Nestled in a forgotten rural corner, a small, rundown baby delivery clinic stands, its faded sign barely clinging to rusting metal. Inside, cracked windows let in dim light, casting shadows on peeling wallpaper and creaky floors. The air is heavy with the scent of antiseptic and neglect, a quiet testament to the births and lives that have come and gone in this place where time seems to stand still.
The cries of a newborn echoed through the small clinic, sharp and full of life. Outside the door, the father paced anxiously, his eyes flicking nervously to the delivery room with every step. At the sudden wail, his heart, which had been trapped in a cage of fear, jolted back into place. He sank into a nearby chair, his breath shaky, as relief washed over him in a single, overwhelming wave.
The curtain separating him from his wife was gently drawn aside, and the midwife stepped through, cradling a small bundle wrapped in a thin cloth. The baby's cries rang out, strong and clear, a vibrant testament to its health. The father's eyes widened, his breath catching as he took in the sight—his child, alive and well, announcing its arrival to the world with its loud, defiant wail.
The midwife carefully placed the baby in the father's arms, and with a tenderness born of deep emotion, he walked toward his wife, who lay exhausted but radiant on the bed. Despite the humble surroundings and meager equipment, the moment was rich with love and connection, a quiet triumph of life. From the perspective of the gods, one might see not just a family, but three beautiful lotuses, glowing in the mud, their light shining bright amid the struggle and the hardship.
Ishvarya (इश्वर्य) gently settled beside his wife, Samyukta (समयुक्ता), as she extended her hands, cradling their son, Ātma-sākṣī (आत्मसाक्षी), with tender care. Months before this moment, the couple had chosen the name, one that carried the weight of their hopes and dreams for their child.
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Atma lay on the soft mat, his small body now strong enough to sit up on his own. His chubby hands gripped the fabric as his eyes darted around the room, taking in the faces of his mother and father. He was still an infant in form, but inside, his mind was sharp and clear, remembering everything from his past life. The confusion of his early days was now gone, replaced by a growing sense of realization—he was no longer the ordinary boy he had once been on Prithvi.
His name had been something else before—Swatantra, a simple life in a world filled with deadlines, commuting, and endless responsibilities. Atma could recall it all with vivid clarity: his fascination with history, his hours spent buried in old books, the way he had always wished for more time to truly explore the past. But life had been demanding, and the hobby that had sparked so much joy in his soul was often relegated to the background.
Now, in this new world, things were different. He had time—time to think, to remember, to wonder. His fingers wiggled as he gazed at them, his mind filling with fragments of memories. Prithvi seemed like a distant, fading dream now, but the knowledge from his past life was solid, real, and clear. He remembered his life there—his work as an office clerk, his quiet evenings spent reading books on ancient civilizations, his thirst for knowledge that never seemed to be quenched.
Yet here, in this strange world, things were different. The people, the culture, the power systems—they were unlike anything he'd ever studied. He could already feel the weight of this world, a world steeped in its own history, a history he had yet to begin understanding. His mother, Samyukta, and his father, Ishvarya, were figures he could not yet fully comprehend, but he sensed there was more to their story than met the eye.
As he crawled towards his mother, Atma's mind wandered. This world... it's so vast. He didn't know much yet—he was still just a child—but the curiosity that had burned within him in his past life had not faded. It only intensified. The hunger for knowledge, for understanding, was still there, buried deep within him.
What kind of power exists here? he wondered. What are the kingdoms, the forces at play? Why is this world so different from the history I read about on Prithvi?
As Atma's thoughts swirled in his tiny, developing mind, the overwhelming flood of memories and aspirations began to take their toll. The energy it took to process the fragments of his past life, the wonders of this new world, and the possibilities that stretched before him left him feeling drained. His eyelids grew heavy, and despite his boundless curiosity, his small body could no longer stay awake. He yawned softly, his little hands falling limp in his lap as sleep overtook him.
But even in his dreams, Atma couldn't escape his vivid, childhood fantasies. His mind, despite the limitations of his current form, carried him back to a place he had often visited in his past life—his middle school days. The days when he would imagine himself soaring through the skies, faster than a speeding bullet, using his strength to right wrongs and protect the innocent. The days when the idea of becoming a masked superhero was not just a dream, but a burning desire.
Now, in this new world, those same dreams resurfaced, though this time, they were infused with a strange sense of possibility. His thoughts took shape in his sleep as he imagined himself as a figure of immense power—like the Superman he had once idolized on Prithvi. In his dream, he was soaring above cities and kingdoms, his cape billowing behind him, his strength unchallenged. The weak and oppressed called out to him, and he responded with swift justice, his fists striking down those who would harm the innocent. He could feel the power flowing through him, the invulnerability, the speed, the ability to shape the world around him with a single thought.
Atma's dreams were filled with the rush of flight, the thrill of saving people, and the satisfaction of bringing peace to a world in turmoil. He was no longer the ordinary boy confined to the routines of office life—he was a force, a protector, a symbol of hope. In this new world, with its mysterious power systems, he could finally become the hero he had always imagined.
As his dream self soared through the clouds, fighting for justice, a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. The dream felt real, tangible, as if it was no longer just a fantasy but a future he could one day reach. In this vast, ancient world of untold power and hidden histories, Atma was certain of one thing: he would be more than just an observer of this world's stories. He would become a legend.
But for now, his small body rested, and his dreams carried him far—towards a future where he could protect the helpless, spread justice, and, perhaps, one day, become the superhero he had always longed to be.