Chapter 5: The Year of Learning
January 1977 – December 1977
Singh Family Home, Aminabad, Lucknow
Bharat had turned one, and something in him had started to shift—quietly, but surely. He was still playful, still a child, but there was a calm behind his eyes that even the adults around him noticed. It wasn't just intelligence. It was awareness. Purpose.
Each morning, Dadi (grandmother) would sit in the courtyard under the neem tree, her prayer beads in hand, softly chanting mantras. And Bharat, without being asked, would come and sit cross-legged beside her, mimicking her posture. His back straight. Eyes closed. Hands resting on his knees like he'd done this before.
Dadi would sometimes pause, glance at him, and smile with wonder. "You've done this in some life before," she whispered once, brushing his hair. "This child remembers."
That very morning, Arjun, his uncle, arrived home on leave from his Army post. Tall, strong, always serious—but the moment he saw Bharat sitting in meditation, he broke into a grin.
"Hey! You're sitting like a soldier in training!" Arjun said, walking over.
Bharat opened one eye. "Uncle, will you teach me Veerbhadrasan?" (warrior pose)
Arjun blinked. "You even know the name?"
"Please?" Bharat added with a little head tilt.
Chuckling, Arjun knelt down beside him. "Fine, little yogi. Let's begin."
Kitchen Mischief
Vandana was in the kitchen, rolling out chapatis (flatbreads), when she felt a light tug on her sari. She turned—and there was Bharat, holding a spoon like a sword.
"Ghost!" he whispered with wide eyes.
"Again?" she laughed, playfully chasing him around the kitchen. "You'll make me drop the flour!"
He giggled, ducked behind the stove, then peeked out. "Maa, this onion... it's shaped like the Earth, right?"
She stopped. "Yes… but how do you know that?"
He just shrugged. "I don't know. I just do."
She paused, staring at him for a long moment. Her son was barely one—but sometimes he felt like an old friend from a past life.
Evening with Raghav Uncle
In the evenings, Bharat would find Raghav, his other uncle, on the verandah with a cup of tea and a stack of account ledgers from the textile shop in Aminabad.
"What are these?" Bharat asked one day, poking a page.
"Numbers," Raghav said. "Business numbers."
"I like numbers."
"Oh? Then tell me—what's 7 minus 3?"
"Four!" Bharat shouted, clapping.
"And if I sell three cotton saris (women's garments) and two silk ones?"
"You'll have five customers and a tired uncle," Bharat replied seriously.
Raghav burst into laughter. "You even talk like a businessman now!"
He let Bharat touch swatches of cloth—khadi, silk, coarse cotton.
"This one is soft like Dadi. This one feels fast like you," Bharat said, closing his eyes.
"You're not just smart, kid," Raghav said. "You feel things."
Learning with Aunty Pooja
Every Saturday, his aunty Pooja came home from medical college with books and diagrams. She barely set her bag down before sweeping Bharat into her arms.
"Today we learn about the brain!" she said cheerfully.
"The one that thinks all day?"
"Exactly!" she smiled.
She'd point to drawings of the heart, lungs, and nerves, explaining gently. Bharat listened, almost like he already knew. He'd trace the lines with his finger.
"I want to remember this," he told her once.
"You will," Pooja whispered. "You remember everything."
Sometimes she would sit beside him at night and ask, "Do you think you knew me in another life?"
"I think so," he'd reply without hesitation. "You were still kind then."
Her eyes welled with tears.
Family Dinner Games
Dinner time had become a daily performance. Everyone gathered in the courtyard, and Bharat, as usual, was the star. He'd sit first in Dadi's lap, then move to Raghav's, then Pooja's.
"What would you like tonight, Bharat?" Ajay asked one evening.
"Only sweets. No sabzi (vegetables) today."
"Why?" Dadi asked, amused.
"Sweets taste like celebration. Sabzi tastes like homework."
Everyone burst into laughter.
Sometimes he would pretend to hate the food, wrinkle his nose, and say, "Aunty, magic first."
So Pooja would hide a sweet in her hand and make it "disappear." Then—poof!—pull it from behind his ear.
"Now I'll eat," Bharat declared, proudly.
Spoon after spoon, he was fed with laughter, teasing, and love.
And when he finished, he would pat his belly and declare, "Main bada ho gaya hoon!" (I've grown up now!)
"Yes, Maharaj," Raghav joked. "You're the king of the house."
New Skills, New Strength
As the months passed, Bharat began doing things on his own. He would try small yoga poses with Arjun—balancing on one leg, doing little forward bends. He even insisted on helping Dadi carry her prayer plate to the temple room.
One afternoon, he tried climbing the divan by himself. When he reached the top, he shouted, "Look! I did it!"
"You're not even scared of falling," Vandana said.
"I already fell once," he replied softly, almost to himself.
Computer Curiosity
Ajay sometimes brought home sheets filled with holes—early computer punch cards.
"These are like secret messages," he told Bharat. "The machine reads them and thinks."
"Do they remember like I do?" Bharat asked.
Ajay paused. "Not yet. But maybe one day."
"I'll build a machine that doesn't forget."
Ajay smiled. "Maybe you will, beta."
The Neighborhood Hero
People on the street began to greet him like a little prince. The paan-seller waved, the rickshaw driver gave him free rides.
"Bharat babu, what did you learn today?" someone would ask.
Bharat would reply with things like, "Truth is the beginning of wisdom," or "Don't lie, even to yourself."
Even the shopkeepers started calling him panditji (wise one).
Temple Mornings with Dadi
Every Sunday, Bharat went with Dadi to the Hanuman temple near Aminabad. The bells, the chants, the scent of incense—it all felt deeply familiar.
He stood before the idol, folded his hands, and whispered, "Give me your strength, Hanumanji."
One day, the priest placed a marigold in his hand and said, "This boy… he carries something divine."
Nighttime Whispers
At night, lying in his mother's lap, Bharat would stare at the fan slowly spinning.
"I've been given a second chance," he thought. "I can't waste it."
He looked at his family—at their laughter, their care, their flaws—and he loved them with everything in him.
"They are my roots. I must grow from here."
In just one year, Bharat had started to bloom—not just physically, but inwardly. Through laughter and learning, jokes and meditation, fabric textures and temple visits—he was becoming someone special.
Someone who remembered.
Someone who had come back with a purpose.
But even he didn't yet know what that purpose would become.