The roar of the pyre and the heavy smell of ghee and marigolds were the last things I experienced as Mirabala. At eighteen, I was a child-bride in 18th-century Rajputana, tied to a man three times my age and expected to vanish into the smoke of his funeral pyre. As the bright orange flames flickered at my heavy gold veil, I closed my eyes, praying for the pain to stop, but lost consciousness in a cloud of thick, black soot.
When I finally opened my eyes, the heat was gone. I found myself surrounded by the gentle hum of an air conditioner and the calming scent of fresh lavender. I had woken up in 2026 as Bela, the beloved daughter of a rich family in Udaipur. In this life, my father didn't see me as a political tool; he called me his "jaan" and let me choose my own path. I spent my first year in this new world crying every time I faced a simple choice—what to wear, what to eat, or what to study—because the idea of freedom felt miraculous. Over time, the trauma from the flames faded, replaced by the cool marble floors of our villa and the weight of a college backpack. I chose to study Interior Design, driven by a deep need to create the beautiful, safe homes I never had in my past life.
I met Rishi in the university library. He was a History major, always surrounded by piles of dusty manuscripts and accounts of the very kings I once lived under. While I was sketching modern floor plans, he commented that I held my pencil like a quill. His deep voice calmed the restless ghosts in my mind. I looked up, surprised by eyes that held the kindness I had searched for throughout my life. Our love wasn't a whirlwind; it was a slow, steady healing that smoothed the rough edges of my soul. On our first date by Lake Pichola, I stared at the Jag Niwas palace, memories of my old life flickering like shadows. Rishi simply held my hand, keeping me grounded in the present. One time, in a cafe, a candle flared up and triggered a panic attack, the phantom smell of smoke filling my lungs. He didn't ask questions; he just blew out the flame, opened a window for the monsoon breeze, and wrapped his sweater around my shoulders, assuring me that I was safe in 2026.
By the time we graduated on a golden afternoon, the sunset no longer scared me. Standing near an ancient banyan tree at the college gates, Rishi took out a small velvet box and said he felt like he had been searching for me for a hundred years. I smiled, knowing I had been waiting much longer, and as I leaned into his chest, I realized I was no longer the girl forced into the fire—I was a woman who had finally come home. The air was cool, my heart was healed, and for the first time in two centuries, the story ended with a beginning.
