Rebirth of the Indian Chemist.

Velikara, Kerala – 1710 CE

Some days begin with jackfruit. Others begin with cryptic notes left under your pillow in handwriting older than your reincarnated soul.

This was the second kind.

---

The note read:

> "Under the fig tree. Before sunrise. Come alone. Bring no inventions."

Which was disappointing, because I had just finished modifying the Banana Tank to whistle when it reached pressure threshold.

But I obeyed.

Mostly.

I wore sandals with an extra-ink compartment sewn into the soles. Just in case.

---

The fig tree by the river was empty.

No scholars. No goats. No Bhairav, thank the gods.

Just mist curling like old silk around the roots and a faint smell of turmeric and oil.

Then he stepped out.

The silent scholar.

The one with sun-browned skin, silver-streaked hair, and the habit of staring like he was measuring your soul.

"You came," he said simply.

"Obviously. It's either you or a ghost, and I don't think ghosts handwrite on palm leaves."

He raised an eyebrow. "You're sharp for your age."

"I've had practice."

He sat cross-legged under the tree and gestured for me to join.

"I am called Acharyan. I am not from here."

I sat slowly. "You don't look foreign."

"I came not from a place, but a time. Like you."

My blood turned to ice. I said nothing.

Acharyan smiled faintly. "Reborn. Not by choice. But by design."

"You… remember too?"

He nodded. "Not everything. But enough. I was a civil engineer once. Delhi University. 1947."

I exhaled slowly. "Chemical engineering. 2012. I died in a car crash."

"Train derailment. Mumbai Central. My final project was a hydraulic bridge. And here I am. Building by hand, again."

---

We stared at each other for a long moment.

Then we laughed.

Real laughter. Deep. Hollow. Kind.

"Do others know?" I asked.

"No. And they must not. We are seen as prodigies, not threats. Let it stay that way."

"Agreed."

"Have you considered why we were sent here, now?"

"All the time."

"And?"

"I think we're here to stop it. The decay. The division. The colonization."

He nodded. "Yes. We can't stop them alone. But we can prepare. Accelerate knowledge. Build defenses. Unite the splinters."

He leaned in.

"Have you ever seen an Anjal script slide rule?"

I gaped. "They exist?"

"I made one. It's buried beneath the granary. I'll teach you. But slowly. Carefully. Trust no king. Trust no traders."

I swallowed. "Dutch?"

"Useful. But never friends. They'll burn temples when profits run low."

---

We spent an hour mapping villages, waterways, flood-prone zones. He showed me glyphs he used to record mechanical ratios in palm-leaf folds.

"Why me?" I asked at last.

Acharyan stood. "Because you smiled when your invention failed. You corrected it. That's what builders do."

Then he handed me a sealed scroll.

"Don't open until the full moon. And don't let Devika steal it."

I stared. "She's the bossy one, not the sneaky one."

"Boy," he said, walking away, "they're always both."

---

I returned home just as Bhairav was feeding boiled rice to a goat wearing a banana peel hat.

"What happened?" he asked.

"I may have just met my future old self."

"Did he approve of your outfit?"

"No. He thinks my inventions are too flashy."

"Rude."

I smiled.

The world just got deeper.

And I wasn't alone anymore.

Not in time.

Not in purpose.

We were building a future buried in the past.