Rebirth of the Indian Chemist.

Most babies cry when they're born.

I blinked.

To be fair, I wanted to cry. That was the expected thing to do. But then I got distracted by the ceiling. It had a weird pattern—bricks arranged in concentric circles with coconut husk stuffed in the cracks. It looked like someone had tried to make art and got bored halfway.

"Huh," I thought, "even 300 years ago, people cut corners."

That's when I realized: I had been reborn.

Reborn… and fully aware.

My name—well, used to be Aman Verma. Age: 28. Profession: chemical engineer. Hobbies: overworking, not dating, and occasionally failing to keep houseplants alive.

Cause of death? Car crash, rainy highway, slippery curve. Classic.

And now?

Now, I was a baby. A sweaty, tiny baby being handed to a woman with big brown eyes and a forehead full of sandalwood paste.

"His name will be Amarnatha," she whispered.

"Powerful name," I thought. "Bit dramatic for someone who just peed on himself."

---

I spent the next few months pretending to be a normal baby.

Key word: pretending.

It was exhausting.

Try going from doing high-level chemical equations to being praised for burping. Once, I accidentally rolled over too early, and the entire house lost its mind. One of the aunties started shouting, "This child is blessed by Lord Varma!" I just wanted to stretch.

By the time I was one, I had figured out three things:

1. I was born into a warrior family—low-tier nobility, respected but broke.

2. My father, Varma the Third (yes, the Third), loved swords more than logic.

3. I had no modern plumbing. None. I cried the first time they handed me a leaf.

---

Still, I had a goal.

Make India stronger. Smarter. Industrialized before colonizers arrive.

Also: learn how to crawl like a boss.

You'd be surprised how much upper-body strength you can build by pretending to chase a wooden spoon every day. By age three, I had figured out basic calisthenics. My mother thought I was "restless." My father said I had "warrior blood." I was just trying not to become soft.

---

At age five, I met the girl next door.

Well—not exactly a "girl." Devika Varma was 10, already taller than me, and already had that calm, older-sister energy that made me nervous for no reason.

She had long hair, sharp eyes, and the terrifying ability to shut down a conversation with one eyebrow.

I fell in love instantly.

Of course, I didn't say anything. I just stared at her like an idiot whenever she visited our house. She'd pat my head like I was a puppy.

"Your son has such sharp eyes," she once told my mother.

Lady, those eyes are staring at you because you're my first crush.

By age six, I had mastered the ancient science of Not Getting Caught.

I would sneak out at dawn to train in secret behind the cow shed. Basic stuff: pushups, squats, balance drills using water pots, and shadow-sparring against tree trunks.

Once, a goat joined in. I lost that round.

My father caught me mid-squat one morning, narrowed his eyes, and said, "The boy has fire."

My mother muttered, "The boy has worms."

Either way, they let me train. Win-win.

---

I didn't have proper weapons, of course. Just bamboo sticks and imagination. I carved one into a rough blade and practiced basic moves I remembered from both Kalaripayattu and a few late-night YouTube videos. (Thanks, algorithm.)

When I wasn't training, I was tinkering.

I pulled apart broken carts, messed with gears, and once disassembled a rice grinder just to see if I could rebuild it better. I could. I did. It ran twice as fast and made half the noise.

Unfortunately, the auntie whose grinder it was assumed it had been cursed and dumped it in a pond.

Some battles you just can't win.

---

Devika kept showing up. She was friends with my cousin and occasionally came over to play or help my mother with temple scrolls.

Every time she arrived, I either pretended to read (even if the scroll was upside-down) or casually carried heavy things I had no business lifting.

Once I tried to carry a whole bundle of firewood to show off. I tripped, landed face-first in the mud, and she helped me up.

"You're trying too hard," she whispered, brushing dirt off my face.

"Yes," I whispered back, "but is it working?"

She laughed.

Progress.

---

At seven, I learned two important lessons:

1. Bamboo hurts more when swung by someone who knows what they're doing.

2. Jealousy exists even in pre-colonial Kerala.

I had built a small wooden water wheel on the edge of the river. Just a basic model—good for drawing water from a stream. One of the village boys, Krishna, thought I was trying to show off.

Which, to be fair, I kind of was.

So he kicked it into the water.

I didn't say a word. I just stared at him until he got uncomfortable and walked away. Then I built a better one—with a locking mechanism and bamboo supports. It survived the next flood.

The village elder called it a "miracle of divine geometry."

I called it "Version 2.3."

---

By eight, I was "that kid." The one with strange ideas. I started carving little pipes and barrels and even made a toy that moved when heated with fire. People said I had a spirit inside me. Maybe I did. The spirit of engineering.

My father asked if any of this could kill people. I said yes.

He was very proud.

---

At nine, Devika brought me a book.

Not a real book—just a palm-leaf scroll with stories of past kings and wars. She said I "looked bored" and "needed something to read besides wet clay."

I tried to act casual.

"Thanks," I said. "Reading helps me relax."

Truth: I was already writing down my own ideas for an early furnace design on the back of banana leaves. But her scroll was nice too.

Especially because she brought it.

---

At ten, I was ready for more.

I was strong enough to climb trees, quick enough to dodge older boys in sparring, and clever enough to replace a broken temple lamp with an ethanol-powered one I made from fermented jackfruit. (It smelled awful, but the light was great).

My father said I'd be a future commander.

My mother said I should sit still for five minutes without boiling something.

Devika? She finally looked me in the eye one evening and said, "You're not normal."

I grinned.

"Thanks