My name's Aditya Menon.
I'm 25 years old, from Kochi, Kerala.
I'm not special. I'm not rich or powerful. I just work as an interior designer.
I design spaces. Not fancy buildings. Just rooms, cafes, restaurants. I work with walls, lights, and furniture—making places feel like they belong. That's all I've ever done.
This time, I was in Amritsar, Punjab, for a project.
A client from Delhi had bought an old haveli near the Golden Temple. He wanted to turn it into a heritage hotel—a mix of traditional and luxury, but mostly "authentic," as he liked to say. The problem with authentic is that it can be a headache to pull off. Too much old-world charm and it feels like a museum. Too modern, and it's not "authentic" anymore.
Anyway, I finished the site visit and had a bit of time before my next meeting, so I decided to visit Jallianwala Bagh.
I'd read about it in school, but standing in front of the well, the bullet marks on the walls, and imagining the screams... It was different from reading history. It felt like the ground itself remembered what had happened there.
I sat under a tree, feeling the weight of it all. I didn't take pictures or selfies like most tourists. I just sat there in silence, thinking.
After a while, I walked back to the car and started driving back to the hotel. The day was getting hotter, and my eyes were starting to feel heavy. It had been a long day, but before I could even relax, the calls started.
"Client," my phone flashed.
I ignored the first call.
Then the second.
By the third, I knew he wouldn't stop.
So I answered.
"Hello, sir."
"Aditya bhai! Aree, where are you? Are you at the site? Did you see it? Tell me what you think!"
I adjusted the steering wheel, focusing on the road. "Yes, sir. I saw the place. It has potential. The main hall can have a really open feel with some traditional pillars, but we need to add some clean modern lines to make it look like it's for tourists."
"Good, good. But listen, listen. I was thinking—can we add big arches? Like real Mughal arches, you know? You think we can get that kind of design?"
"Sir, Mughal arches can be done, but they'll take up space. We might need to adjust the layout for that. But I'll send you samples tonight, you can pick from them."
"Yes, yes, of course, bhai. But also, what about the flooring? I want something royal, like those kings had. But not slippery, haan? My uncle fell last time at the hotel—he's old, you know!"
"I'll send options, sir. Maybe some marble with intricate patterns—real Mughal style. But not too slippery, I'll make sure of that."
"And one more thing, Aditya bhai. What about the walls? I want them to look rustic, but also classy. Can we do something with red stone?"
"Red sandstone will work, but it's heavy and expensive. We might need to balance it with some lighter textures."
"Okay, okay. And one more thing, one more thing, Aditya bhai. My cousin from Canada is coming to check the site, so I was thinking—let's add swords on the walls. Not real sharp ones, of course, but some nice, royal swords for the vibe."
I sighed, concentrating more on the road than on his excitement. "Swords? Sure, I can make that work. But we'll need to make sure they're securely placed, so no accidents."
"Yes, yes! Just make it look royal—like kings and warriors stayed there, okay? And keep it Punjabi, Aditya bhai. Don't make it look like a Delhi hotel, haan!"
"I understand, sir. I'll get started on the designs. I'll send you the first draft by tomorrow."
"Good, good. I'll be waiting. And don't forget, no onions smell around the kitchen. Last time I stayed in a hotel, it smelled like fried onions."
"I won't forget, sir."
"Alright, alright. I'll talk to you soon, bhai."
I was about to hang up when suddenly, I saw a bright flash.
It was like lightning. A quick, white flash. The phone fell from my hand. I barely had time to react.
.
.
.
When I opened my eyes, I wasn't in the car anymore.
I wasn't even on the road.
I was lying on grass.
The sun was the same, but the air felt different—cooler, more natural. There was a soft breeze, and the smell of earth filled my nose.
I blinked. Sat up slowly, rubbing my head. My body felt sore. My hands were still on the grass.
I looked around.
No car.
No buildings.
No road.
Just fields. And some people walking in the distance. They were dressed in simple clothes—no jeans, no T-shirts. Just cloth wraps and bare feet.
I looked at the phone in my hand. Still working, but the date—it made my stomach drop.
It wasn't 2025. It wasn't even this century.
It was 1755.
