Chapter 2 – A Light Reborn
The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and rose water. Old walls of the haveli stood firm and silent, their stone soaked in years of monsoon and memory. The hour was close to midnight. Outside, a quiet drizzle had begun, the soft tapping of rain on clay tiles barely audible over the sounds within.
Inside, in the innermost chamber, a woman screamed.
Her voice rose in waves—high, sharp, trembling—as the labor reached its final moments. The dim oil lamps flickered, casting long shadows of women moving around her in silence and urgency. Brass pots of hot water steamed in the corner. Cotton cloths, herbs, and oil lay on a wooden table.
She lay on a mattress covered in white cloth, soaked with sweat, her long hair plastered to her forehead. Her name was Parvati. Young, strong, but exhausted—her body caught between life and the miracle of bringing life forth.
A chorus of female hands supported her—midwives, elder women, neighbors, and relatives—each carrying the wisdom of a hundred births.
Among them stood an old lady, her white hair tied back, a thin cotton saree wrapped around her frail frame. Her face was a map of wrinkles, but her voice was steady. Generations had been born under her care.
She leaned close to Parvati and said in a low, calm tone, "Take a long breath, child. One more... Push harder now. It is seen—it's close... it's crowning. Just one last push."
Parvati gritted her teeth, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. She closed them tight, took in a deep breath that filled her chest—and with a cry that rose from the pit of her soul, she pushed.
And then—
A stillness.
A sharp cry pierced the silence. Not Parvati's. A new voice. Small. Raw. Alive.
The midwife caught him in her palms.
A boy.
Slick with birth, his skin still wet and trembling from the long passage from darkness to light. But his cry—his first cry—was strong. Not desperate, but clear. As if he had returned not as a stranger, but as someone who already knew this world.
The old lady smiled, her eyes moist. "It's a boy," she announced softly, yet firmly.
A wave of breath was released from the room. The women sighed, relaxed, laughed, and smiled. One of them kissed Parvati's forehead. Another held her hand. The tension broke like a storm that had passed.
Outside the window, the drizzle slowed.
Inside, the midwife gently placed the child on a cotton cloth, cleaning him with warm water and oil. The old lady took a bit of kajal from a small silver box and marked a tiny black dot behind his ear—to ward off evil eyes.
"He's quiet now," one woman said, watching the child. "But his eyes... look at his eyes."
They were open. Wide. Unblinking. Black like the monsoon sky, deep like a memory buried far beneath time.
He stared, not with the confusion of a newborn, but with something ancient.
As if he had been watching the room before he even entered it.
The old lady looked at him for a long moment.
Then whispered, not to anyone in particular—
> "This one... is not ordinary."
...
There was no sound.
No air.
No earth.
No weight.
Only darkness. Deep, endless, still. A black space without direction or time. He floated in it—not as a body, but as awareness. A faint pulse of memory wrapped in silence.
And then—he remembered.
Not like a human remembering.
But like light remembering fire.
The street.
The laughter.
Sundar's voice.
The flash of tires.
The sun lowering into the horizon.
His own breath... growing still.
"I was dying," he thought—or perhaps he didn't think, but simply knew.
It came back to him like a falling feather.
Soft. Certain.
"I died."
Yet here he was. Not broken. Not afraid.
Just... floating.
For how long?
There were no clocks in this place. No heartbeat.
Only presence.
And then—
Far away, like a whisper at the edge of the void, he saw light.
It was small at first. A thread of gold stitched into the night.
Then it widened.
Became a doorway.
A call.
He felt something stir within him. Not a body—but the will to move. To go toward it.
And so, he moved—not with feet, not with effort, but with instinct.
As if some memory written deeper than flesh had whispered:
"Go."
The light grew brighter. Warmer. Softer.
And as he entered it—he did not feel fear.
He felt belonging.
Like a child returning to the lap of his mother.
Like a flame returning to its sun.
There was no sound.
And yet, something in the silence spoke:
> "You have returned. The world is waiting."
And then—
Pain.
A rush. A squeeze. A tunnel of heat and pressure.
Wetness. Breath.
A cry—his own. His mouth opening without thought. His limbs trembling.
Touch.
Hands on his body. The scent of earth and oil. A voice. A woman's voice.
He had entered again.
He had been born.
And though his eyes could barely see, his soul remembered.
Not clearly—not as language or name—but as a deep, pulsing truth:
> "I came back."
...
The storm of pain had passed.
Inside the birthing chamber, the air had changed—thick with ghee, warm oil, and the relief that only follows birth.
The boy—freshly born—was now wrapped in soft white cloth, tucked carefully beside his mother. His body was small, still trembling slightly from the first touch of air, but his breathing had calmed.
And Parvati, his mother, had never looked more radiant.
Exhaustion covered her like a second skin, and yet her face glowed. Her long black hair was damp, her saree clinging to her like the petals of a lotus dipped in rain. But none of it mattered now—not the sweat, not the pain, not the long hours. Because he was here.
Her son.
Her arms slowly folded around him. Her fingers brushed the curve of his tiny cheek, still soft and flushed with warmth.
She looked at his face—those small closed eyes, those lips, the rising and falling of his chest—and a tear slipped down her cheek, not from sadness, but from something sacred.
