Revised. Ep1
5000 YEARS AGO —
Ancient India, Dwapar-Yuga (Era of Dharma)
In a green and dense forest near the beautiful city of Dwarika, nature bloomed in peace and harmony. The city, forgotten in legend and adorned with ancient marvels, stood proud with its sacred and divine temples and winding streets.
From the coast of the majestic Dwarkadhish Temple to its bustling markets, Dwarika was a place where the past and present walked side by side, creating a timeless land of culture and devotion, a blend between ancient culture, and modern development.
Not far from the city, deep in the forest filled with vibrant flora and roaming wildlife, there lay a sacred grove. And in this enchanted space, the sweet and divine sound of a flute filled the air, touching every creature that heard it.
Nestled near a quiet cliff, tall trees swayed gently, their branches heavy with flowers. The air carried the scent of wild blooms and freshly rain-soaked soil. Animals wandered freely, their calm movements adding to the magic of the place.
High above, on a strong tree branch, Lord Krishna sat peacefully, playing his flute.
Away from his city, but close in their heart. His music was pure and soothing, echoing across the forest and filling every soul with calm.
But not everyone was listening.
A hunter had entered the forest, driven not by wonder but by hunger. Ignoring the beauty around him, he spotted two deer grazing near the trees. Carefully, he aimed his bow and released an arrow. It flew swiftly, cutting through the air in a wide arc.
The deer sensed danger and leapt away, escaping just in time. But the arrow, now off its path, flew downward—towards the cliff where Lord Krishna was sitting.
Krishna, still lost in his melody, sensed the arrow. He did not move. He had fulfilled his purpose in the world. The arrow struck his foot, piercing his toe.
The flute stopped.
The forest fell silent. The light dimmed. A distant thunder rolled through the sky. Time itself seemed to pause.
The flute slipped from Krishna's hand, fell from the tree, and disappeared into the valley below—sinking gently into a flowing river.
Back in Dwarika, the skies turned dark. A mighty wave rose from the sea. Thunder cracked. Fires broke out. People ran in panic as the ground shook. The sea swallowed the land. The great city of Dwarika was washed away, and with it, the final trace of Lord Krishna.
God among men.
The Avatar of Lord Vishnu.
The Preserver.
And after his death, a whole era came to an end.
PRESENT DAY
Mumbai – July 2022
In a wide open ground near the bustling city of Mumbai, a grand celebration was underway. The press was present, covering every moment of the event.
"Good evening, India. I'm Supriya from Sunday Morning Daily, you can add the news, but who cares? And I'm here not just as a reporter, but as a guest at the hundredth anniversary celebration of our very own newspaper—and our main investor, Drishyam Group. It's truly an honour to be a part of this legacy, one built by the late Mr. Ram Charan, a man who inspired us all."
She paused slightly, her tone softening.
"His sudden death a month ago shocked not just the media industry, but the entire nation. Mr. Charan's work changed the very fabric of journalism—not only in India, but globally. After his passing, his only son, Raghav Suryavanshi, took over the reins of Drishyam. And ever since, the company has undergone drastic changes. Some believe this marks the end of an era... Others call it a new beginning."
She continued with a slight edge in her voice.
"Looking at Mr. Raghav's known passion for luxury and his unpredictable management style—he's already changed three assistants in just two weeks—many fear the worst—"
Before she could continue, a man watching her broadcast from the driver's seat of a sleek Jaguar gave a slight grin.
"She talks too much," he muttered.
With that, he revved the engine and sped past every traffic light, waving through the roads until he reached the venue.
After a sharp, controlled stop, the car's door opened. He stepped out—Raghav Suryavanshi—tall, composed, and perfectly groomed in a blue three-piece suit. Camera flashes erupted in all directions as he adjusted his cuffs with practiced ease.
A swarm of reporters rushed toward him.
"Mr. Raghav, what's the big announcement tonight?"
