CHAPTER 2: The Girl
Dear Diary,
I thought I have finally come to the end.
The struggle of the 1st life, the regrets of my choices will all end. I had longed for this—freedom from the suffering and as the final breath escaped my lips, I felt an eerie sense of peace. The ache that had consumed my body, the heartbreak that had shattered my spirit, the endless wars... it was all over now.
I was free.
Or at least, I should be. For in the moment of my death, I was not greeted by the silence I had expected. Nor was there an empty abyss to swallow me whole.
Death, I had believed, was the end. But it wasn’t. No, it was a transition. A transition beyond the reach of mortal understanding—only visible to those who had crossed the threshold.
I had imagined an eternal night, but instead, I found myself suspended in a strange limbo. A place between realms, between worlds.
Was this peace, or something else entirely?
In that moment, I swear I could hear life still calling out—faint whispers, the rustling of wings, as if birds were beckoning me from afar. But before I could grasp the meaning of it, it all faded like a dream upon waking.
The silence I expected never came.
And just when I thought I had settled into the oblivion that awaited me, I opened my eyes again.
I had not died. Not in the way I thought.
I was somewhere else, somewhere completely new. The pain, the confusion, the fear... all gone. Instead, I was greeted by an unfamiliar sight.
When I blinked, I saw her—a woman’s face. A soft, maternal expression. Kind, warm. But she wasn’t someone I recognized. I was no longer in a place of darkness or cold; no, I was in a room that smelled faintly of lavender. The linens that brushed against my skin were soft, delicate, soothing.
Comfort was overwhelming, yet… something was wrong.
I could feel it.
I was no longer myself.
I was a child—a girl.
And I had no idea why.
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[ French Revolution (1789 - 1799)
French Revolution was caused by deep social inequalities, financial crises, Enlightenment ideas, and the monarchy’s inability to address the people's needs. While it resulted in the downfall of the aristocracy and monarchy, it also created new challenges and power struggles that left both the aristocrats and commoners grappling with a drastically changed society. The Revolution was marked by key events such as the storming of the Bastille, the execution of Louis XVI, and the Reign of Terror, which reshaped not only France but also the political landscape of Europe.
French society was divided into three estates:
* First Estate: The clergy (priests and bishops), who were privileged and exempt from taxes.
* Second Estate: The nobility (aristocrats), who also enjoyed privileges, including exemption from many taxes.
* Third Estate: The commoners, including peasants, workers, and the bourgeoisie (middle class), who were burdened with high taxes and had little political power.
France was deeply in debt, partly due to its involvement in the American Revolutionary War (1775-1783) and extravagant spending by the monarchy, especially under King Louis XVI and Queen Marie Antoinette. The country was bankrupt, and the government could not afford to pay its debts. New ideas about liberty, equality, and democracy from philosophers like John Locke, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, and Voltaire challenged traditional authority and the divine right of kings, inspiring many to call for political reform. A series of bad harvests in the late 1780s led to food shortages, rising bread prices, and widespread hunger, especially among the common people. King Louis XVI was seen as indecisive and ineffective, unable to solve France’s financial crisis or address the growing unrest. As the Revolution radicalized, the monarchy was abolished, and King Louis XVI was tried for treason. He was convicted and executed by guillotine, along with his wife, Queen Marie Antoinette.
Reign of Terror (1793-1794): Led by Maximilien Robespierre and the Committee of Public Safety, revolutionary France went through a period of extreme violence. Thousands of perceived enemies of the Revolution, including nobles and clergy, were executed by guillotine. The Revolution entered a period of paranoia and bloodshed. The French nobility, once powerful and privileged, were severely affected. The abolition of feudal privileges, such as exemption from taxes, reduced their influence. Many aristocrats were executed during the Reign of Terror or fled the country in fear. The monarchy itself was abolished. For the common people, the Revolution initially promised equality, liberty, and fraternity. The abolition of feudalism and the declaration of rights were significant victories. However, the years of violence and instability led to economic hardship and food shortages. The radical phases of the Revolution, including the Reign of Terror, saw many commoners, including peasants and workers, caught in the violence and suspicion. The rise of Napoleon ultimately brought an end to the Revolution's more democratic ideals, as his dictatorship replaced the revolutionary government.
* start: The Revolution began in May 1789 with the convening of the Estates-General and the subsequent formation of the National Assembly by the Third Estate. The storming of the Bastille on July 14, 1789, is often considered the symbolic start of the Revolution.