I stood up quickly, heart pounding. 1755? What the hell? How was that possible?
I looked around, trying to make sense of what was going on. My head was spinning. It didn't feel like a dream. It felt too real.
I stared at the screen again.
"Friday, July 4, 1755."
It kept blinking at me like it was normal.
Like this was just another Friday.
I opened the calendar app. Same date.
I switched off the phone and turned it back on. Still 1755.
"Maybe it's a glitch," I muttered.
But deep down, something felt off. I looked around again.
Still no cars. No poles. No tar roads. No sign of the world I knew.
There were trees, farms, and some small mud houses far away. Smoke was rising from one of them—probably someone cooking. I could hear birds, cows, and some distant voices in a dialect I couldn't catch properly.
And I was just standing there in jeans and a T-shirt, phone in hand, like an idiot.
"I was in my car…" I whispered.
I remembered the steering wheel in my hand. The vibration from the road. The sound of the client laughing through the speaker. The call. The flash.
Where was the car?
It couldn't just disappear.
I walked around for a bit. Grass. More grass. A dirt path. Not even tire marks.
It was like I was never driving
I sat on a rock nearby, trying to calm down.
"This doesn't make any sense," I told myself. "This is a prank. Or maybe a coma dream."
But the sun felt real. The breeze felt real. Even the dryness in my throat was real. I reached for my bottle instinctively—of course, it wasn't with me. It was in the car.
I turned the phone around in my hand. The screen was fine. No signal. No notifications. But everything else worked.
I checked the weather app.
Amritsar – Mostly Sunny – 36°C
Date: July 4, 1755
What kind of phone shows 1755?
I opened Google. It loaded like usual.
Internet worked. Somehow.
Search bar blinked at me.
But I didn't search for anything. I didn't know what I even wanted to know.
'Where am I?' felt too useless.
'How did I get here?' wouldn't help.
For now, I just kept the phone back in my pocket.
I kept walking along the dirt path.
No vehicles. No wires. No electric poles. No signboards.
Nothing that said "modern world."
Just trees, birds, and the sound of distant voices.
And that was when I saw two men walking toward me.
They looked like farmers or laborers—shirts loosely tied, simple cotton dhotis, turbans, and bare feet hardened from work. One had a small sickle. The other was carrying what looked like a bag of grain.
They stopped when they saw me.
Both of them stared.
At my clothes. At my shoes. At my face.
Then their eyes landed on my phone, half-visible in my jeans pocket.
I raised my hand, awkwardly. "Hey. Hello."
They didn't reply at first. Just looked at each other, confused.
Then the older one said, slowly, "You… from where you came?"
His accent was thick. The kind you only heard in small villages, untouched by English or schooling.
"I… I don't know," I said honestly. "I think I got lost."
They looked at each other again. The younger one tilted his head. "You are wearing strange things."
I looked down. T-shirt. Jeans. Sneakers.
Yeah, I didn't fit in. Not even a little.
"I'm just looking for a town," I said. "Is there a town nearby?"
The older man nodded slowly. "Town is there," he said, pointing in the direction they came from. "Amritsar. One hour walk."
I blinked. "One hour?"
They both nodded.
My throat was already dry. One hour on foot in the heat didn't sound good. But I had no choice.
"Thank you," I said, trying to be polite. "Do you… have water?"
The younger man opened a metal pot tied to his side. "Drink," he said, offering it.
I hesitated, then took a sip. It was warm, slightly metallic, but clean. I gave it back with a quiet, "Thanks."
The older one squinted at my phone. "That thing... is magic?"
I quickly shook my head. "No, it's… just something I carry. Nothing dangerous."
They didn't look convinced, but they didn't press.
The older one simply nodded and said, "Go straight. If you see banyan tree with long roots, turn left. You will see village. From there, ask for city road."
I nodded. "Okay. Thank you. Really."
They began walking again, giving me one last curious glance over their shoulder.
I stood there a moment longer, then started walking toward where they'd pointed.
I wasn't sure what I'd find in Amritsar.
But I knew one thing for sure:
This wasn't a joke. This wasn't a dream.
Something had happened.
And I wasn't in my world anymore.