I was sitting in the park after getting bowled out by a 15-year-old. In my defence, I hadn't played cricket in over eight years, and back in school, I played hockey.
Anyway, back to the topic—I was thinking about what would've happened if we'd gained independence during the First War of Independence in 1857. We had Rani Laxmibai, Begum Hazrat Mahal, Nana Saheb, Kunwar Singh, Maulvi Ahmadullah, Man Singh, and Bahadur Shah Zafar, all fighting for us. What could've been done differently? What if we had been united or had better leadership at the time?
As I was thinking this, I suddenly heard a loud crash, followed by the screeching of tyres. When I turned, I saw a Porsche 911 speeding right toward me. And then—BAM—it slammed into me. I knew for sure I was dying.
I hope the driver knows how to write essays. (If you know, you know.)
Wait... I'm not even in Pune. I may be an engineer, but that was my last thought.
And then, obviously, I died.
But no—now I'm sitting in a white room with bhai feeding grass to a blackbuck. (What the... what is this setting?)
Then, a "being" (who I obviously don't know) said, "You will be reborn based on your last thought."
I was like, Okay, maybe I'll be reborn as a Porsche 911. I want to see the terror on pedestrians' faces as I drive by.
The being (who looked pretty human): Nope, you'll be reborn as one of Shah Zafar's sons.
I was like, Wow, didn't he have like 20 kids? I hope I'll be one of the ones who got deported to Rangoon, not the ones whose heads were presented to Shah Zafar after the revolt against the British.
And just like that, as I was having that thought, the car slammed into me again, and I'm sure the driver was the same being from earlier.
When I opened my eyes again, I was in a dark room. There wasn't much light, only an oil lamp near the window providing some dim illumination.
I had a severe headache like something was being forcefully inserted into my brain. The pain lasted for some time (I don't know how long—how do Chinese novelists always guess the time and height like computers?).
Once I calmed down, I searched for water. My throat felt like I had just crossed a desert. There was a jug placed next to the lamp, and after gulping down the whole thing, my thirst was relieved.
As I lay down again, memories started coming back to me. I remembered who I was, and where I was. My name is Qadir Ali Zafar, the second son of Zeenat Mahal. I was born in 1837, the same year my father became ruler. It's been six years since then, so it's 1843 now—still 14 years before the major war.
I know for sure the British will kill me. Unlike my brothers, who have more political significance, they won't bother sending me to Burma like my father and elder brother.
That thought made me panic.
After several minutes of trying to regain my composure, I started thinking about how to avoid my inevitable death. The only two conclusions I came to were:
Leave the country (which may or may not be possible).
Fight the British.
Then I thought, If I'm going to die anyway, why not get my name printed in NCERT textbooks? Maybe someone will fail their history exam because they can't remember my name correctly. The more I thought about it, the more excited I became. If I can make my freedom movement's name something really really difficult, like in Latin, no one will be able to remember it, and someone will definitely fail. (I really need to sort out my priorities.)
After setting my goal, I lay back down and went to sleep. (What? I'm tired.)