"Sir, is it true you're planning to sell the company?"
"Is Drishyam going international under your leadership?"
He didn't respond. Instead, he walked calmly past them all, heading straight into the restricted party area—where only VIPs were allowed.
Inside, Supriya was still speaking to the camera. Her focus was on her script, so she didn't notice Raghav approaching—until her cameraman gave her a subtle nudge.
She turned.
"Looks like you're talking about me," he said with a faint smile.
Caught off guard, she quickly composed herself. "Ah—Mr. Ragh—"
But he raised a hand casually.
"How's the news channel doing? I heard the share prices dropped recently. What's the number?"
She blinked. "About... 38 points."
"38.7," he corrected smoothly. "And still falling. You knew that, didn't you?"
" How much it'll be in number anyway?" He ponders, gesturing towards her.
"Maybe millions lost," she replied, a bit hesitantly.
"It's less than you think," he said with a quiet chuckle. "But don't worry, everyone gets a bad quarter."
" Especially for a semi-local news channel. And you know! News channel! They usually earn money from bad news and stuff. Or maybe from our resident superhero Krish."
He leaned in slightly, a little tease in the name Krish. just enough to shift the tone.
"Anyway—how do you see yourself fitting into this grand legacy of journalism?" she asked, regaining her footing.
But he cut her off again, and acted like he didn't hear her.
"Your sister. How is she now? I heard she had a stroke this week. You weren't there, were you? The schedule stuff. And I heard you are twins, I always wanted a twin brother." He said the last part to himself, and waited for her reaction.
Supriya's expression stiffened. "She's better now. But that's not really why we're here—"
"Hmm," he said, glancing at her dress. "Why didn't you wear that red one from California? You looked quite good in it."
She blinked again, this time with a mix of irritation and disbelief. "Sir, that's not important. Can we get back to—"
"I also heard about your breakup," he added, tone cool. "That guy... Kri—Krrish, right? He seemed decent. People see him flying."
Her voice grew firm. "Mr. Suryavanshi, please stop commenting on my personal life. That's not why I came here."
His expression changed—calm, serious now.
"Neither did I."
And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving behind a stunned reporter—and a cameraman who struggled to hide his laughter.
Later, he walked toward the podium to announce something. A beautiful lady first stepped up, giving him an introduction, praising his academic achievements before inviting him on stage.
Raghav walked up to the podium, gave her a nod, and said with a polite smile, "Thank you for that flattering introduction."
From the seats below, Supriya watched him carefully.
"My father was a great man — we all know this," Raghav began, voice calm and composed with a little coolness of rebellion. "But many don't know who he was before becoming the man you all remember him to be. And to be honest... even I didn't really know who he was back then."
The audience chuckled lightly.
"But here's something I do know. Something most people overlooked. When my grandfather, the late Keshav Charan Suryavanshi, handed the newspaper over to my father, we were in debt — deep debt. Millions. We were at the lowest point in our history. And in those days, my father made a deal. A bargain, really — one that saved the entire company."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in.
"He bought two run-down factories when no one believed in us. Tripled production. We started printing regional newspapers, in local languages. And as you all know, India doesn't just have a few languages — it has tons of them, and don't forget the dialects. At that time, we became the first paper to sell at just one rupee. That remained the same for twenty two years. When it first came up a dollar was worth six or seven rupees. If you translate that to today's economy, that's sixty to seventy rupees a paper."
He smiled slightly. "But if I try selling a newspaper for seventy rupees today, I'll probably get an extra rupee — for therapy."
The audience laughed.
"I mean, come on — who's going to spend seventy rupees on a piece of paper, right? Everything's on your phone now. We all know I can't sell a paper for that price."
He paused.
"But now... I can."
A silence spread through the hall. Everyone looked up, curious.
"From this moment on," he said, "there will be no Drishyam Newspaper."
Gasps echoed across the room.( cliches)
"And no Sunday Morning Daily News, either," he added. "In fact, I'm shutting down that news channel. Because of her."
