The steel latch clicked softly as Rajveer entered his modest apartment. The jog had stretched his muscles and calmed his mind. The exercise didn't just tone his body; it helped keep the chaos of four lifetimes in check.
A few droplets of sweat clung to his skin, and the winter chill creeping through the cracked window didn't help. He peeled off his hoodie and track pants, walked barefoot across the cool mosaic floor, and stepped into the small, tiled bathroom.
Turning the rusted tap, he stood under the icy spray of water, the sharpness shocking against his heated skin.
"Cold water really hits differently in winter," he muttered, letting the droplets run down his face and shoulders. Still, it felt good—raw, real, invigorating.
While he was showering, he looked down at his persistent arousal, which hadn't subsided even after fifteen minutes.
"What the hell! Please calm down, buddy," he exclaimed, still looking down.
'My libido has shot through the roof ever since transmigrating into this body. How can I do my work with a constant boner? I really need some other medium to channel my excess energy. Well… the only thing I can do to calm down is to masturbate. Better be done with it now, otherwise my whole day will get ruined.'
Forty minutes later, he stepped out of the bathroom, a small towel slung low around his waist. Water still glistened on his chest and arms, with a few droplets trailing down his back. He rubbed his hair with another towel, lost in thought, still processing the strange awakening of his power and how he should proceed from here.
Just as he moved toward the bedroom to change, the doorbell rang.
He froze mid-step.
"At this hour?" he frowned. It was still early—not even 8.
He wondered who it might be. According to the diary, only one person came to mind.
With his mind made up, he walked to the door and pulled it open, forgetting he was still only wearing a towel.
Standing outside was a woman in her late teens, around 19—dusky skin, wide brown eyes, and curly hair tied into a low bun. A steel tiffin carrier rested in her hands. She wore a plain cotton salwar suit with a maroon shawl wrapped over her shoulders. This was Kavita, who lived in the apartment right next to his with her husband, Kailash, a newlywed couple. They were his tenants, having moved in just two months ago. Kailash ran his own clothing shop, while Kavita was a housewife.
"Good morning—" she began cheerfully, then her words caught in her throat.
Her eyes flicked—just for a second—across his bare chest, the water dripping from his hair, and the steam wafting faintly from his skin.
She blinked. Once. Twice. Then looked away, a blush creeping up her cheeks.
"Sorry! I… I should've come later. I just… we made some poha and thought you might like some. You're living alone, and…" she trailed off, holding the tiffin forward like a peace offering, her eyes desperately fixed on the floor.
Rajveer instantly realized her discomfort.
His expression shifted from blank curiosity to gentle understanding.
"Ah… give me a minute," he said softly and gently, shutting the door without taking the tiffin.
Inside, he moved quickly—pulling on a half-sleeve dark green T-shirt and a pair of loose-fitting pajamas. He ran a hand through his damp hair again, then took a deep breath and reopened the door.
"Sorry about that," he said with an apologetic smile. "Didn't expect visitors this early."
Kavita, still flustered, laughed nervously and handed him the tiffin.
"No, no… it's my fault. I should've waited. Just thought… you might not have had breakfast."
Rajveer nodded with a soft smile, accepting the tiffin.
"Thank you. That's very thoughtful. Please tell Kailash I appreciate it."
She didn't react to his words because she had been staring at his face the whole time. "Hello! Kavita," Rajveer waved his hand in front of her face while calling her out.
She immediately came out of her daydream. She asked him shyly, "Sorry, it's just you look very different right now. Way… manlier, I guess."
"Thank you for your kind words, Kavita," Rajveer replied with a smile.
She gave a small nod and turned away quickly, disappearing into her own apartment with hurried steps.
As Rajveer closed the door behind him, he looked at the tiffin in his hands.
"I should be careful," he muttered.
He sighed and headed toward the kitchen.
"Still… warm food after a morning run. That's not a bad start to the day."
***
The Mumbai sun was climbing higher, casting sharp shadows that accentuated the newly sculpted lines of Rajveer's face. He adjusted the collar of the simple black t-shirt he wore – a stark contrast to his fair skin and the now intensely defined jawline. Today was about putting his transformed appearance to practical use: photos for portfolio for potential modelling gigs and acting auditions, as per one of the more prominent wishes in Rajveer's diary.
He'd spent the morning researching local photographers who specialized in portfolios for aspiring actors and models. After a few calls, he'd secured a late morning appointment with a studio in Bandra, a bustling suburb known for its entertainment connections.
Stepping out of his building, he immediately noticed the lingering gazes. People seemed to take a second look, their eyes flicking over his physique. A group of college students openly whispered and giggled as he passed. He kept his expression neutral, a practiced calm he'd cultivated over his many lives. Attention was inevitable now; the key was to manage it.
