Tushar Srivastav
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Chapter 3: First Day, Second Life
🕑 Added 2025-06-29 11:30:03 +0000 UTCPreviously, in The Actor Who Never Was —
Raghav Malhotra, a 50-year-old failed Bollywood dreamer, died in a road accident and awakened in 1997 in Los Angeles—reborn as Ayaan Malhotra, a 7-year-old boy of mixed British-Indian heritage. In a home shadowed by a mother's recent abandonment and a father's silent grief, Raghav must now navigate a second life in a new time, a new culture, and a new body—haunted by the life he left behind.
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He was wearing sneakers that squeaked and a backpack that felt too big.
The lunchbox in his hand had a race car on the lid. His pants were corduroy. There was a small tear at the knee and a tag at the collar of his shirt that read Property of Willow Springs Elementary.
The house was quiet as he stepped toward the door. His father, Rishi Malhotra, stood by the kitchen counter, holding a black travel mug, which surprised him as Aryan was sure that he had seen him leave in the morning.
The house was quiet as he stepped toward the door. His backpack felt too big for his shoulders, and the lunchbox swung awkwardly in his hand. Just as he reached for the doorknob, he heard hurried footsteps behind him.
"Ayaan, wait!"
Raghav turned. Rishi Malhotra—tie askew, phone in hand—looked slightly breathless. His briefcase sat unopened on the kitchen counter.
"My call with Tokyo got rescheduled," he said quickly as if offering an excuse for being present.
"I thought I'd… at least see you off on your first day."
He bent slightly, adjusting the strap on Ayaan's backpack.
"You remember the bus stop?"
"Yes," Raghav replied softly.
"Good. It's normal to be nervous. You'll be fine."
They stood there, facing each other, an awkward space between them filled with years neither of them had lived together.
Raghav wanted to say thank you, but it caught in his throat. The man in front of him was still a stranger, but for the first time, he didn't feel entirely alone in the house.
As the yellow bus came into view, Rishi gave a hesitant wave.
"I'll be home by dinner."
Raghav nodded and stepped onto the bus.
From the window, he saw Rishi still standing there—hands in his pockets, watching the bus drive away.
"You got everything?" he asked without looking up.
"I think so," Raghav—Ayaan—replied, voice barely above a whisper.
There was an awkward pause. The kind that didn't belong between a father and a son. It was the sort of silence that came when words had dried up long ago, and both people had stopped trying to refill the well.
"The school bus comes at 7:45. Wait by the mailbox."
That was all. No hug. No reassuring hand on the shoulder. Just a nod.
Raghav stared at his father. He was younger than Raghav had ever seen his father. British-Indian, no doubt—sharp features, deep-set eyes, a London accent that had softened into something American. He wore business slacks and a button-down shirt, no tie. Everything about him said: keep going, don't stop to feel anything.
As Raghav stepped outside, the front door shut behind him with the softest click. Finally, like a cue before the curtain drops.
School, in Another Life
The yellow school bus hissed as it pulled up in front of the house.
Inside, the world of Willow Springs Elementary unfolded in dizzying colour: crayon art taped to lockers, posters of Martin Luther King Jr., and an overwhelming scent of peanut butter and disinfectant.
Ayaan was directed to Room 2B—Mrs—Lambert's second-grade classroom.
"You're the new student!" Mrs Lambert beamed. "We're so glad you're joining us, Ayaan. Everyone, this is Ayaan Malhotra. Say hello!"
Twenty heads turned. Some smiled. Some stared.
He wanted to disappear into the floor.
The desks were arranged in small clusters. Ayaan was seated next to a girl with short black hair, freckles, and mismatched socks. She looked up at him with the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly who she was.
"Hi," she said. "I'm Zoey. You like dinosaurs?"
Raghav blinked. "Yes. I think."
"Cool. My favourite is a triceratops. Everyone likes T-Rex, but that's basic."
She went back to colouring a worksheet. Just like that, without permission or discussion, she became Ayaan's first friend in this new world.
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Everything in the classroom was too fast. The American accent hit like a slap—flat R's, quick syllables, idioms he didn't recognize. Spelling tests with colour instead of colour. Lessons on George Washington, cursive handwriting, and math problems where the teacher said "carry the one" instead of "borrow."
