I blinked.
The ceiling wasn't my peeling, water-stained Mumbai ceiling. It was carved wood with gold inlay and massive hanging chandeliers that looked like they belonged in a museum—not the two-room-kitchen apartment I shared with my twelve-year-old brother, Ayaan.
The digital clock in my head was still ticking. 12:01 AM. History didn't reset. I didn't vanish. I was still here.
"Okay. Theek hai, Tara, saans le, breathe," I muttered, sitting up on the massive bed. Silk sheets. Heavy embroidery. My head was spinning like a top.
Then I looked down at myself. Dark maroon lehenga. Silver jewelry that could easily pay Ayaan's school fees for a whole year. And a literal dagger lying on the floor next to the bed like it was standard room decor.
"Abe ye kya ho raha hai?" I said out loud, my voice echoing off the massive walls. "Koi natak-watak chal raha hai kya? Hidden camera? Prank show?"
No cameras. Just flickering lanterns, freezing cold air, and a strange smell of metallic iron I couldn't explain.
I stood up. My legs wobbled instantly. The lehenga was so heavy I almost face-planted right onto the marble. Balancing myself, I stumbled toward a huge mirror on the wall, framed in gold and black stone.
I looked into it. And froze solid.
The girl in the mirror wasn't me. Same eyes, same structural face, but with a sharper jawline, paler skin, and long black hair braided all the way down to her waist. A black dupatta was pinned perfectly over her shoulder. And resting right on her neck was my modern crescent moon pendant.
"What the fuck!" I yelled, grabbing the long hair. "Ye kya pehna hai maine? Ye kya chal raha hai?"
It wasn't my short bob haircut. I pinched my arm hard. It stung.
"Not a dream. Not a concussion. Great," I muttered, gritting my teeth.
Right then, the heavy wooden door creaked open.
A young girl, around seventeen, entered the room. She wore a simple cotton anarkali with a dupatta over her head, carrying a silver tray with water and rose petals. She looked exactly like a palace maid. The moment she saw me standing in front of the mirror, lehenga half-tangled, aggressively yelling at my own reflection, her eyes went wide with pure terror.
She looked at me, her hands trembling.
"Bibi jaan? Aap... aap theek hain?"
(My lady? Are... are you alright?)
I turned to her slowly, my hands on my hips. "Bibi jaan?"
She nodded, completely terrified, lowering her head.
"Ji... Sitara bibi."
(Yes... Lady Sitara.)
I stared at her. Then I looked at the tray. Then back at the upgraded version of me in the mirror. I let out a very loud, highly dramatic sigh.
"Okay, listen. Pehli baat—mujhe bibi jaan mat bolo. Mera naam Tara hai. Aur dusri baat... ye sab kya hai?" I gestured wildly to the heavy dress and the ancient palace walls. "Puraane zamaane ka setup hai kya? Ye koi low-budget theme party chal rahi hai?"
The maid blinked, her jaw dropping slightly.
"Maaf kijiye... aapko bukhar hai kya? Aap aise baat kabhi nahi kartin."
(Forgive me... do you have a fever? You never talk like this.)
"Exactly my point, babe! Because I am not her. Mera naam Tara hai. Main 2026 se hoon. Mumbai. Ek truck ne thok diya aur... you know what, leave it, nevermind."
The girl just stared at me as if I had grown a second head. She stepped back and whispered in a trembling voice:
"Kya aap... bhoot ban gayin?"
(Have you... become a ghost?)
I almost burst out laughing. "I wish, yaar! Bhoot ko toh kam se kam weekend par chutti milti hai."
Her face turned completely pale, and she looked like she might faint right onto the floor.
"Maazrat bibi jaan, par aap aesi guftugu kabhi nahi kartin... Kya mai hakeem ko bulao? Vo..."
(Forgive me my lady, but you never converse like this... Should I call the royal physician? He...)
"Mujhe koi hakeem-wakeem nahi chahiye," I cut her off, though my voice softened a bit when I saw how genuinely scared she was. "Main bas wapas jaana chahti hoon. Par is ajeeb tareeke se nahi."
The maid shifted on her feet, terrified but extremely curious.
"Ayaan? Kaun Ayaan?"
(Ayaan? Who is Ayaan?)
"Mera bhai. Baarah saal ka hai woh. Aur agar main yahan is fancy costume mein phasi rahi, toh subah uska school ka lunch box kaun banayega, haan?" I ran a hand through the ridiculously long hair, highly frustrated. "Chal, pehle ye bata—ye jagah kaunsi hai? Saal kaunsa chal raha hai? Aur main kaun hoon?"
The maid swallowed hard, looking at me with wide eyes.
"Hijri 1036, Rathore Rajya mughal riyasat. Aur aap Sitara Shahnawaz Shenshah hain. Aap mughal riyasat ki shezaadi hain."
(The year is 1036 Hijri, the Rathore Kingdom of the Mughal territory. And you are Sitara Shahnawaz Shenshah. You are the princess of the Mughal realm.)
My jaw dropped. I snatched the glass of water from her shaking tray and drank the whole thing in one giant gulp.
Not a dream. Not a concussion. Brilliant, I thought. I am dead in 2026, and somehow I’ve been reincarnated as a historical royal villain with a worse attitude and much heavier fashion sense than me.
I looked at the mirror one last time. At the stunning, upgraded face of Sitara, and at my modern crescent moon pendant.
"Cool," I muttered, a sarcastic smile spreading across my lips. Let the historical drama begin.
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