Chapter 1: The Boy with Two Shadows
The sun in Dharmajipet didn’t rise. It poured like molten gold over red mud huts, cattle trails, and rusted bore wells.
In this quiet village where time walked barefoot, a boy was born under a neem tree just as a summer storm split the sky in half.That was the moment Sharada realized her newborn wasn’t ordinary.
He didn’t cry like other babies.
He wailed just once, loud and in silence, mumbling something that made the midwife drop the towel from her
hands.
"Meenamma...!"
When the boy turned Four, he had picked up strange habits. While other children played with mud, he lined up stones into tiny shops and stalls.
While Sharada prepared food inside their small mud-walled kitchen, he’d sit outside and whisper:
“Sri Raghava Bangaram… right next to masjid… opposite Hanuman temple…”
And then, one day, he looked her in the eyes and said in clear, chilling Telugu:
"Nuvvu naa amma kaadamma."
"My mother’s name is Meenamma. She used to wear green bangles. I was shot... here."
He tapped his tiny fingers to his temple.
That night, Sharada didn’t sleep. Venkat, her husband, was angry at first.
“Ayyo, idi enti abaddham? Cinema choosi attla matladutunnada?”
"Arey, ayana last week lo cinema kuda choodaledu!” Sharada snapped back.
Then came the birthmark. A dark, round mole on the boy’s right temple. And a faint scar at the back of his head, just where an exit bullet wound would be.
They named him Aarav. But he insisted he was not Aarav.
“Naa peru Raghava. I owned a shop… I lived in Hyderabad. They shot me inside my car… near Begum Bazaar.”
At first, people laughed. Then, they started avoiding their home.
Dev, Aarav’s elder brother, tried to reason with him.
“Hyderabad aa? Nee age enti ra? Radio lo vinnava enti?”
But Aarav was calm.
"I remember the smell of gold polish. I had a red cloth bag… with Meenamma’s bangles…”
It wasn’t just stories. He described landmarks.
He drew a map in the sand: one road straight to a gold shop, another bending past a mosque, and a Hanuman statue nearby.
Dev, a college student home for the summer, watched that map closely.
He couldn't sleep that night.
"What if he’s telling the truth?"
And the next morning, he took that map… and boarded a train to Hyderabad.
Chapter 2: Secrets of Begum Bazaar
The train pulled into Nampally Station with a squeal that felt like it came from inside Dev’s chest. As the crowd rushed out, he held tight to the hand-drawn map his little brother, Aarav, had made in the dirt back home in Dharmajipet.
He had traced it onto an old notebook page: a road fork, a temple marked with a triangle, a masjid with two arches and a shop circled in the center labeled, in scrawled Telugu, “Sri Raghava Bangaram.”
Dev had never been to Hyderabad before.
The city was noisy, thick with the smell of petrol, frying pakoras and a hint of panic. He walked purposefully, guided not by GPS or addresses but by his younger brother’s memory.
It took hours. Wrong turns. Asking vendors. Getting laughed at. But just before sunset, he reached Begum Bazaar.
Old gold shops lined the narrow lanes like crooked teeth-signboards faded, some shuttered, others glowing in yellow light. Dev’s eyes scanned every board until one made him stop cold.
“శ్రీ రాఘవ బంగారం & జువల్స్”
Sri Raghava Bangaram & Jewels
The name on Aarav’s lips. The shop in his map.
And it was real.
But the shop was closed, maybe for years. Rusted shutter. Broken lock. Dust over the windows. One corner of the wooden sign had a small dark hole, like a burn. Or maybe a bullet?
Across the road, an old man sat on a plastic stool, sipping chai, watching him.
“Aayana ki em kavali? Mee kutumbam aa?”
"No, sir... just heard of this place. What happened to the owner?”
The man squinted, then sighed.
“Ayy, Raghava? Good man. Used to give sweets to kids during Sankranti. Shot dead, ra. Right outside the shop. 1979. Full murder mystery. His wife and two kids went to their relatives' house. Case cold like old chai. Sad.”
Dev’s heart thudded.
Everything Aarav had said… was true.
“He said he was shot in the head… inside a car… right outside the shop.”
"Hmm. That's how it happened. One bullet. No witnesses. They said it was a robbery, but no gold items were missing. Ayyo, you got goosebumps, no?” the old man chuckled.
Dev did.
He stood there for a long time, staring at the shutter. The gold dust of decades ago is now buried in rust and silence.
Then he looked at the bullet-like hole in the board again.
And all he could hear was Aarav’s voice, whispering from hundreds of kilometres away:
“Nenu ikkada chachchanu… I died here.”
