that. ¡°I want to be with you,¡± I said, my voice trembling with fear, with hope, and with something deeper. ¡°I don¡¯t know how to explain it, but I... I want you. I want to live, Anjali. I want to live because of you. I want to live with you.¡± For a long time, she didn¡¯t say anything. She looked at me, the silence stretching between us, and her gaze seemed to dig deep into me. And then, finally, she smiled, a soft, bittersweet smile. ¡°I want you too,¡± she whispered. ¡°I¡¯ve wanted to feel that way too.¡± And for the first time in my life, I felt like I had a reason to breathe. I felt like the weight that had crushed me for so long was lifting, bit by bit, and that maybe ¡ª just maybe ¡ª I could let myself have happiness again. Days passed, and for the first time in my life I started dreaming, dreaming of a future with Anjali. Her laughter, her presence, even her quietness ¡ª all of it began to heal parts of me I thought would stay broken forever. We spent time exploring our village together, but in a way I¡¯d never done before. Anjali saw beauty in the smallest things ¡ª the bright flowers along the roadside, the birdsong in the early morning, and the tiny fireflies that came out at night. One evening, we sat by the river, watching as the sky turned shades of pink and orange. It was quiet, just the sound of water moving gently and the leaves rustling in the breeze. Anjali leaned her head on my shoulder, and I felt a calm settle over me. For the first time in so long, I felt at peace. I wasn¡¯t thinking about the past, the regrets, or the people I¡¯d lost. I was just there, with her, feeling safe. After a while, she spoke softly. ¡°One day, I¡¯d love to travel,¡± she said, her voice filled with hope. ¡°To see the world beyond this village. But I¡¯d want you to come with me. Just the two of us, exploring everything out there.¡± It felt like a promise, a glimpse into a life I¡¯d never thought possible. I gently held her hand, feeling the joy. "Of course we would. I will always be with you and follow you anywhere you go. Always" She smiled. Her smile so bright, so beautiful that it made my heart beat so fast that it started to ache. She leaned in closer to me, her face just inches from mine. My heart skipped a beat. Could I really have this? Could I be happy? But before I could let my mind wander too far, Anjali took my face in her hands and pulled me into a kiss. It was clumsy ¡ª our noses bumped, and neither of us quite knew what we were doing ¡ª but it was perfect. The kiss was warm, soft, and so full of sweetness that I wished if it could last forever. And in that messy, awkward, wonderful moment, everything felt right.
When we finally pulled apart, I looked at her, feeling this huge, ridiculous smile spread across my face. Before I could think better of it, I blurted out, ¡°I want to marry you, Anjali.¡± Her eyes went wide, and for a second I thought, Oh no, what have I done? But then she started laughing, this bright, bubbly laugh that made my heart feel like it was flying. She shook her head, still giggling, and said, ¡°One kiss, and you are asking for my whole life?¡± ¡°Well, yes,¡± I replied, cheeks burning. ¡°I want to keep you close, make sure no one else can steal you away.¡± She smiled again, and she took my hand, her fingers rough but warm against mine, and nodded, her eyes filled with something I¡¯d never seen before. ¡°Then, yes.¡± And there we were, laughing together like a couple of kids, by the river as the sun set, making promises that were messy, clumsy, and perfect in every way. But the universe has a cruel sense of humor. I forgot the harsh truth; Happiness is always short-lived. That night was supposed to be memorable for me, for her, in a happy way. But I was wrong. Fate had other plans. The sky that night was especially darker, the air dry, as though even the earth itself knew something terrible was coming. After I blurted out my wish to marry Anjali, we were both laughing, her smile the only thing I saw. I couldn¡¯t believe she¡¯d said yes, that we¡¯d have a life together. My heart felt full, a happiness I had never thought I¡¯d have. Not an hour later, I heard the distant rumble of horses, the shouts of men. My heart sank, and a sick feeling crept up inside me as I saw the shadows of soldiers moving through the village, their lanterns casting sharp, harsh light on everything they passed. They were searching for rebels, for any sign of defiance in our village. But we knew better, they did not need the reason to kill anyone, they did not come to search; they came to slaughter. I found Anjali, her face pale as she stared at the scene, frozen with fear. Without thinking, I grabbed her hand, pulling her with me as we ran through the night. My only thought was to get her somewhere safe, to shield her from the danger. We darted through the narrow lanes, past the old banyan trees, our feet pounding against the earth as I led her through paths I knew well and finally towards the forest. I whispered, ¡°Just a little further. We¡¯ll hide in the forest.¡± She nodded, clutching my hand tighter, her fingers trembling. But then a shout cut through the air, stopping us in our tracks. I turned to see a soldier in the vast distance, his face obscured, but I could still feel the cold cruelty in his eyes. He raised his rifle, and before I could think, I put myself in front of Anjali, holding her back. The shot reverberated through the night and a sharp, burning pain tore through my chest, stealing my breath. The shot had hit its mark. My knees buckled, and I fell, my vision blurring as I hit the ground. Anjali screamed, and her hands were suddenly on me, shaking, trying to keep me upright. She was crying, pulling me up with what little strength she had. ¡°Get up! Please, just get up!¡± Her voice was frantic, full of a desperation that broke my heart. ¡°Just go,¡± I tried to say, to push her away. But she wouldn¡¯t leave. She knelt beside me, pressing her hands to my wound, her fingers slick with blood as she tried to stop the bleeding. ¡°I can¡¯t lose you, please¡­,¡± she whispered, her voice breaking. I wanted to comfort her, to tell her not to be afraid, but the pain was too much, and my strength was leaving me fast. I could see flashes of the life we¡¯d dared dreamed of just moments before¡ªa quiet life by the river, her laughter filling our home. All of it was slipping through my fingers, vanishing into the darkness. My vision faded, but I could still see her face, streaked with tears, her eyes wide and full of a helplessness that broke me. I wanted to tell her I loved her, that she would be okay, that she deserved the life we had wanted. But no words came. A bitter thought crept in,, mocking me: the universe had lifted me high, given me a glimpse of happiness, only to snatch it away in the cruelest way. I had finally wanted to live¡ªfor her, for the life we could have shared. But now, all I had managed was to save her. And as I slipped away, I wondered if she would be able to live with the grief of my death. I knew all too well how heavy such sorrow could be. I felt my heartbeat slowing, each breath more of a struggle than the last. But I held on to her hand, her warmth, to see her face. I saw her face, etched with pain, her lips moving though I couldn¡¯t hear her words. I wanted to say something, to apologize for leaving her, for failing her, but the words never came. The darkness took me then, merciless and cold, as the last thought crossed my mind¡ªwhy now, when I had finally wanted to live? I had been lifted to the heights of joy, only to be cast down into the deepest sorrow. I had always wanted to die, but just when I wanted to live, death came, stealing everything I had hoped for.