May 1, 2000 — Outskirts of Gaya, Bihar, India
"Master, it's time to get up…"
Veeru slowly opened his eyes. A young woman stood beside his bed, her voice soft, her posture humble, her eyes filled with worry.
It took him a few seconds to connect her face to a name from the fragmented memories in his mind.
Priya Mehta. His personal maid. Eighteen years old. A Vaishya girl who had served him loyally for over four years.
She had large, expressive eyes, a soft, round face, and long wavy brown hair that cascaded down her back. The thin silk sari she wore did little to hide her maturing figure—an accidental elegance that outshone her youth.
At that moment, she looked anxious, clearly hoping her master would rise quickly. But Veeru's eyes, disobedient, lingered for a moment too long. Beneath the cotton drape of her sari, he caught a glimpse of gold-trimmed undergarments.
The curves. The softness. The unintentional allure. Even someone as seasoned as Veeru paused for a second, struck by the sight—until Priya shyly raised her hand and blocked his view.
"If you block it again next time," Veeru said lazily, voice low and teasing, "I'll deduct your salary."
Her face flushed crimson, but she nodded obediently. In silence, she lifted a silk nightgown in a peacock-blue hue and draped it across his shoulders, dressing him with practiced care.
Veeru sat up and lifted his arms, letting her slip the gown onto him. The feel of silk brushing against his bare skin was oddly comforting. He had just arrived here—"here" being a manor—last night. Today was technically his first day as a landlord.
It felt surreal.
---
As Priya walked out to prepare his toiletries, Veeru's feet touched the teak floor. He frowned.
The wooden planks beneath his soles gleamed like glass. Too polished—unnaturally so. With a light rub of his toes, the wax thinned, revealing worn timber underneath. The illusion of wealth cracked.
The same went for the grand peacock mirror across the room. From a distance, it looked majestic. But up close, its gold paint was peeling at the corners, revealing rusted metal.
> "Seems I'm not as rich as I thought I was," Veeru mused.
He stepped to the mirror and studied his reflection. A man of 1.8 meters in height, big eyes, sharp hooked nose, and honey-brown skin. A high-caste Kshatriya, clearly—but what stood out were his blue eyes, a legacy from a British grandfather.
Blue eyes on brown skin. Like Thames water mixed with the Ganges—unnatural, but hypnotic.
He looked elegant but outdated, expensive yet worn. A relic.
> No. Not a relic.
The original owner of this body is already dead.
The memory returned: the original Veeru Singh, drunk and lustful, had tried to force himself on Priya the night before. She pushed him off. He fell, hit his head, and died.
And the current Veeru—an insurance agent from another life, who had struggled of awakened in this body, inheriting not just the manor, but 300 acres of land, a family name, and a servant staff.
He had gone to bed worrying about his EMI. Now he owned farmland and an insurance firm of his own.
> "Talk about an upgrade…"
Just then, Priya returned with a golden cup.
"Master, please rinse your mouth."
Veeru accepted it, lifted it to his lips—and paused.
"Milk?" he asked with a frown.
"Yes, buffalo milk. It is a traditional—"
"Change it. I want clean water next time."
"Of course, Master."
Though confused, she said no more and left briefly, returning with a brass basin of water.
She gently dipped her knuckles and began washing his face. Her touch was warm, familiar—but for Veeru, it was a strange comfort. The last time someone washed his face, he was probably a toddler.
He closed his eyes, letting the moment wash over him.
> "So this is what it feels like… to be pampered."
Before his rebirth, he was just a cog in the machine. A sales champion at an insurance firm, yes—but at what cost?
Waking early. Sleeping late. Chasing clients. Lying for bonuses. Earning ₹2,500 as base salary, barely scraping through.
He had even bribed customers with mobile game skins and gifts, all to hit sales targets. The company often paid him in policies instead of cash.
His house? Paid for through schemes and commissions. His life? A survival act.
But now…
Now he was served. Cared for. Powerful.
No wonder his lips curled upward. Priya noticed and laughed nervously. "Master, your cheeks are glowing today! Is something good happening?"
"Waking up safe, with someone like you serving me? That's good enough," Veeru replied with a smirk.
Priya blushed again.
He turned to look for a towel—only to find none.
> No towels?
From the fragmented memories in his head, he suddenly realized: they didn't use towels. In this tradition, palms were considered clean. Everything else was "unclean."
And since the left hand was used for cleaning after toilet and the right for eating…
> Did they just use their hands—for everything?
Veeru took a slow step back, horrified.
"I'll wash my face myself from now on," he said firmly.
Priya's smile faltered. She misunderstood the gesture. Thinking it was about the incident the night before, she tried to explain.
"Master, about last night—I didn't mean to—"
"Don't talk about that," he interrupted coldly. "Just go call Reva. I need to speak with her."
Reva. The housekeeper. The real authority behind the scenes.
Priya bowed quickly and left, and Veeru sighed.
> Such a good girl… trapped in a place like this.
No toilet paper to wipe your shit!
He shuddered. The sacred morning poop—how would he survive it?
With those thoughts plaguing his mind, Veeru wandered barefoot through his vast bedroom, admiring ancient statues and ornate carvings.
Yet he wasn't just a landlord. He was something more.
Because unlike the original Veeru, he had a system.