I recognized the family from the pictures I was given. Ravi’s mother was a chubby woman, with round cheeks and a long, dark braid. She wore black kohl around her eyes and a large bindi on the center of her forehead. As she came forward, she wiped her tears on the edges of her dupatta and pulled me in for an embrace.

Papa stood a few feet away, stoic but with eyes shiny with tears. Ravi’s younger sister sat in the sofa in the room, on her phone.

“How are you feeling?” Ma asked. I could understand the musical language she spoke without even thinking.

“I’m feeling good,” I answered.

“Yes, Dr. Rossi told us,” she said. “I brought food. You must be sick of the hospital food.”

She took out tupperware containers from her bag. As she snapped one of the lids open, the first of Ravi’s memories hit.

Ma sat at the kitchen table, dressed in a golden yellow salwar kameez. She smiled as she placed a plate of poha in front of him.

“Did you have fun at school today?” she asked.

Ravi started talking about his day, munching on poha. A song played in the background, from an old stereo system. Kishore Kumar belted out a love song, and his mother hummed along.

His legs were too short to reach the floor, so he swung them in tune to the song.

It was a pleasant memory. The warmth of a kitchen with a doting mother. It was love of a simplicity I wasn’t used to. The colorful food in front of me was suddenly familiar. The rotis she made with the same rolling pin that she brought from India. The saag and aloo gobi that were Ravi’s favorites.

I missed something I’d never had, and dug in immediately. Each bite was a memory.

“You’ve gotten too skinny,” she said, running a hand over my head. “I brought snacks. Share with your friends, but not too much.”

She’d said the same thing when dropping Ravi off at his college dorms, and I smiled. The memories were trickling in, just as Dr. Rossi said. I could see Ravi as a child, playing badminton with Papa in their backyard. There were summer evenings spent on bicycles and vacations to a grandparents’ house in India. He was a luckier person than I was, in a way. Instead of spending sixty years in misery as I had, he’s spent twenty-five in happiness.

“I won’t,” I promised her.

“Is there anything you want to eat tomorrow?” Ma asked. “We’re staying at Laila auntie’s house, so I can make you food for the next few days.”

“What about work?” I asked.

“Papa’s taken a few days off,” she said. “And Varsha can miss a few days of school.”

“I can’t leave the institute,” I told them.

Ma held up her hands. “That’s why I came prepared.”

“She brought Monopoly,” Varsha said from the corner of the room. “And Scrabble.”

I gulped. While Ravi and his sister played normally, their parents were mercenary when it came to winning. Until the game ended or all but one player dropped out, the little plastic pieces were as good as real.

“I thought I needed to rest,” I said weakly.

“Papa will go easy on you,” Ma promised. Meaning she wouldn’t.

I leaned back onto the bed while Varsha took a picture of us.

“When are you gonna be discharged?” she asked.

“It’s gonna be a while, I think. I can only barely walk to the park from here.”

“Cool,” she said, looking back at her phone. It was more than Ravi could expect from his sister. She’d passed the phase of being her older brother’s most sincere fan, and was compensating for her years of hero worship by feigning absolute disinterest.

“Can I go see the park?” she asked. Ma waved her off, and she walked out the door with her phone in hand.

“She’s always on her phone these days,” Ma complained.

For a second I paused. I’d taken in a lot about the way the world worked now since I woke up, but some things reminded me all of a sudden of when I was from. I was in Ravi’s body, but I was not truly him. I came from a world where a person could die of a common cold, and I was now living in a world where people carried out all the information in the world in their pockets. They flew through the air and sought to conquer the heavens. Ravi’s body had keep alive with machines and medicine until I woke up.

Before, I would’ve said that only God was capable of creating miracles, but men of this time seemed to be on the path of outdoing their creator.

“Ma,” I said. “Do you think I could have aloo paratha tomorrow?”

“For luck?” she asked, her gold earrings catching the light as she laughed. “Of course.”

It was covetous to want something not rightfully mine, but it was a temptation I couldn’t resist. In my old life, Ma was young enough to be my daughter, but in this one she was my mother. I was falling in love with a family who thought I was their son.

“Dr. Rossi says I might not be the same even after I recover,” I said gingerly.

“That doesn’t matter,” Pa responded. “All that matters is that we’re all together.”

I looked at him, the memories of Ravi’s childhood coursing through me. Papa walking in far after sunset, tired from a long day at work. Papa, riding a roller-coaster with him so he wouldn’t have to ride it alone.

It was a temptation that was futile to fight against. So I gave in.