“The grass is greener on the other side… until you live there.
A quiet exploration of envy, identity, regret, and self-worth.”
In the heart of rural Uttar Pradesh, the village of Birsapur woke each day with the crowing of roosters and the smell of wet earth. Here lived Shivam Yadav, a 26-year-old farmer with soil-streaked hands and a heart full of questions. His days were predictable—ploughing fields, feeding cattle, helping his father, and occasionally sharing silences with Meera, his childhood friend.
But his nights were different. When the village lights dimmed and everyone retreated to their cots, Shivam would scroll through his old smartphone, watching the lives of strangers—glittering skylines, air-conditioned apartments, laughter echoing through coffee shops.
He didn’t resent his roots, but the lure of another life—easier, shinier—gnawed at him. To Shivam, the city wasn’t just a place. It was freedom. It was choice.
One afternoon, during a trip to a nearby town, he noticed a peculiar poster pasted on an electric pole:
"Tired of your life? Live someone else’s—for 30 days. 100% Confidential. No questions asked."
He smirked. A prank, surely. But that night, under the open sky, the idea took root.
What if?
What if it wasn’t a joke?
He dialed the number.
Three days later, Shivam stood in front of a nondescript white building in Lucknow. The receptionist didn’t smile or ask questions. She simply handed him a consent form and said:
"You’ll forget who you are while you live their life. But your heart will remember what it needs to."
Before he could second-guess, he signed.
When he opened his eyes, Shivam was no longer in Birsapur. The sun streamed through glass windows, and he lay on a soft mattress in a modern apartment. His reflection in the mirror showed a neatly-groomed man in tailored clothes. His name, he was told, was Arjun Verma—a 28-year-old executive at a reputed advertising firm.
It felt like a dream. The next few days passed in a daze—meetings, presentations, wine glasses, gym routines. He had a girlfriend—Rhea—who laughed at his jokes and held his arm like she’d always belonged there. People greeted him with respect. His phone buzzed with reminders about brunches and launches.
Shivam adapted quickly, mimicking Arjun’s patterns, smiling where needed, nodding like he understood it all.
Yet beneath the surface, something was off. The silence in the apartment at night felt louder than the chirping crickets back home. Conversations in the city seemed hurried, rehearsed. There was no space for pauses, no room for reflection.
Soon, the cracks widened.
Shivam was reprimanded for missing a project deadline he didn’t know existed. He received curt emails from colleagues who expected Arjun's sharpness, not his quiet confusion. Rhea noticed his distance, his growing hesitation, and began to pull away.
He got stuck in a traffic jam for three hours and missed an important client dinner. That night, alone in the apartment, the city lights outside felt cold and distant. The food delivery was late, the Wi-Fi was down, and the air felt heavy—like the walls were pressing in.
One morning, he witnessed a homeless man being pushed aside by a suited executive outside his office. No one stopped. No one blinked. Shivam stood there, frozen, the city’s indifference wrapping around him like a fog.
One day, after a particularly long board meeting, he visited a temple tucked beneath a flyover. The scent of incense struck something deep within him. He sat on the cold marble floor, tears tracing lines down his cheek.
He missed the smell of wet mud, the slow rhythm of village life, the taste of fresh rotis. He missed Meera’s quiet presence.
Later that evening, rummaging through Arjun’s study, he discovered a letter tucked inside a book:
"If you’re reading this, you’re in my life now. Lucky you. But remember—city lights don’t erase shadows. They just hide them better."
For the first time, Shivam understood. This wasn’t just a swap.
This was a mirror.
When the thirty days ended, he returned to Birsapur. Nothing had changed—the cracked walls of his house, the muddy lanes, the smell of dung and smoke. But everything felt different.
His father, usually stern and stoic, silently handed him a brass glass of water. No questions. Just a look—a mixture of relief and understanding.
Over the next few weeks, Shivam worked harder than ever. But now, his work had meaning. He started selling organic produce online. He convinced the local school to accept e-learning modules. He spent evenings fixing the village library.
One afternoon, he finally told Meera about the swap—not in detail, but enough. She listened quietly, and then said:
"Maybe the city taught you how to value what you already had."
He smiled.
"Maybe it taught me who I really am."
She looked at him for a long moment, then handed him a folded piece of paper. It read:
"You were never made for just cities or villages. You were always made for dreams."
Months later, Shivam received an envelope. No return address. Inside was a photograph—him in his field, laughing, holding a sickle. On the back, a note:
"You looked more alive than I’ve ever felt. Thank you. – A"
He folded the photo gently and placed it in his diary.
That evening, as the sun dipped behind the fields and the sky turned a soft orange, Shivam walked barefoot on his land. The soil felt warm beneath his feet.
People often said, "A farmer’s hands may be rough—but his dreams? Softer than the soil he tills."
Now, Shivam finally understood what that meant.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and whispered to the wind:
"I came back home. And this time, I stayed."
What Would You Do?
If you were given the chance to swap lives with someone—not forever, just for 30 days—Share your thoughts in the comments below!
If you enjoyed this story, share it with fellow lovers and follow for more thrilling tales!
We are regular now! 😉
.jpg)
.jpg)
0 Comments
Feel free to connect!