There’s a quiet building in the oldest part of the city. No name. No sign. Just a brass door with a lotus carved into it, and the soft smell of incense in the air. If you knock three times and leave a strand of your hair, the door opens. Inside, it’s quiet. The walls are lined with strange mirrors. They don’t show your reflection. A woman in a grey robe stands in the hallway. She asks your name, but not your age. She looks tired. Her voice is soft. Then she says: "You can visit one past life. But memory always has a price." You don’t ask what that means. Most people don’t. They’re too curious. I was too. I chose a name I had dreamed about—Ravi. They placed a warm stone in my hand. I closed my eyes. And suddenly— I was someone else. I stood by a wide river. The air smelled like sandalwood. My hands were rough and strong. A woman with bright eyes ran toward me. She laughed and called out, “Ravi, come home!” It wasn’t just a vision. It was real. I lived that life. I worked, I loved, I raised a child. I died by firelight. And then I woke up. But something was missing. At first, it was small things. I forgot my phone number. Then my sister’s face. A week later, I couldn’t remember where I lived. I returned to the building, angry. The woman in grey only looked at me. "Memory always has a price," she said again. They say some people go back more than once. They lose more each time—until they forget who they are now. Until they only remember who they were. Sometimes I wonder if that’s better. I still remember her name—Meena. The woman I loved in that past life. Her laugh is the one thing I didn’t forget. I don’t know my job anymore. I’m not sure what city I’m from. But when the smell of sandalwood floats in through my window, I close my eyes and smile. And for a moment, I think: Maybe I was never meant to be this person. Maybe I’ve always been what’s left of Ravi.
Uploaded on 13/06/2025