Chapter 2: Cracks in the Glass
Morning arrived slowly. Golden sunlight slipped in through the curtain gaps, casting long shadows across the floor. Arjun sat on the edge of his mattress, shirtless, gently rotating his injured hand, wincing as the skin stretched against the bandage.
The wound still stung. But what unsettled him more was the dream.
He couldn't describe it properly. Just flashes of men in turbans and traditional khadi, swords gleaming under a blood-red sun, the thunder of hooves, the chaos of battle. A field soaked in blood, cries that weren't his own—but still echoed in his chest.
And then, in another dream layered over the first—guns, flashes of gunpowder, the same soil, but now with bullets instead of arrows. Smoke. Marching boots. The roar of rebellion.
He had woken up gasping, sweat clinging to his neck despite the fan.
Now he sat in silence, trying to calm his racing thoughts.
"Arjun beta…"
He turned toward the voice.
His mother stood by the doorway, dressed in a faded green saree, her eyes fixed on the bandage wrapped around his hand.
"Kya hua haath ko?"
Arjun forced a small smile. "Kuch nahi maa… kaam pe thoda chot lag gaya. Mirror ka tukda chubh gaya."
Her face dropped. Even without saying a word, he could see the sadness in her eyes. She looked at his hand again, then at his face.
He avoided her gaze.
She didn't press further. Instead, she came in and sat beside him slowly, the floor creaking under her.
"You used to hold a pen, you know," she said softly. "Now you hold tools that break your bones."
Arjun chuckled dryly. "And I used to argue about Mughal architecture with my professor. Life changes, maa."
"But why must it change like this?" she whispered. "You always say you'll pay the fees… get your certificates… find a better job."
Arjun's throat tightened. He didn't know how to respond.
Because deep down… he knew she didn't believe him anymore.
Their family was already buried under ₹1 lakh of debt. And the interest ticked upward every month like a countdown he could never stop. With what money would he go back? With what energy? He was already giving everything just to survive.
He felt her hand on his.
"You were meant for more," she whispered.
Her words were like a gentle cut—no pain at first, but the sting lingered.
He smiled faintly. "I'll make tea, maa. You relax today."
She nodded and stood up, her hands trembling slightly. Her trauma still lingered in her limbs like a second skin, invisible but always there.
---
Arjun had taken three days off after yesterday's injury. He had called the site manager early that morning, who grunted something about "don't waste time" and hung up. But at least he had a temporary break.
Still, doing things with one hand was a nightmare.
He tried to hold a spoon to stir the tea, but it slipped. "Ugh!"
"Bhaiya!" called out a little voice. "Wait, I'll help!"
Anu appeared beside him, wearing her oversized t-shirt and a superhero-themed rubber band around her ponytail. She stood on tiptoe and grabbed the spoon.
"See? I can be your assistant!" she said proudly.
Arjun grinned. "Oh? So now you've become assistant chef?"
"Nope. Multitasking manager. I do maa's medicine, fold my clothes, and help you. You should increase my salary."
He laughed. "Okay, okay, madam. Your next jalebi box is on me."
She made a satisfied face, puffing her chest. "Deal!"
Later, when he tried sweeping the room with his uninjured hand and kept knocking over the broom, she giggled and shouted, "Bhaiya, it looks like you're sword fighting with the floor!"
Her laughter echoed in the room, bright and alive. For Arjun, that laughter was medicine. It was the only thing in the world that still felt whole.
---
But when night returned, so did the dreams.
Arjun lay on his back, the ceiling fan casting slow, rotating shadows above him.
And then…
He was not in his room anymore.
---
He was running across a battlefield, breath heavy, dressed in traditional white dhoti and red turban. His chest burned. Around him were warriors with spears, swords, and fury in their eyes. The battlefield was alive with noise—the clang of metal, the screams of the wounded, the chant of "Bharat Mata ki Jai!"
Then, he saw a man—tall, intense, his face stained with blood—raise a torn flag high as bullets tore through the air.
The man shouted something. Arjun couldn't make out the words. But he felt it. The rage, the hope, the fire.
Then suddenly—
Gunfire.
The battlefield melted into another scene.
Now he was hiding behind sandbags, modern guns firing overhead. The uniforms were different, but the fear was the same.
Men screamed orders in Hindi. Someone next to him had been hit. The soil was red again.
Arjun turned—there was that mirror.
Broken.
Blood dripping onto it.
He looked down—and his own reflection stared back, eyes wild, haunted.
---
He woke up with a gasp.
His chest was heaving. Sweat drenched his shirt. The room was silent, except for the soft sound of Anu's breathing from the other corner.
He sat up, holding his head.
"What's going on with me?" he whispered.
The dreams weren't just dreams. They felt like memories. But whose?
He had never read about these scenes. Not exactly like this. Not with these faces. These smells. These exact feelings.
He remembered the mirror. The second it cut into him… something had changed.
Was it trauma? Delirium from overwork? Was he going insane?
Or…
Was he remembering something the mirror had shown him?
---