Chapter 1: Orders and Rebellion

The ceiling fan whirred overhead, stirring the scent of old files and cardamom tea. The late afternoon sun poured in through the stained glass of my office, painting shifting patterns over the government order in my trembling hand. The words echoed, heavy as monsoon clouds about to burst: General saab, surely you won't let harm come to the one you love?

That was the essence of the government order I received.

I could almost hear the rustle of crisp paper as I unfolded the missive, the hush of servants outside the door, waiting to see if I would fly into a rage or sink into despair. In this world, the Prime Minister's word was law, and even whispers from Delhi seemed to travel faster than the wind that whistled through the cold northern plains.

The Prime Minister, Rajeev, had ordered that my beloved, Ananya, be brought to Delhi, using her life as leverage to force me into surrendering my military command.

It was a move straight out of those political dramas that the elders watched every Sunday on Doordarshan, as if the world was nothing but endless plotting and heartache. Rajeev, with his designer kurta and gold pen, thought he could manipulate hearts like pieces on a chessboard. He probably sips his chai with his pinky raised, thinking he's the next Nehru.

According to the original plot of the novel, as the Commander of the Northern Frontier commanding a million-strong force, I was supposed to obediently hand over my troops and return to Delhi to await the PM’s verdict.

They wanted me to behave like a good little officer, head bowed, medals clinking, ready to accept whatever humiliation Delhi had in store. The script demanded I put love before duty. Accha, as if life were so simple.

Only then could the melodramatic, heart-wrenching love story truly begin.

I could almost hear the background music swell: a single flute, a woman’s voice soaring in lament, as if Ananya and I were fated to be tragic lovers doomed by politics.

But…

I have transmigrated. The soul inside the Commander of the Northern Frontier is no longer the original one.

This heart beats with new memories, fresh resolve. In my last life, maybe I was just another face in the crowd, lost amid the horns and dust of a Delhi lane. But now, this body is power, and these hands command fate.

Before transmigrating, I had to return to Delhi and await punishment. After transmigrating, I still have to return and await punishment. Wouldn’t that make this transmigration completely pointless?

What was the point of crossing lifetimes, being blessed by some cosmic power, only to end up as another pawn for Delhi's netas? No, boss, if I’m to live again, I’ll write my own story.

I remembered my father’s words: 'Beta, never bow to Delhi netas. Hold your head high, always.' The old man’s voice rang in my ears, sharp as the edge of his shaving razor.

I sneered and tore the government order to shreds.

The pieces fluttered to the carpet like confetti at a wedding—ironic, given what they threatened. I let them lie there, a silent rebellion. Outside, a lone koel called, as if approving my defiance.

“Rajeevji is really clueless. Knowing full well that Ananya is my beloved, he still dares to bring her into his circle.”

My words hung in the air, bitter as neem. In this part of the world, you didn’t touch a man’s izzat or his love lightly. Did Rajeev think Delhi’s marble corridors would protect him from consequences?

“This must be the work of sycophants misleading Rajeevji. Pass down my order: assemble the troops, march through the border, cleanse the PM’s office, and expose the traitors!”

I slammed my palm on the desk, making my tea cup rattle. The order was clear. My voice, which once only echoed in empty barracks, now carried the weight of history. My men would not falter.

But in this world, loyalty was as fragile as a diya in the wind.