Chapter 3: The Widow’s Silence
Dharmajipet – A week later
The silence in the room was thick, not quiet, but weighted, like air made of sand. Meenakshi stood in the middle of the small village house, her eyes locked on the boy who refused to blink.
Aarav.
She hadn’t wanted to come.
After all these years, after newspapers stopped asking, police stopped calling and relatives stopped pitying her, Meenakshi had packed away her grief in a steel trunk, the kind with a double lock and rusted corners. Buried under old photos, wedding bangles and the smell of memories that hurt too much to breathe.
So when Dev came to her Banjara Hills flat, showing her a child’s hand-drawn map and speaking of bullet wounds, she wanted to slam the door.
But something in his voice cracked her.
“He knows your name. He knows what was inside the drawer near the pooja shelf. He remembers the red ring.”
So she came. With shaking steps, a cotton saree wrapped too tightly, and a heart that didn’t want to believe - but couldn’t help hoping.
Inside the house
Aarav sat on the floor, playing with small pebbles and arranging them in circles.
When Meenakshi entered, he froze.
He looked up slowly. Not how a child meets a stranger, but how a man recognizes someone he loved in another life.
“Meenamma...” he said.
The room went still.
Sharada gasped.
Dev looked at Meenakshi, waiting.
But Meenakshi stood frozen. Her lips parted slightly, eyes wide, arms slack by her side.
“You used to hide bangles in a red cloth inside the second drawer,” Aarav continued.
"The one that always jammed. I told you to oil it, but you kept forgetting.”
Her legs nearly gave way. She sat down suddenly. Staring.
“And your daughter,” he pointed at the photo on her purse, “she used to cry during Diwali. I used to hold her under the counter until the crackers stopped.”
She clutched the photo to her chest.
She didn't cry. Not yet. It was like her body refused to release the grief because this moment felt like a dream too fragile to believe.
“You... you even smell the same,” Aarav said softly. “You wore jasmine in your hair. And once, you hit me with the chappal because I gave the wrong ring weight to a customer. You cried later. I forgave you.”
That was it.
The dam broke.
Meenakshi reached forward, her hands trembling as they touched Aarav’s cheek.
“Raghava…?” she whispered. “Na Raghava? Is it really you?”
Aarav smiled gently.
“Na peru ippudu Aarav. But yes, Meenamma. Nenu thirigi vachchanu.”
"My name now is Aarav. But yes, Meenamma. I’ve come back."
Sharada turned her face away, fighting tears.
Venkat, who had entered silently, now looked like the earth under him had shifted. His son was being called another woman’s husband.
Dev? He watched it all, frozen between wonder, fear and something deeper: faith.
Later that evening, Aarav did something no one expected.
He walked into the back room where Sharada kept old trunk boxes. He opened the third one and pulled out a rusted wooden drawer.
Inside it was a small black velvet box.
He opened it and handed it to Meenakshi without a word.
Her fingers trembled as she opened it.
Inside was her wedding mangalsutra, wrapped in the red cloth she had used.
“How did you…?” she started.
But Aarav had already walked out, looking at the sky, where the stars were starting to pierce the dusk.
He whispered to himself.
“Ramulu knows. He always knew. And now… so do we.”
Chapter 4: The Bullet and the Bazaar
Hyderabad – Late 1986
For the first time since 1978, Begum Bazaar felt different.
The roads were still the same- dusty, loud, alive with gold glitter, sharp bargains, and the smell of samosas frying in old oil. But now, beneath that surface, something stirred.
Something remembered.
Meenakshi, Dev and little Aarav walked through the narrow streets. No one noticed the child holding her hand. No one knew that inside that child's skin lived the last unsaid words of Raghava.
They reached the shuttered shop-Sri Raghava Bangaram & Jewels.
Aarav stood in front of it like a man meeting his grave.
“I was here. He shot me here. In the car.”
The Clue That Opened the Case
Back in Meenakshi’s apartment, Dev found a box of old diaries. Yellowed, crumbling pages filled with business notes, ring sizes and vendor lists.
But one page stood out.
The handwriting was messy and rushed. A broken line:
"Ramulu is acting strange. Found missing coins. Must talk tonight -Meenakshi needs to know."
But that night never came.
Meenakshi’s eyes filled with something she hadn’t felt in years: fire.
“Ramulu was his most trusted worker. He handled delivery orders, keys… he knew the shop better than anyone.”
Aarav didn’t hesitate.
“He had a ring… with a red stone. He wore it on his left hand. When he shot me, I saw it in the mirror.”
Dev blinked. “Wait. Are you saying… he watched it happen in the rearview mirror?”
Aarav nodded solemnly. "Yes. And he smiled.”
The Hunt Begins
With the diary entry and Aarav's consistent memory pointing toward Ramulu, Meenakshi went to the local police station.
