The Mumbai sky ripped open with a deafening roar, the torrential downpour instantly drenching the bustling city below. Waterlogged streets shimmered under the neon lights of Lower Parel, the reflections of hoardings and headlights dancing chaotically in the puddles, resembling fractured rainbows on a dark canvas. The monsoon had arrived with all its untamed fury, each drop a tiny hammer blow against the pavement.

  The distant hum of honking rickshaws and the hushed murmurs of pedestrians huddled for shelter beneath brightly coloured roadside stalls were drowned out.

  Kunal Shukla barely registered the relentless drumming of the rain against his black leather jacket. The cigarette between his fingers stubbornly burned against the deluge, its cherry a small point of orange defiance in the grey night. Its smoke, a fleeting offering to the storm, curled and vanished into the thick, damp air, carrying with it the scent of tobacco and Kunal's rising anxiety. He took a slow, deliberate drag, the nicotine a momentary anchor in his swirling thoughts.

  He exhaled through his nose as he watched the city move around him—fast, chaotic, relentless, each honk and flash a distorted echo in the downpour. Just like the storm raging within his own mind.

  The events of the past few weeks had left him spiraling into a vortex of disbelief and confusion. The dreams felt like real memories. The fleeting visions sparked with an otherworldly intensity. The unfamiliar language of ancient scripts was decipherable with an unnerving fluency, a knowledge that bypassed years of learning. None of it aligned with the logical, data-driven world he inhabited.

  For years, he had meticulously built a life based on rational thought, priding himself on his analytical skills as a business analyst, dissecting data, predicting market trends with a calculated precision. And yet, here he was, standing on a rain-soaked street in Mumbai, the city lights reflecting in the puddles like scattered stars, questioning the very foundations of his sanity.

  A local train rumbled on the elevated tracks overhead, a metal leviathan groaning through the night. It sent a low tremor through the ground beneath his feet, a vibration that mirrored the unease in his own chest. Kunal flicked the half-smoked cigarette into a puddle, watching with a detached curiosity as the rain instantly extinguished its glowing embers. A final hiss was swallowed by the downpour.

  There was something palpably off tonight, an almost tangible shift in the atmosphere.

  His phone buzzed insistently inside his pocket, a frantic little vibration against his thigh. He pulled it out, shielding the screen with his hand from the relentless rain. Nine missed calls from Abhishek. His best friend since college, his confidante, practically his only real connection in this sprawling, indifferent city. Kunal sighed, the condensation on the screen blurring the numbers, and rubbed his tired forehead before finally pressing the call button.

  "Where the hell are you, bro? I've been calling for an hour! In this bloody weather?" Abhishek's voice crackled through the receiver, punctuated by the static of the storm, barely audible over the roaring rain and the distant screech of train wheels.

  "Just walking. Needed to clear my head," Kunal replied, his voice sounding distant even to his own ears.

  "In this weather? Are you insane? You'll catch your death! Anyway, listen, I was at the chai tapri near Andheri station, trying to avoid getting completely soaked, when I saw something really weird—man, you need to hear this. It's about the stuff you've been seeing, the… the ancient things. I swear—" Abhishek's voice trailed off, replaced by a sudden burst of static.

  Kunal barely registered the rest of what Abhishek was trying to say. A profound shift had occurred in the air around him. The strange, almost electric pulse he had felt earlier intensified, running through his veins like liquid lightning. The cacophony of Mumbai—the screeching trains, the incessant honking of traffic, the relentless drumming of the rain—all seemed to dim for a fleeting second, as if the very symphony of reality had momentarily faltered, a needle skipping on a cosmic record.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Then, through the curtain of rain, he saw them.

  At the far end of the street, standing with an unnerving stillness beneath the weak, flickering glow of a solitary streetlight, were two figures cloaked in shadow.

  The first was that of a man, impossibly gaunt and yet possessing a strange, imposing stillness. His indigo robes flowed around him like liquid night, the deep hood concealing his face in an absolute darkness that seemed to swallow the surrounding light, as if peering into a void. There was a palpable sense of ancient power radiating from him, a silent strength that felt both timeless and formidable.

  But it was the second figure that stole Kunal's breath and sent a shiver of something beyond fear down his spine. A woman. Even through the torrential downpour, an ethereal beauty radiated from her, a perfection that surpassed anything Kunal had ever witnessed. Her long, raven hair streamed down her like dark waterfalls, clinging to a face sculpted with delicate, otherworldly grace. Her eyes, large and luminous, held a depth of ancient knowledge and an unsettling intensity as they locked onto his – they seemed to pierce through the rain, through the night, straight into his very soul. Despite being barefoot on the rain-slicked pavement, she stood with an almost supernatural stillness, the storm seeming to bend around her as if acknowledging her presence. There was an aura of mystical power that emanated from her, a sense that she was not merely human, and a subtle hint of danger that sent a primal warning echoing in Kunal's mind.