> "You've come to me," she whispered, voice barely audible. "You've truly come... my son."
Around her, the chamber had turned from tension to celebration.
The elder women were already beginning to chant soft blessings. One of them sprinkled rose water gently near the doorway. Another placed a marigold garland on a silver tray. The youngest girl, a niece, brought in sandalwood paste for Parvati's forehead.
The old lady with white hair stepped forward and touched Parvati's head.
> "May this boy live a hundred years. May he grow with dharma, with strength, with light in his heart."
Another voice joined, followed by a third.
Soon, the chamber echoed with soft murmurs of Ashirwad—blessings whispered like prayers woven into the thread of destiny.
Outside the chamber, in the wide verandah of the haveli, men had gathered. Most had stood quietly during the labor, drinking tea, pacing, pretending to be calm—but now their ears had caught what they were waiting for.
The first cry.
Sharp. Brave. Alive.
It passed through the corridor like a holy bell.
One of the elders turned to the father and said, "Ramarajan, did you hear that? That's your son's voice."
A smile broke across Ramarajan's face—slowly at first, as if he wasn't sure it was real. His hands were still clenched together, his forehead damp with worry. He had been standing outside the chamber for hours, listening to every cry, every instruction, every silence in between.
Now, his shoulders relaxed. He let out a long breath—as if the storm in his chest had finally passed.
Neighbors and relatives began to gather. Congratulatory voices filled the corridor.
"Badhai ho, Ramarajan!"
"Parvati gave birth to a son, a healthy boy!"
"May Lakshmi bless your home!"
He bowed gently to the elders, folded his hands in thanks, then walked quietly toward the chamber door.
As he stepped inside, the air shifted. He paused at the threshold.
There she was—Parvati—his wife, his companion, now a mother.
Her face was tired, but shining. Her smile, soft and endless.
And beside her, lying gently against her arm, was his son.
The boy didn't cry now. He simply blinked, calm, as if he had been waiting for this moment all along.
Ramarajan's throat tightened.
He stepped forward, slowly, respectfully, as if entering a temple.
He knelt beside Parvati, touching her feet first—a gesture of gratitude and reverence.
Parvati smiled faintly. "He looks like you," she whispered.
Ramarajan laughed, nervously, his eyes shining with held-back tears.
He looked at the child, leaned in, and kissed his tiny forehead.
> "Welcome, my son," he whispered, voice trembling. "You are the light of this home now."
And in that warm room filled with oil lamps, old songs, and fresh tears, the past life was truly left behind.
Surya had entered a new world—carried not by memory, but by love.
The news had spread like sandalwood smoke—quietly, sweetly, and everywhere.
"A boy has been born in the haveli."
Within hours, the entire household seemed to glow brighter. Lamps were lit in every corridor, brass diyas polished and placed before little shrines. The courtyard was swept clean, fresh rangoli drawn in front of the Tulsi plant. The kitchen burned with life—sweet rice, laddoos, and halwa prepared with ghee, saffron, and joy.
The house was alive.
In the open courtyard of the haveli, where an old neem tree cast long shadows, servants stood in a line—some with folded hands, some whispering quietly with each other.
At the center of it all stood the matriarch:
Grandmother Kalyani.
Her white saree was spotless, her posture straight despite her age, and her presence carried that silent authority which needed no words to be respected.
Her silver hair was tied back in a simple braid. Her forehead bore a long red tilak, fresh from morning prayer. Her eyes, though softened by age, missed nothing.
She looked around, nodded once, and clapped her hands.
A servant approached, carrying a large thali of sweets—kaju barfi, boondi laddoos, and peda neatly arranged in silver bowls.
Kalyani took a handful and placed them into the palms of the first servant in line.
> "Take this," she said softly. "Your son will get married soon, isn't it? Let this be a blessing in your house too."
The servant bowed deeply. "May your grandson live long, maalik."
To another maid, Kalyani handed a folded cotton saree, its edges lined with red zari.
"To wear during Kartik Purnima," she said with a kind smile. "And take one for your daughter as well."
One by one, she gave—not just gifts, but dignity.
Some received clothes, others sweets, some money tied in red cloth. No one left empty-handed. Not even the old gardener who limped slightly, or the washerman's apprentice who had barely turned twelve.
"Send word to the temple," Kalyani told the steward. "Give two baskets of food to the sadhu near the river. And make sure the beggars near the north gate receive warm clothes by tonight."
The steward nodded. "Yes, Kalyani Amma."
By afternoon, the steps of the haveli were lined with folded dhotis, shawls, sweet packets, and coins wrapped in banana leaves. A small group of poor villagers stood respectfully outside the gates, waiting patiently—not begging, but accepting what was offered with grace.
From her window upstairs, Parvati watched with quiet joy.
She held her son close, his small head resting near her heart. The newborn had fallen asleep again, his tiny fingers curled into soft fists.
She whispered to him, "Look, my child. Look what your first cry has brought..."
And though the baby could not understand, his chest rose and fell peacefully—as if somewhere, deep within, his soul already knew.
Because this was not just a house celebration.
It was a ritual of love, of tradition, of dharma.
And in the heart of it all, the boy who had once died for others...
...had returned to a world where kindness was given without asking.
.