He pointed toward Supriya.( again cliches)
The cameras instantly turned to her. She shielded her face in surprise.
"Now, now — wait. Let me finish." He raised a finger, playfully pausing. "Because starting today, we will be... Drishyam News & Paper."
The digital screen behind him changed, revealing a sleek new logo.
"I just added the missing dot in the name."
The crowd erupted in applause.
"People always asked my father why he never appeared on television. He used to say, 'It's not for me.' And you know what? He was damn right. Let the new generation handle it."
He gave one last look at the audience.
"And I'll say this once — I don't like being compared to my father. I couldn't be him. I won't be him."
And with that, he stepped down from the podium.
Down on the floor, his secretary — a pale, sharp-featured woman with glasses — walked up to him in a hurry, clearly agitated.
"That wasn't the speech," she said, her voice low but tense. "You were supposed to talk about the new magazine launch. The news channel project wasn't even approved. What do I tell them now?"
"Listen, Dizzy," Raghav said, climbing into his car.
"It's Daisy," she snapped.
"Okay, Dizaera — whatever," he waved off. "Look, sometimes we just have to do it. No point arguing with old relics about every little thing. It's my business now. If they want their jobs, tell them to adapt."
He rolled the window halfway up, then added, "And if they don't get it... tell them to check Sunday Morning. It'll be twice in two days." And before it can close totally, she added, a little worried.
"This will blow up in your face, you know that?"
"Then I'll sell the smoke." He gave her a wink, then shut the window. The car rolled forward and drove off into the night.
Outside the venue, Supriya was furiously packing her gear. Her movements were sharp and annoying. Her driver, also the cameraman, was helping—but doing a terrible job hiding the smug grin on his face.
"If you don't want to lose some teeth, wipe that stupid smile off," she snapped, slamming a bag into the trunk.
He chuckled but didn't respond, sagely choosing silence. She climbed into the passenger seat and crossed her arms, tapping her fingers against her elbow, seething, trying to calm down. The window was down, and the warm evening air barely cooled her temper.
The cameraman tried to start the car. Nothing. He frowned, twisted the key again. Still dead.
"Seriously?" she muttered.( cliches)
He got out to check under the hood, still half-grinning. That's when a sleek white Jaguar glided up beside them. It came to a smooth stop. The engine purred like it had something to say, but for Surpiya it felt really annoying for someone.
The window rolled down slowly.
Inside, Raghav sat with one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear. His grin was subtle, infuriatingly calm.
"Looks like someone needs a ride?" he said.
Supriya didn't even turn to face him. "I don't need your car to get home, sir."
"Who said anything about cars?" he replied, eyes on the mirror, adjusting it slightly to catch her expression.
She rolled her eyes. "You really think one good speech and a headline move erases everything?"
"I didn't do it to erase anything," he said, unlocking the passenger door with a click. "I did it because I could."
She looked at him for a moment, expression unreadable.
And then the cameraman, standing awkwardly near the hood, cleared his throat. " I… should I call a cab?"
She sighed.
"Move," she said, getting out of her car and walking toward Raghav's.
The world outside was a blur. The wind roared through the open window. Raghav drove like he owned the road, his hand tapping rhythmically on the steering wheel to a beat only he heard.
Next to him, Supriya sat with her legs pulled up slightly, her eyes flicking between him and the road.
" If you don't like me, say it." and looked ahead again.
"You're going to get us killed," she said.
"I haven't died once yet," he replied with a smirk.
There was a pause. Then she laughed, short and sharp, more out of frustration than amusement.
"You're insufferable."
"I get that a lot. Usually followed by a kiss."
He glanced at her. She held his gaze for a second too long.
Then, suddenly, she leaned in and kissed him.
No warning. No hesitation. Just fire.( cliches again)
Sunlight spilled through the windshield, warming the leather seats. Supriya stirred in the backseat of the Jaguar, her head resting against the window. Her dress was neatly folded beside her. A soft throw covered her legs.
