The skies over Mumbai cracked open with a deafening roar, sending a torrential downpour onto 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. The monsoon had arrived with all its fury, drowning out the distant hum of honking rickshaws and the murmurs of pedestrians seeking shelter beneath roadside stalls.
Kunal Shukla barely noticed the rain hammering against his black leather jacket. The cigarette between his fingers burned dimly against the downpour, its smoke curling and vanishing into the damp night air. He took a slow drag, exhaling through his nose as he watched the city move around him—fast, chaotic, relentless. Just like his thoughts.
The events of the past few weeks had left him spiraling. The dreams, the visions, the unfamiliar language that he could read fluently without ever learning it—none of it made sense. He had spent years priding himself on his logical mind, analyzing data, predicting trends. And yet, here he was, standing in the rain, questioning his own sanity.
A train rumbled on the tracks above, sending a tremor through the ground. Kunal flicked the half-smoked cigarette onto the street, watching as the rain smothered its embers. There was something off tonight.
His phone buzzed inside his pocket. He pulled it out, shielding the screen from the rain. 9 missed calls from Abhishek. His best friend. His only friend in this city. Kunal sighed, rubbing his forehead before pressing the call button.
"Where the hell are you, bro? I've been calling for an hour!" Abhishek's voice crackled through the receiver, barely audible over the rain.
"Just taking a walk. Needed some air."
"In this weather? Are you insane? Anyway, listen, I was at the chai tapri near Andheri station when I saw something weird—man, you need to hear this. It's about the stuff you've been seeing. I swear—"
Kunal barely heard the rest of what Abhishek was saying. Something had changed in the air. A strange, almost electric pulse ran through him. The sounds of Mumbai—the trains, the traffic, the rain—all seemed to dim for a brief second, as if reality itself had hiccupped.
Then, he saw them.
At the far end of the street, standing beneath the dim glow of a flickering streetlight, were two figures in robes.
Kunal's breath caught in his throat.
The first was a man, his face hidden beneath a heavy hood, his hands clasped in front of him like a monk in prayer. But it was the second figure that sent a chill down Kunal's spine.
A woman, her long wet hair plastered to her face, her dark eyes locked onto his. She was barefoot on the rain-slick pavement, yet she stood still, unaffected by the storm.
And then… she spoke.
Not with words, but directly into his mind.
"It is time to remember, Kunala."
Kunal staggered back as the name struck him like a lightning bolt. Kunala. The name from his dreams. The name from his visions. The name he had tried so hard to ignore.
A blinding pain shot through his skull, and in an instant, the world around him shifted.
---
Flash.
A grand hall, its golden pillars stretching towards a ceiling carved with constellations. War banners fluttered from the rafters, bearing symbols he somehow recognized.
Flash.
A battlefield, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood and the cries of dying men. A sword in his hand, its hilt engraved with Sanskrit inscriptions. Enemies surrounded him, their weapons gleaming under a blood-red sky.
Flash.
A temple, its walls inscribed with mantras older than time. A figure stood before him, draped in the same robes as the man beneath the streetlight.
"Kunala, son of Ashoka, heir to the Dharma. You were betrayed. You were silenced. But now… you will rise again."
---
The vision shattered, and Kunal found himself gasping for air, back in the rain-soaked streets of Mumbai. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the pavement, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The two figures were still there, their presence unwavering. The woman took a slow step forward, her voice once again echoing inside his skull.
"You must come with us. The past is not just a memory. It is a path. And it is time for you to walk it again."
Kunal's pulse roared in his ears. He wanted to run, to deny everything, to believe that he was simply exhausted and sleep-deprived. But something deep within him knew the truth.
The past was not done with him.
And neither were they.