The case had been marked unsolved for six years. But now, something new: a credible statement, plus the diary.
The police weren’t quick to believe it came from a child’s past life memory, but the diary caught their eye. Ramulu’s name was also in the original employee register.
Two officers were sent to track him down. But when they reached his last-known address near Afzalgunj, they found a locked house.
Neighbours said he left three days ago, looking nervous.
🏃The Escape & The Truth
Two days later, during a random ID check. In a small dhaba near Warangal, He was using a fake name. But his eyes gave him away.
When the constables brought him back to Hyderabad, he was initially silent.
Until they showed him a photo.
Not of Raghava. Not of the crime scene.
But of Aarav.
His eyes widened. Then… a shudder.
He broke.
“I didn’t mean to shoot him. He caught me stealing. He threatened to call the police. I panicked. The gun… it just went off. I didn’t even take any gold. I just ran.”
⚖️ Justice, at Last
The confession was enough. The reopened case moved fast in the lower court, supported by Meenakshi’s testimony and the diary.
Ramulu was sentenced to life imprisonment for murder and obstruction of Justice.
In the courtroom, as the judge passed the verdict, Aarav leaned toward Meenakshi and said softly:
“You don’t have to cry anymore, Meenamma. I kept my promise.”
She held his hand tightly, not speaking.
Because what words could ever be enough when your dead husband stood beside you again, in the body of a child, but with the courage of a man?
Chapter 5: When the Shadows Faded
Dharmajipet Village – Early 1986
The wind carried the scent of mango blossoms and the air in Dharmajipet felt lighter, like a weight had been lifted from a family and the earth itself.
It had been three months since Ramulu was sentenced. Hyderabad had moved on. Begum Bazaar's shuttered shop stayed quiet; its legacy whispered only in quiet corners.
But something had changed inside Aarav.
He no longer mentioned “Begum Bazaar” or “Raghava.”
He didn't draw maps. Didn't mumble names in his sleep.
For the first time in his young life, he started behaving like a normal five-year-old.
He called Sharada “Amma.”
He laughed at Dev's silly jokes.
He cried when a calf stepped on his foot.
And he ran around barefoot during the Sankranti kite festival.
The shadows were fading.
A Visit to the Past
One weekend, Meenakshi revisited Dharmajipet. Not as a grieving widow. Not as a seeker of Justice.
But as a woman who had finally said goodbye.
She brought with her a small box wrapped in a silk cloth.
Inside it: a pair of old gold bangles, Raghava’s favourite pen and a black-and-white photo from their wedding. She placed them on the floor in front of Aarav.
He looked at them… tilted his head… and smiled politely.
“They’re nice,” he said, not recognizing them anymore.
Meenakshi’s throat tightened. Not out of pain, but something softer.
Relief.
“You don’t remember these, do you?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Should I?”
She smiled. “No, kanna. You don’t need to. Not anymore.”
Closure Is Quiet
Before leaving, Meenakshi touched Sharada’s hand.
“He’s truly your son now,” she said. “And always will be. What came through him... has done what it came to do.”
Sharada nodded, her eyes misty.
That night, Aarav slept peacefully under a neem tree, the same tree where he was born. The wind rustled the leaves gently, like an old soul whispering:
Thank you.
I’m free now.
Begum Bazaar – Six Months Later
The shutter of Sri Raghava Bangaram & Jewels creaked open.
Inside, Meenakshi dusted the counters and lit an oil lamp.
Her daughter arranged bangles on the display wall.
And behind the counter, framed in polished teakwood, was a photo of Raghava smiling.
Below it, a new plaque had been installed. Simple. Elegant.
“Truth never dies. It just waits to be reborn.”
✍️ By Sangram Writings
Behind the Story
This fictional story was inspired by real-life events, particularly the fascinating case of Titu Singh, a young boy from India who claimed to remember his past life, including the details of his own murder. His story, investigated by researchers and news outlets, remains one of the most well-known reincarnation claims ever recorded.
Like Aarav, some stories are too strange to forget- and too powerful to ignore.
THE END
Sangram is a storyteller with a truly special gift his words don’t just tell a tale, they gently pull you into a world filled with heart, wonder, and quiet magic. In A Bullet, A Birth, A Boy, he writes with such tenderness and depth that you can feel the dust of the village roads, hear the whispers of memory, and sense the timeless soul of India beating through every scene. His ability to blend everyday emotions with the extraordinary like reincarnation feels both poetic and deeply human. Sangram writes like someone who loves people, places, and the beautiful mystery of life itself. His work isn’t just read it’s felt. A truly lovable writer, whose voice lingers long after the story ends.
ReplyDeleteThank you for seeing the soul behind the words. Your comment will stay with me, just like I hope the story stays with you.
Delete