  And then… she spoke.

  Not with the physical vibration of vocal cords, but with a voice that resonated directly within the deepest chambers of his mind, a clear, resonant tone that bypassed the din of the city and the frantic rhythm of his own thoughts.

  "It is time to remember, Ku?āla."

  Kunal staggered back as the name struck him with the force of a physical blow, like a lightning bolt searing through his consciousness. Ku?āla. The name that echoed in the cryptic verses of his dreams. The name that flashed across the visions that haunted his waking hours. The name he had consciously tried to dismiss, to rationalize away as a figment of his stressed imagination.

  A blinding, agonizing pain suddenly lanced through his skull, a searing pressure behind his eyes that threatened to shatter his senses. And in that instant, the familiar reality of the Mumbai street seemed to ripple and distort, the edges blurring as the world around him fractured and shifted into something else entirely.

  Flash.

  He stood in a grand, majestic hall. Towering golden pillars stretched towards a seemingly infinite ceiling intricately carved with constellations that glittered with an inner light. Vibrant war banners, emblazoned with powerful and symbolic motifs he somehow instinctively recognized, fluttered gently from the high rafters, catching the ethereal light. The air hummed with a low, resonant energy, a sense of ancient power that resonated deep within his bones.

  Flash.

  He found himself on a vast, blood-soaked battlefield. The earth was churned and scarred, littered with fallen warriors and broken weapons. The air was thick with the coppery, metallic scent of fresh blood and the heart-wrenching cries of dying men. A heavy sword, its hilt intricately engraved with flowing Sanskrit inscriptions that seemed to pulse with a faint light, felt familiar and weighty in his hand. Enemies clad in strange armor surrounded him, their faces grim, their weapons gleaming menacingly under a sky that bled a disturbing shade of blood-red, casting long, distorted shadows across the carnage.

  Flash.

  He knelt within the serene silence of an ancient temple. Massive stone walls were covered in intricate carvings and inscribed with mantras in a script older than recorded time. Their very presence radiated a profound sense of peace and power. Before him stood a figure draped in the same deep indigo robes as the man beneath the Mumbai streetlight, their form radiating an aura of timeless wisdom and immense power.

  The figure speaks, their voice resonating not through the air, but directly into his mind, each word carrying the weight of centuries:

  ?????, ??????? ?????, ??????? ????????????? ???? ???????????? ????????? ???? ?????? ?????? ?????? ???? ???????????

  Ku?āla, A?okasya putra, dharmasya uttarādhikārī. Tva? vi?vāsaghātena nipātita?. Tva? ?ānta? abhavat. Parantu puna? utthāsyasi.

  "Kunala, son of Ashoka, heir to Dharma. You were betrayed. You were silenced. But now… you shall rise again."

  The vivid vision shattered as abruptly as it had begun, and Kunal gasped for air, his lungs burning, his vision swimming as he was thrust back into the cold, harsh reality of the rain-soaked streets of Mumbai. His knees buckled beneath him, unable to support his suddenly weakened frame. He collapsed onto the wet pavement, the cold seeping through his jacket, his heart hammering against his ribs like a frantic bird trapped in a cage.

  The two figures were still there, standing silently at the end of the street, their presence unwavering, unaffected by the storm or his sudden collapse. The woman took a slow, deliberate step forward, her bare feet silent on the wet asphalt, her dark eyes fixed intently on his. Her voice once again echoed inside his skull, clear and commanding despite the raging storm around them.

  "You must come with us. The past is not just a collection of faded memories. It is a tangible path, waiting to be walked once more. And it is time for you to walk it again."

  A soft, ancient chant seemed to hum in the wind that whipped around them, a low, resonant vibration that seemed to emanate from the very stones of the city, carrying with it the weight of forgotten ages:

  ???? ??????? ??????, ?????? ??????? ????? ?????? ??? ????????? ????? — ???? ???? ??????????

  Kāla? krī?ati vi?ve, niyati? tā??ava? na?ati. Atītam api vartamānam asti — yatra tva? punarjāta?.

  "Time plays across the cosmos, and destiny dances its fierce Tandava. The past still breathes within the present — and you, reborn, stand again."

  Kunal's pulse roared in his ears, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden silence of his own thoughts. He wanted to scramble to his feet and run, to deny everything he had just seen and heard, to cling to the comfortable illusion that he was simply exhausted and desperately in need of sleep.

  But a deep, primal instinct within him, a knowing that transcended logic and reason, whispered the undeniable truth.

  The past, in all its forgotten glory and tragic betrayal, was not done with him.

  And neither were they.

  To be continued...