* End: The Revolution is generally considered to have ended in 1799 with the coup d'état of 18 Brumaire (November 9, 1799), when Napoleon Bonaparte seized power, marking the transition from the revolutionary government to the rise of the Napoleonic Empire. ]
I woke up in a room unlike anything I had ever seen. I was wrapped in warmth—something soft and silken beneath my skin, a bed I could sink into, with linens and quilts of a richness that felt almost unnatural. My fingers brushed against it, and I felt the delicate embroidery, traced with tiny flowers that seemed impossibly intricate. The walls were adorned with golden-framed portraits, showing stern faces, their eyes watching me, as if warning me. The room smelled of fresh flowers, incense, and lavender and was filled with a hazy morning light, filtering through heavy, pale curtains. A tall, gilded mirror in the corner caught my reflection—a small, pale figure with wide, confused eyes staring back. I froze, a strange dread gripping my heart.
I was looking at myself, but this self wasn’t me.
It felt impossible to process. Only moments ago—or so it seemed—I had been in Bengal, in a village swallowed by dust and famine. I remembered the endless hunger, the silence that followed the dead, the faces of people I had loved and lost. My mother, my father…Anjali whom I had dared to love. I had thought I would live for her, but death had come quickly, stealing what I had just found.
And now…this? A child? A girl? Was I dreaming?
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I tried to speak, to make sense of it, but only the faltering babble of a child’s voice came out. I could see my own small hands, chubby and unfamiliar, reaching toward the lace that hung from the crib. How could this be real? How could I, a man who died be here?
The door creaked open, and a woman stepped in, her dress flowing around her like water. She stood over me, her face soft and warm. She had kind, brown eyes and golden hair that seemed to shimmer in the light. Her smile was tender as she cradled me in her arms. Perhaps she was my mother, but I could not understand how.
"My dear Juliette" she whispered.
She called me her precious child, her sweet little Juliette, and in her face, I saw a kind of love that was the only thing familiar to me. Her touch was gentle as she smoothed my hair, her fingers as soft as the silk I lay on. Her touch was soft, careful, the pride and possessiveness in her eyes plain as she looked upon her daughter. But I was no one’s daughter—not hers, not like this.
How could this be? What had happened? Was I dreaming? Was I dead? The question lingered in my mind, but the confusion was too overwhelming to comprehend. I had to hold on to something, anything, that could explain this.
But nothing made sense.
It was a cruel joke.
She was my mother now, but she did not know me. The child she cradled was a stranger, and the woman before me—a stranger as well, with her powdered face and the faint scent of perfume, delicate as petals—felt worlds apart from the mother I remembered in Bengal. The dissonance of it gnawed at me, and a question reverberated through my mind: Why am I here?
I spent the following days in a haze. I couldn’t understand where I was, or why I was here. My senses were overwhelmed by the unfamiliarity of everything around me. The room I woke in was like something out of a dream—gold-framed mirrors, plush armchairs, rich carpets beneath my feet. My skin felt smooth, as though I had been born into a life of luxury. Everything around me screamed wealth and privilege, things I had never known. I was pampered and coddled by women who dressed in fine silks and frills, their voices a soft murmur of affection and care. They fussed over me, smoothing my hair, adjusting my small clothes, whispering endearments I did not yet understand.
They called me “Mademoiselle de Beaumont”. It felt strange. A new name, a new face, new surroundings and new parents.
In my last memory, I was dying—starved, broken, lost under the endless hunger of famine back in Bengal. I could still feel the ghost of it in me, the ache of hunger, the scratch of dirt against my skin, the whispered voices of those I’d loved. I’d lived a lifetime of hardship, surrounded by loss, death, and desperation. But here, in this strange, beautiful world, I was someone new. I was no longer me. I was… Juliette Beaumont.
They told me I was two years old, the cherished daughter of an aristocratic family, wealthy beyond measure. Everything about me was different. Where once I had known only loss, now I was surrounded by opulence. Food, clothes, love—I had it all, yet it seemed strange to me. I would sit alone, watching the servants scurry around, listening to their laughter and watch the servants bringing delicate platters of food to the table, while memories of rice—scarcely enough to feed a family, each grain precious—would come flooding back. But each time I reminded myself that I was someone else—a girl, no more than two, in a lavish French estate. And though I couldn't comprehend how or why, I knew this was my reality.
Year 1973
One year has passed and now I am 3 years old. I can walk and even speak. My body grew and changed, even though the memories of Arjun remained within me.
I began to learn the language, watching and mimicking, my mind somehow absorbing words foreign to my past. I became “Juliette Beaumont” in name and appearance, a child cherished and groomed for a life I did not quiet understand.
In this new life, I learned to appreciate details. The drapes of my new room were a lush blue brocade, delicately woven with silver thread that glistened in the morning sun. Paintings of idyllic landscapes adorned the walls, each brushstroke capturing the beauty of some faraway land. The estate itself was like something out of a dream, a palace of marble and crystal, with sprawling gardens and ornate hallways that stretched endlessly. Each room was decorated with an elegance that spoke of immense wealth—velvet curtains, intricate tapestries, chandeliers that glittered like constellations.