At recess, he sat alone until Zoey pulled him into a game of four square. She called him "shy" and "mystery boy" but never teased him. She didn't care where he was from or why he didn't talk much. She filled the air with questions and didn't mind that he rarely answered.
At lunch, he opened his lunchbox to find a peanut butter sandwich, an apple, and a juice box. No parathas. No achar. No smells to comfort him.
He looked around. No one seemed to notice he didn't belong.
But he felt it in his skin.
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That night, Raghav sat by the living room window, watching the light from passing cars flicker across the walls. He picked up a photo from the mantelpiece. The same one he'd seen before—his new parents smiling stiffly at a gala, with young Ayaan between them.
He remembered her voice now.
British, polished. A soft Oxford tone with a teasing rhythm. Clara.
She used to hum while cooking—mostly Beatles songs. She wore silk scarves and loved art galleries. She smelled of lavender and sandalwood.
But even in memory, she always looked elsewhere—toward a horizon no one else could see.
The night she left had become a ghostly echo in his new memory:
A slammed door. Raised voices. A crystal vase shattering. The smell of wine. And finally, her heels clicking down the driveway as Ayaan cried at the top of the stairs.
"You'll understand one day," she had whispered. "I can't be here anymore."
She didn't cry. Not even once.
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His new father, Rishi, returned home late—always late. He moved around the house like a polite tenant, working late into the night in his home office, rarely speaking.
Dinner that night was frozen lasagna. They sat on opposite ends of the table, the only sound coming from the microwave's hum and the occasional clink of a fork against the plate.
"School okay?"
"It was… fine."
Raghav wanted to say more. He wanted to ask if Rishi missed her. If he ever thought about India. If he believed in second chances. If he remembered what it felt like to be a child.
But the man across from him had built a fortress out of silence. And Raghav, though just seven on the outside, knew better than to charge at walls without reason.
So he simply nodded and ate in silence.
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The house was quiet again that evening.
His father had retreated into his home office, the door half-shut, light spilling into the hallway like a sliver of fading daylight.
Raghav—Ayaan—sat cross-legged on the carpet of his room, the door ajar. He had found his old notebook tucked into the closet. Pages full of song lyrics and doodles. Some were Ayaan's originals—sweet and simple—but others, like this one, came from another place.
He opened a fresh page, gripped a pen in his small hand, and began to write the lyrics he remembered-not just remembered, felt.
I drove by all the places we used to hang out getting wasted…
I thought about our last kiss, how it felt, the way you tasted
Raghav's voice trembled at first, uncertain in this young body. He sat with his knees pulled up, whisper-singing as if trying not to wake ghosts. He didn't need a karaoke track or an instrument—just the words, aching and raw, spilling softly into the quiet room.
The lyrics weren't his, but the pain was.
As he reached the second verse, his voice steadied. Ayaan's tone was higher than Raghav's ever was, but it carried something more profound—something weighty, like grief disguised as melody. There was no performance here. Just release.
And just outside his door, Rishi Malhotra stood frozen.
He'd come upstairs to check if Ayaan had brushed his teeth. He hadn't expected… this.
His son—who rarely spoke more than a few words at dinner, who moved through the house like a polite stranger—was now singing to the walls like they were the only ones listening. And the words...
They weren't just about a girl. They were about her.
The mother who left.
The melody cracked in one place. Not from lack of breath, but from something more profound. The sound of remembering what you've tried too hard to forget.
Rishi leaned closer to the doorframe, careful not to make a sound. His eyes dropped to the floor. His shoulders curled inward as if shrinking under something invisible.
He hadn't heard Ayaan sing since Clara left.
Back then, she used to coax it out of him. "One verse before bed," she'd say. "Sing it like you mean it." She'd kneel next to the bunk bed, smiling like she was proud of something magical.
When she left, the house fell silent.
Until now.
Inside the room, the final words of the song drifted into stillness. Ayaan didn't cry, but his head rested on his knees, eyes closed, breathing shaky.
Rishi stepped back quietly, carefully, like someone leaving the pew after a private prayer.
He didn't knock. He didn't enter.
But for the first time in weeks, he didn't go back to his office either.
Instead, he sat on the stairs just outside his son's door and, for a long while, listened to the silence that followed.