Instead of hailing a taxi, he decided to walk for a bit. He needed to get a feel for the city, to imprint its rhythm and energy onto his senses.
Besides, his father's bookstore, "Sahitya Sagar" (Ocean of Literature), wasn't too far, located in a slightly quieter lane off the main road in Khar West.
The walk was a sensory overload. The cacophony of honking, the aroma of street food – spicy vada pav and sweet jalebis hanging in the humid air – the vibrant colours of saris and auto-rickshaws, all a stark contrast to the quieter mornings he'd experienced so far.
Reaching the familiar, if not personally remembered, storefront of Sahitya Sagar, a wave of unexpected emotion washed over him. The slightly faded blue signboard with its elegant Devanagari script, the window display overflowing with books in various languages, the gentle hum of conversation from within – it all felt… significant. This was a tangible piece of Rajveer's past, a legacy his father had built. His father had passed away two years ago, a fact now firmly lodged in his understanding of this life.
He pushed open the slightly creaky door, a small bell jingling overhead. The air inside was cool and carried the comforting scent of old paper and ink. Rows upon rows of bookshelves stretched into the dimly lit space, creating a labyrinth of literary worlds. A few customers browsed quietly, their fingers trailing along the spines.
Behind the worn wooden counter stood Prakash, the man in his late forties with a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper mustache and kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He was deeply engrossed in tallying a ledger but looked up as the bell chimed.
"Namaste, Rajveer," Prakash said with a warm smile, placing his pen down. "Good to see you. It's been a while, hasn't it? About three months, I think?"
Rajveer returned the greeting. "Namaste, Prakash ji."
Prakash's eyes widened slightly as he took in Rajveer's appearance. A look of surprise, bordering on disbelief, flickered across his face. He leaned forward slightly, peering at Rajveer. "Rajveer… you look… different. Have you been… working out?" He gestured vaguely, taking in Rajveer's broader shoulders and more defined physique.
"Something like that," Rajveer replied with a small, enigmatic smile. He didn't want to delve into the specifics of his recent transformation just yet.
Prakash chuckled, shaking his head in mild astonishment. "Well, it suits you. You've certainly… filled out." He paused, a familiar concern returning to his eyes. "So, what brings you today? Everything alright?"
"Yes, everything's fine, Prakash ji," Rajveer assured him. "I just wanted to see the bookstore… and you." He hesitated for a moment before addressing the topic he knew was likely on Prakash's mind. "I know you weren't exactly thrilled about my decision regarding IIT Bombay…"
Prakash sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Rajveer, son, with all due respect, 'not thrilled' is an understatement. Your father would have… well, he had high hopes. Such a brilliant opportunity… to throw it away for… acting? You don't know how hard it is for outsiders to make a name for themselves in the entertainment industry without any connections." He shook his head again, a mixture of disappointment and genuine concern in his expression.
"I understand your concerns, Prakash ji," Rajveer said calmly. "But my heart isn't in engineering. You know i used to do theatre while studying in IIT. I've realized that my true passion lies in acting… in storytelling. And I also plan to write a book."
Prakash looked at him, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Writing, you say? Like your father?" A hint of a smile touched his lips.
"In a way, yes," Rajveer replied. "But my father used to write articles for magazines and newspapers while I plan to write a book. I already have some inspirations. I plan to buy some books and some cassettes of films to watch."
Prakash remained skeptical, but his initial disapproval seemed to soften slightly. "It's a difficult path, Rajveer. Uncertain."
"I know," Rajveer acknowledged. "But it is my passion and dream to portray different lives on the silver screen. And I promise you, I won't forget my responsibilities. I still care about Sahitya Sagar. I'll always be a part of it."
Prakash's gaze softened. He saw the determination in Rajveer's eyes, a conviction that hadn't been there before. "Well," he said with a sigh, "your father always said you had a mind of your own. I just… I want you to be happy, Rajveer. And successful."
"Thank you, Prakash ji," Rajveer said, a genuine warmth spreading through him. "That means a lot." He glanced towards the front of the store. "I have to go now. I have an appointment for some… photographs. I'll take some books and cassettes while returning. If that's alright with you?"
Prakash raised an eyebrow, a chuckle escaped his lips "it's all yours. Take whatever you want. But… how do you plan to enter the industry?"
Rajveer chuckled. "You don't need to worry about that. I already have a plan in mind. There is a talent hunt competition which is going to happen in four months. It's a modelling competition. I plan to participate in it. That's why I need some good photos for my portfolio."
Prakash nodded, realisation dawned on him.
"Well… good luck then. That's all I can say. But if you need any help, don't hesitate to tell me."
Rajveer replied with a fond smile, "don't worry, Prakash uncle, you'll be the first to know."
After that, Rajveer went on his way to the photo studio.