She sat up slowly, confused. The surroundings were familiar.
Her building's parking lot.
She glanced around—empty.
Then she spotted a colored envelope resting on the dashboard.
Still groggy, she opened it and read:
---
> "Sorry —had to rush to the office. First day first impressions, you know?
Hope you like the new car — I figured you'd want your own ride after that disaster yesterday.
Take the day off. I've got plans for you later.
Love,
Raghav.
Your loving boss 😘
P.S. It's insured. You're welcome."
Supriya stared at the letter.
Then leaned back in the seat, half-laughing, half-sighing.
"Asshole," she muttered.
But she was smiling.
And with Raghav.
Raghav stepped out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, a silver locket hanging from his neck. His hair still slightly damp from the shower, he walked over to his wardrobe, flipping through rows of expensive clothes. He paused at a sharp blue Peter England suit, picked it out, and dressed himself without overthinking. A final glance in the mirror, a quick adjustment of his collar, and he made his way downstairs.
Drishyam News & Paper — Office, City Center
The moment Raghav entered the building, it was clear the king had arrived.
The receptionist stood up with a bright smile, "Good morning, sir."
Others in the lobby followed with polite greetings. Raghav gave them a brief wave—filled with confidence. Without a word, he stepped into the old, classic elevator. It had round, mechanical buttons, the kind found in old vintage buildings. One of the buttons was missing. He pressed the top floor.
The elevator doors opened to the editorial headquarters, and more staff stood straighter as he walked past. He didn't slow. But one person did keep up with him—his secretary.
She was smartly dressed, clipboard in hand, her heels clacking behind him. "Sir, the board and executives responded positively. Also, CNN has been trying to reach you since last night. I've fixed a meeting with the telecom minister. And the Sunday Morning chief wants to meet you immediately."
Raghav didn't slow, didn't even turn his head. "How are the shares of both firms?" That was his morning greeting.
She matched his pace. "As you predicted—Sunday Morning is up by 56 points. Drishyam rose too, but not as much as expected."
He finally glanced at her. "And our competitors?"
"Newspapers are being…Ahh... diplomatic. Some posted snarky stuff on Insta and Facebook. News outlets are taking it as a warning. KT News and a few others messaged—they're trying to be friendly. They want to talk about the future."
"Good." He adjusted his sleeves. "Announce on our website that we're adding celebrity and premium business magazines. Also, leak something—subtly—that one of our old executives was caught in insider trading and we tried to cover it up."
She stopped. "Sir... that could damage our goodwill."
He turned to her with a faint smile. "Maybe. But it'll help her in the long run. Most won't believe it. And i don't need them to believe. I just need the right people to notice. News isn't just truth. It's a mix bag of lies, rumours, predictions—and timing. If it's all true, it's not news. It's just a statement."
He pushed open the door to his office.
"Sir, one more thing," she said, stopping him just before he closed it. "Your father's lawyer is here again. He says he has some documents."
Raghav's face hardened slightly. "Tell him I'm busy. Like usual. And get me an English coffee."
"Yes, sir," she said softly. But something lingered in her eyes—a pause, a thought—before she turned away.
He shut the door behind him. But when he turned around—he stopped.
A man was already seated at his table.
Through the door came her voice, slightly guilty. "Sir... he was already inside."
Raghav took a breath. Composed himself. Then smiled— a foced one.
"Please," he said, gesturing to the chair across. "Sit."
The old man—graying, dressed in a traditional coat—had already made himself comfortable. His look wasn't angry. It was the look of someone who expected to be ignored.
"Mr. Raghav, I know he wasn't the best father or even a decent friend in that regard," the lawyer said, gently placing an envelope on the desk. "But I have a legal obligation. I could've sent these by mail, but his will specifically said this had to be handed to you—personally."
