(Flashback begins)
Two Years Earlier October 12, 1999 North Block, Secretariat Building, New Delhi
The ceiling fan was making that annoying kat-kat-kat sound. It was the soundtrack of my life.
I was Aditya Kaul. Forty years old. IAS . Currently serving as the Joint Secretary in the Ministry of Food & Civil Supplies.
I was part of the "Steel Frame" of India. I had cracked the UPSC exam with a top rank. I had been a District Magistrate who handled riots and floods. I was supposed to be powerful.
But in this office? I was just a glorified barrier between the public money and the politicians who wanted to steal it.
On my large teakwood desk, sitting under a paperweight shaped like the Ashoka Chakra, sat File No. 309/X.
It was a thin file. Just twenty pages. But those twenty pages were dynamite. They contained the audit report proving that the Honorable Minister of Agriculture—a powerful man named Tyagi—had siphoned off ₹500 Crores meant for drought relief.
The money meant for starving farmers in Bundelkhand had gone into buying Tyagi a farmhouse in Chattarpur and a Swiss bank account.
"Sir," my Personal Assistant (PA), Ramu, whispered, entering the cabin. His face was pale. "Tyagi-ji's private secretary is here. And he has brought... men."
I looked at the file. Then I looked up at the peeling paint of my office wall, where a portrait of Mahatma Gandhi hung crookedly. I was a Joint Secretary. I had the power to sign this inquiry. If I signed it, the CBI (Central Bureau of Investigation) would have to investigate.
"Send them in, Ramu," I said, my voice steady, though my hands were cold. I unscrewed the cap of my fountain pen. "I am signing the order."
I didn't know that signing that paper was a death sentence.
The door burst open. Three men walked in. They weren't government staff. They were the Minister's "muscle"—political goons dressed in crisp white kurtas.
"Aditya-ji," the leader said, smiling a cold, paan-stained smile. "The Minister Sahib is very unhappy. He respects the IAS very much, but he thinks you are becoming... rigid."
He reached across the desk for the file. "Hand it over, Sir. Let us close this matter."
I covered the file with my hand. I stood up, channeling the authority of twenty years of service. "This is a confidential government document. You have no authority here. Get out of my office before I call the security."
The man laughed. "Security? Who appoints the security, IAS Babu? The Minister."
He didn't pull a gun. He didn't need to. He simply stepped forward and shoved the heavy teakwood desk with tremendous force.
The edge of the heavy table slammed into my chest.
Crack.
I gasped. The impact was brutal. A sharp, blinding pain radiated from my sternum down my left arm. My heart—already weakened by years of high-pressure administration and stress—couldn't take the shock.
I slumped back into my chair, clutching my chest. My vision blurred. "Ramu..." I wheezed.
The goon picked up the file. He looked down at me—a top-ranking officer of the Indian Government, now gasping for air like a fish.
"Sad," the man said, tucking the file under his arm. "Heart attack at forty. Very sad. You officers work too hard. You should have just taken the transfer to the Horticulture Department like we offered."
The world went grey, then black. I died as I lived: A man of the rules, crushed by a system that had no use for them.
The Reincarnation
GASP!
I sucked in a massive lungful of air. My eyes snapped open. I reached for my chest, expecting the pain. Expecting the dusty office in North Block.
Instead, my hands touched silk sheets. I sat bolt upright. The room was freezing cold—central air-conditioning. It smelled of expensive oudh cologne and polished leather.
I wasn't in AIIMS hospital. I was in a palace. I swung my legs out of bed. I felt... heavy. Strong. I looked at my arms. They were thick, hairy, and muscular. These were not the soft arms of a bureaucrat who sat at a desk for twelve hours a day. These were the arms of a soldier.
A terrible dread pooled in my stomach. I stumbled to the full-length mirror.
I looked into the glass. Aditya Kaul, IAS, was gone.
The face staring back at me had a thick military mustache and hawk-like eyes. It was a face I had seen in every intelligence briefing. It was a face I had hated for months during the Kargil war.
General Pervez Musharraf.
"No," I whispered. But the voice wasn't my polite Hindi. It was a deep, authoritative Urdu baritone.
I fell to my knees. The Universe had a twisted sense of humor. It took the soul of an Indian administrator who couldn't fix his own department, and put him in charge of the enemy nation.
I looked at the newspaper on the table. October 13, 1999. MILITARY TAKES CHARGE.
And next to it... the Nuclear Briefcase.
I started to laugh. A wild, terrified laugh. I was an IAS officer. My job was to administer districts. Now, my district was Pakistan. And I had absolute power.
"General Sahib?" A knock on the door. "The Corps Commanders are waiting."
I stood up. I straightened my spine. The bureaucrat was dead. The General was alive.
"Coming," I said.