Month: January, Year: 1985
I woke up with a sharp gasp, sitting upright on a narrow cotton mattress that smelled faintly of neem and sun dried cotton.
My lungs dragged in humid, familiar air, completely devoid of the artificial HVAC climate of my Manhattan office.
I looked down at my hands—they were smooth, unblemished, and thin, lacking the age spots and arthritic stiffness of a sixty-four-year-old man.
I rushed to the small, cracked mirror hanging on the lime washed brick wall of our modest home in Mylapore, Chennai.
Staring back at me was a seventeen-year-old face with youthful eyes that held the terrifying, profound weariness of a man who had lived through decades of global market crashes, corporate warfare, and sudden violent death.
It was January 1st, 1985.
New Year’s Day.
My mind raced as I processed the staggering reality of my situation.
I had been hurtled back in time across four and a half decades, landing squarely in the most critical juncture of my youth: my final year of high school, just four months before the daunting 12th-grade public examinations that dictated academic and professional futures in India.
Our household economic situation was as precarious as I remembered from my first time through this timeline, though now viewed through the sophisticated, unforgiving lens of an experienced financial analyst.
My father, Natarajan, worked long, exhausting shifts as a bus conductor for the Pallavan Transport Corporation, battling erratic schedules and endless commuter crowds for a meager monthly salary.
My mother, Lakshmi, managed our tiny household with meticulous frugality, stretching every single rupee to ensure my younger brother, Karthik, and I were fed and clothed.
Karthik was only fourteen at this time, an impressionable and sharp-minded boy who, in my previous life, had drifted through unremarkable jobs due to a lack of elite guidance.
Looking at him sleeping soundly on the floor mat nearby, a fierce, protective resolve settled deep into my bones.
This time, Karthik would not drift.
I would mentor him step-by-step, shaping him into my absolute right-hand man, the iron pillar upon which our future financial empire would rest.
But first, we had to navigate the immediate present.
My parents walked into the small hall, their faces etched with the familiar lines of working-class exhaustion, yet lighting up with warm New Year greetings.
My mother urged us to get ready quickly so we could walk to the nearby Sri Parthasarathi Temple in Triplicane to offer our prayers and seek divine blessings for the grueling exam year ahead.
The walk through the bustling morning streets of Mylapore was a sensory overload of nostalgia and sharp economic calculation.
The smell of fresh filter coffee wafted from small neighborhood stalls, mingling with the scent of jasmine flowers sold by street vendors.
At the Parthasarathi Temple, amidst the chanting of priests and the ringing of brass bells, I closed my eyes and meditated deeply.
I needed to anchor my racing thoughts, quiet the phantom trauma of my assassination in New York, and channel my infinite future knowledge into a disciplined strategy.
I knew every major economic policy change, every stock market boom, every real estate surge, and every political shift that would occur in India and across the world for the next forty years.
With my photographic memory intact, I possessed an unfair, absolute advantage over every titan of industry currently walking the earth.
When we returned home, I knew my real work was about to begin.