He laid out more documents—property papers, folders, official seals and stuff.
"There's an ashram in the woods," the old man continued. "Your mother used to run it."
Raghav raised an eyebrow. "My mother had a hermitage?"
"An ashram. And yes. And these"—he slid another folder forward—"are from her will."
Raghav frowned. "She died years ago. If this is from her, why didn't I get it back then?"
"Because your father was the executor of her estate. After her passing, he maintained the ashram per her wishes. And now, as per both their wills, it's been passed to you. It's not a burden—it's simple. The place just needs a monthly allowance, some supplies. Nothing more."
Raghav exhaled, then asked flatly, "So what is this place—some yoga retreat? Religious commune? Sorry if that sounds rude."
"It's neither. I've been there once or twice. It's… a quiet meditation retreat. Not religious, not commercial. But your mother loved it. She spent most of her last days there. That was her sanctuary."
Another folder slid toward him. "What's this now?" Raghav asked.
"A bank statement. Your father's. Just take a look."
Raghav opened it. His brow lifted. "Did God himself stop by for meditation? These zeros looks divine."
The lawyer chuckled. "Let's say the donations have been exceptional. Far more than your mother ever arranged. It grew month by month. I did raise concerns, but… your father shrugged it off."
More papers arrived. "These are your mother's letters. And her last written message for you. She made me promise—don't deliver them until after your father's death. I never understood why. Maybe now I do."
"And this," he added, placing a final envelope on the table, "is your father's last letter to you. His final wish."
The old man stood, offered a handshake, and left quietly.
Raghav didn't even look at his father's letter—he tossed it straight into the trash. He opened his mother's envelope slowly. Inside: blank pages. Page after page, completely empty. He flipped them both sides. Nothing.
He frowned. "What the hell is this?"
He called his secretary immediately. "Get me the number of that lawyer who came earlier."
A moment later, she called back. "Sir, I… I can't find anything. No number."
" Any other details?" He asked, thinking it's a small problem.
" No sir, he didn't left any."
He exploded. "And you let some untraceable stranger waltz into my office?! Are you insane?"
"I-I didn't know, sir. He just… appeared. And he had all the right papers."
Raghav gritted his teeth. Then paused. Breathed in. "Forget it. I'm sorry I yelled."
He glanced again at the documents, scanning until he found the ashram's location.
Then he spoke, calm and cold. "Get me a new Jaguar. " And he looked around.
She hesitated, confused. "And the color, sir?"
He looked up at the woman in a blue dress across the office, his eyes briefly flickering with mischief. "Yes. Blue's preferable."
He hung up without further word.
Moments later, coffee arrived. He took a sip—and gagged.
He buzzed the secretary again. "This is disgusting. What is this?"
"I thought you'd like it," she said softly, eyes downcast.
He glared. "Who are you, my girlfriend?"
She murmured, "No…"
"Then you're fired,"
Later
He was behind the wheel of his brand-new navy-blue Jaguar, speeding along the winding, empty mountain road. The radio was on, playing a news bulletin—Supriya's voice.
"Raghav Suryavanshi—the man, the myth, the market shaker—continues to rattle the city's media landscape…"
Raghav smirked.
"Makes me blush ," he muttered, stepping on the gas. (cliches)
Soon, the tall grass parted, revealing a walled compound with an old, rusted gate. An iron wheel was carved into its center, and the gait looked really heavy, a proper Ashram type vibe.
He opened the heavy gate with difficulty, squeezing himself through a narrow opening—it was more troublesome than he'd like to admit. On the other side, like a ghost, stood a man dressed in all white, with wooden-bead bracelets around his wrists and a matching necklace around his neck. He was staring straight at him.
Raghav dusted off his clothes, trying to return to his composed self, and cleared his throat.
"Hari Om, Mr. Raghav," the man greeted him with folded hands in a calm namaste.
"Ah! Hari Om..." Raghav replied, a little unsure if he got that right.