The household had servants—many of them. The maids scurried about, tending to our every need, while the butlers took care of matters I could not even begin to comprehend. I was kept in finery beyond anything I had dreamed. A young maid named Elodie would often murmur little stories as she dressed me, tales of the world outside these walls, a world I knew little of.
The life of nobility, I soon learned, was one of both privilege and ritual. In the opulent halls of our château, I was dressed in fine fabrics, taught to bow, curtsy, and walk with my head high as if the world below me were meant to be admired from above. Even at four, my days were filled with etiquette lessons, tutors, and the care of servants who tended to my every need. I was the picture of refinement, growing into a life of grand portraits and glittering chandeliers, where voices spoke softly and luxuries were endless.
My new mother, Madame de Beaumont, was both kind and distant. She was a woman whose face seemed to have been sculpted from porcelain, dressed me in fine gowns and made me sit quietly at social gatherings. I was the perfect little aristocrat, the perfect daughter, the perfect image of what this world expected me to be. She adored me with the same attention she gave to her silk dresses and pearls, admiring me like a doll crafted to her liking. My father’s presence was rare, and when he did appear, his glances felt more like appraisals, his gaze studying me with a coldness that unnerved me.
I was the product of wealth and power—of the very class that had allowed the East India Company to rob us, the people, of everything.
I had become accustomed to my place within it.
But my memories clung to me like shadows, reminding me of the life I had lost, the suffering I had known. I remembered the smell of the rice fields, the warmth of Anjali’s hand in mine, the dust of our village roads. I remembered the faces of those who had not lived to see another day, and with every bite of food, every extravagant meal, I felt their absence, a guilt that only grew heavier.
I was three years old when I first heard the word “revolution.”
I heard the murmurings beyond our doors, whispers of unrest and revolution that found their way even into our sheltered lives. From my bedroom window, I watched the gardens below, where the servants moved quietly, almost furtively, keeping their heads low. And when their voices rose in soft, hurried conversations, I caught words that sent a chill through me: liberty, justice, the people. These were words that felt powerful, almost forbidden. Words that had a meaning I couldn’t fully understand yet but felt connected to deep within me.
As Juliette, I had been born into a life where we were shielded from the struggles of the world outside. But within, I carried the memories of Arjun—a man who knew all too well the suffering, the hunger, the relentless work that those very servants endured. They would leave the château every night, returning to families in villages where people spoke of bread shortages, taxes, and fear of what the coming months would bring. While I wore silks, they labored in rough-spun wool. While I feasted, they scraped by on what little food was left after our meals.
In the evenings, my father would gather his friends in the drawing room, and their voices would filter through the walls, with both anger and arrogance.
"The rabble in Paris thinks it can defy the natural order?" one of them sneered one evening. "They demand bread as if they are entitled to it! It’s as if they believe they are the equals of nobles."
Laughter echoed, harsh and dismissive, and I felt a strange discomfort settle over me.
My mother, a woman of delicate beauty and rigid poise, would often shush me when I asked questions. She would kneel before me, smoothing down the ruffles of my dress, her touch gentle but her voice firm. "Juliette, these matters are not for children," she would say, her eyes serious. "Our duty is to uphold our family name, to remember who we are. We are noble blood, untouched by the whims of the common folk."
I felt the anger building inside me, a feeling I could not shake. But I also knew that I could never speak of it. Not as I was now.
The luxury around me felt almost grotesque, a mockery of everything I had once known. I could not ignore the ghost of my past life, the memory of empty stomachs and dirt floors, the ache of hunger that gnawed at you until you forgot what fullness felt like. I would sit at the dining table, watching plates heaped with food—glazed meats, honeyed fruits, pastries drizzled in cream. And I would feel a tightness in my throat, knowing that such abundance could exist while others starved.
This life, this beauty, this luxury, was nothing more than a cage. A gilded cage. And I was the bird trapped inside it, unable to fly, unable to break free.
The things I had craved in my past life no longer held the sweetness I’d imagined.
In my past life, I’d once thought that wealth was the answer to all problems, that it would wash away suffering like rain cleanses dirt. I had believed that if I could just escape the famine, if I could have enough, I would finally feel peace.
But here I was, surrounded by more than I could ever need, and yet my heart felt no lighter. The world outside our estate had begun to shift; rumors of unrest seeped in through the servants’ whispers, through the tense exchanges between my mother and father.
Outside the estate, the world was shifting. Rumors of unrest filtered in through the whispers of the servants, through the hushed conversations between my mother and father. They were afraid—afraid of what was coming. I had heard the stories from the servants, from the workers who toiled under the sun, of the suffering they had endured at the hands of the aristocracy. They spoke of injustice, of the people starving while the rich grew fat.
And somewhere deep inside, I knew they were right.
To be continued...