"We welcome you to the Ashram of Samay. Please change into these." The man handed him a set of blue clothes, neatly folded, with a pair of wooden sandals placed on top like they were precious.
Raghav looked at the outfit, blinking slowly. "Are you serious?" he asked, eyeing the old-fashioned clothes and those tragic-looking sandals. The man didn't flinch or blink—still wearing that serene smile like it was glued on.
"Guess you are..." Raghav murmured under his breath, taking the clothes anyway.
Inside the changing room, he slipped into the crisp kurta and looked down at the wooden sandals with visible suspicion. He hesitated. "You better not give me splinters," he warned them quietly—and put them on.
When he stepped outside, the same man was already waiting, as if he'd just paused his existence while Raghav changed.
"Pithama is currently in deep meditation," the man said with a respectful tone. "You are welcome to look around. I'll be glad to guide you."
"Thanks," Raghav replied, still adjusting to the place.
The man began walking, showing him around the ashram. There were several people, all dressed in white kurtas, moving about calmly like they were in an old documentary about peace.
"Why is everyone in white?" Raghav asked, genuinely curious.
"Kurta," the man corrected gently.
"Right. Kurta. But why white?"
"That's the formal dress here. There's a saying—clothes reflect nature, colors reflect the soul. White means the person has found what they were looking for."
Raghav nodded slowly—half thoughtful, half unconvinced. Just then, a stunning woman passed by wearing a bright yellow kurta.
"And yellow?" he asked, trying not to stare too obviously.
"Yellow means the person is lost and seeking a partner," the man replied, smiling knowingly.
"Interesting." Raghav nodes. "And blue?"
"Playful. Overconfident. Prideful." The man looked directly at him, still smiling.
"Accurate," Raghav said with a mock shrug. "And I'm guessing Badi-Maa chose this for me?"
"She suggested it," the man replied. "But it's not assigned. We wear what fits our... inner alignment."
"Right. Inner alignment," Raghav echoed wearily. "Is this place always this cryptic?"
The man simply smiled again.
"And what exactly is this place?" Raghav finally asked.
"This is an ashram for those who are... searching for their path."
"Then why call it Samay Ashram?" he asked.
"Maybe because even Time needs time," the man said with a smile that made Raghav raise an eyebrow.
Wanting a break from the mystery, Raghav held up his phone. "Can I make a call?"
"You can—if you find a network," the man said, almost cheerfully.
Raghav wandered off toward the outskirts, waving his phone around like a lunatic trying to catch butterflies. No signal. Not even a flicker.
He groaned. "Damn this network."
"You can't curse here, Mr. Raghav," said a voice behind him.
He turned to see the same man, appearing silently like a ghost with good posture.
"Sorry," Raghav muttered. "I was just trying to call my girlfriend. Just to tell her I'll be late."
The man nodded politely. "There's a landline, if it's urgent."
Raghav shrugged. "Nah, not life-or-death. She'll probably assume I'm out drinking."
The man hesitated for a moment, then added, "Pithama sends his apologies. He won't be able to meet you today. But he asked me to give you this."
He handed Raghav a thick, old-looking book. It was bound in leather, but locked shut—and something about it felt... ancient. And for records he doesn't understand ancient.
Raghav examined it closely. There was no obvious keyhole. Just a strange indentation on the cover—and at the corner, a faint engraving of a name.
His mother's name.
He blinked, frowning. Then sat down at a nearby table and stared at the book again. The symbol on it caught his eye—a large chakra etched into the leather.
Slowly, he reached under his shirt and pulled out a pendant. The Sudarshan Chakra. A gift. Or maybe a warning.
He compared it to the mark on the book—it was the exact same.
He hesitated, then placed the pendant onto the book's surface.
Click.
It attached like a magnet—and the book slowly opened, revealing only the first page.
The title was written in an old script, one Raghav couldn't understand. Sanskrit, maybe? He had no idea.
But one word, at the top of the page, stood out in bold stylized letters—almost glowing faintly.
"Maharakshak."
Here's your scene, fixed for grammar, pacing, and smoothness — keeping the tone intact but making it flow better, with a little extra detail and polish at the end so the transition feels sharp, mysterious, and cinematic.
---
He tried opening the book from the middle, but it wouldn't budge.
However, when he flipped it one page at a time, it gave way.
Inside, he found a cluster of names written in Sanskrit, almost like signatures.
He turned another page—more names, all in that same old script.
At first, they were faint and hard to read, but as he stared, they seemed to breathe into clarity, the ink darkening until some stood out plainly. One in particular hit him harder than the rest: his father's name, sitting right at the end of the list.
A flicker of distaste passed over Raghav's face.
The name was the last one… and beside it was an empty space, waiting.
He tried to turn the next page—nothing.
He shook the book. Still nothing.
With a frustrated sigh, he flipped back and stared again at his father's name, then at the empty slot.
"What is this diary?" he muttered, annoyed.
As if answering him, a folded slip of paper slipped free and fluttered to the ground.
He picked it up instantly. The handwriting—delicate but firm—was his mother's.
He read the neat English words:
Write your name on it and follow the instructions. Love, Maa.
He didn't even hesitate. One by one, he flipped the stubborn pages again until he reached the spot and, fishing a pen from his pocket, signed his name in the blank space.
The moment his pen left the paper, a fresh page turned itself. He blinked—physics had apparently taken the day off.
On it, in Hindi, a single instruction: Follow the chakra.
He frowned. What did that even mean?
When he tried to turn the page, it refused.
There was a small chakra symbol on the sheet, pointing upward. He sighed.
"Mother…" he said fondly, a small smile tugging at his lips. Memories of childhood treasure maps flooded back, but he shook them off. Time to focus.
He went to the changing room, swapping his suit for his casual clothes.
While hanging the suit, he noticed the same chakra symbol etched faintly on the wall—this one pointing outside.
That was enough for him. He stepped out, followed the trail of chakras through the building, and soon found himself in his car, driving along a road that led out into a forest.
The trail ended at a cliffside. A single swing hung from an old tree near the edge, its ropes creaking gently in the wind.
The swing had a chakra painted on its seat, pointing straight toward the cliff drop.
Raghav stared at it.
"Damn," he muttered.
Peering over the edge, he shook his head.
"If I go down there, I'm meeting Mom for sure."
A pause.
"Nah… more like Dad."
He kicked a loose stone over the cliff and watched it vanish.
No other path. No hidden trail. Just the cliff.
So, naturally, he sat on the swing.
He started rocking back and forth, then put in his earphones, letting a song drown the silence.
Leaning back, he noticed something carved into the wood.
Two words in Hindi: Trust it.
He ran his fingers over the engraving, reading it again and again.
When he looked up, a plane streaked overhead.
Something shifted in his expression. Determination.
He walked back to his car, buckled in, and stared at the cliff.
"What's wrong in trying?"
He revved the engine. Deep breaths.
The accelerator slammed down, and the car roared forward.
"AHHHHHH!" he yelled as the cliff disappeared beneath him.
Then—blink.
The world was gone.
The roar of the engine was gone.
The car itself, was gone.
Raghav was still strapped into his seat, clutching the steering wheel, with the broken accelerator pedal tangled around his foot. But he was floating in a white room, bathed in a soft golden glow.
Gravity reappeared. He hit the ground with a thud, still in the seat, steering wheel gripped tight like a lifeline.
And in front of him, as if he had always been there, stood an old man.
His robes were pure white and trimmed with gold, his beard long enough to tuck into his belt. His eyes were ancient, calm, and entirely unimpressed.
Raghav was still screaming.
"Can you please be quiet?" the old man said, his voice sharp but measured.
Raghav's mouth snapped shut instantly, though his eyes stayed wide.