Arjun Mehra slouched against a crumbling wall in Chandni Chowk, the heart of Old Delhi, where the air buzzed with chaos. Rickshaws rattled past, their bells clanging like an out-of-tune orchestra. Street vendors hawked samosas and jalebis, their voices blending with the honks of scooters and the chatter of aunties haggling over silk sarees. The scent of masala chai mingled with marigolds from a nearby temple, where devotees chanted mantras under a flickering oil lamp. Arjun's phone vibrated in his pocket—his father, again. He ignored it, kicking a pebble into the gutter. Another lecture about my 'wasted potential,' he thought. As if I asked to be the Mehra family's golden boy.
At twenty-one, Arjun was supposed to be halfway through an engineering degree at a fancy Delhi college, the kind that promised a cushy IT job and a bride from a "good family." Instead, he'd skipped his thermodynamics exam this morning, unable to face another page of equations that felt like chains. His father's words from last night echoed: "You're throwing away your future, Arjun! No son of mine will be a failure." His mother, softer but no less insistent, had added, "Think of your sister's marriage prospects." Arjun snorted at the memory. Great, so I'm failing at thermodynamics and ruining Dipti's life. Perfect.
He wandered deeper into the market, drawn to a golgappa stall where a vendor deftly filled crispy puris with spicy tamarind water. "Bhaiya, ek plate," Arjun said, fishing out a crumpled ten-rupee note. The first bite exploded in his mouth—sour, spicy, perfect. For a moment, he forgot the pressure, the expectations, the gnawing sense that he didn't belong in this script of "study, job, marriage." He'd always loved mythology—tales of Krishna outsmarting demons, Arjuna's bow in the Mahabharata—but those were stories, not reality. "If only I could be a hero," he muttered, half-laughing. "No exams for gods, right?"
A blaring horn snapped him out of his thoughts. He turned, and time slowed. A bus, its headlights glaring like a rakshasa's eyes, careened through the crowded street. Arjun's legs froze. Krishna, if you're listening, this isn't what I meant! The world went black, the taste of tamarind lingering on his tongue.
He expected pain, or nothing. Instead, a soft hum filled his ears, like a sitar raga his grandmother used to play on lazy Sunday afternoons. Arjun's eyes fluttered open, and his breath caught. No Chandni Chowk, no Delhi smog. He lay on a bed of moss, surrounded by towering banyan trees, their roots twisting like serpents frozen in time. Golden light filtered through the canopy, dappling lotus-filled ponds that shimmered with an otherworldly glow. The air smelled of sandalwood and jasmine, and a faint chant—Sanskrit, maybe?—drifted on the breeze. A flicker of movement made him jolt: a creature slithered past, its lower body a serpent's, its upper half human, crowned with a cobra's hood. A naga, straight out of his childhood Amar Chitra Katha comics.
Okay, either I'm dead, or someone spiked my golgappas, Arjun thought, his heart hammering. He pinched his arm—ow, real. His sneakers were gone, replaced by simple cloth sandals, and his jeans and T-shirt had become a loose kurta and dhoti, soft as cotton but embroidered with silver threads that glinted like stars.
"Welcome to Bharatvarsha, Chosen One," a voice boomed, warm yet laced with mischief. Arjun scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over a banyan root. Before him stood a sage, his saffron robes flowing like a river, his white beard cascading to his chest. His eyes twinkled with the kind of knowing amusement Arjun's uncle had when he'd caught him sneaking laddoos as a kid. The sage leaned on a staff carved with Sanskrit runes, its tip glowing faintly.
"Bharatvarsha?" Arjun said, his voice cracking. "Like, ancient India? Am I in a movie set or what?"
The sage chuckled, the sound like temple bells echoing in a quiet dawn. "No movie, boy. You died in your world—a bus, yes? The gods have chosen you for a second life here, in the realm of devas and asuras, to fulfill a destiny tied to your soul."
"Died?" Arjun's stomach lurched. He remembered the bus, the screech of tires, the blinding light. His family's faces flashed—his father's stern frown, his mother's worried eyes, Dipti's teasing grin. "This is insane. I'm no hero. I can't even pass an exam!"
"Heroes are forged, not born," the sage said, his grin widening. "The Vedic System will guide you." He waved his staff, and a translucent screen flickered before Arjun's eyes, glowing with Sanskrit text. It read: Vedic System: Player Arjun Mehra, Level 1, Karma Points: 0. Mantra Unlocked: Prana Spark. A bar labeled "Prana Gauge" sat empty, like a health bar in the video games Arjun used to play during hostel nights.
"System?" Arjun squinted, his Delhi skepticism kicking in. "What is this, Baahubali meets Final Fantasy? You expect me to fight demons with… what, a spark?"
Before the sage could answer, a guttural roar shook the jungle. Trees parted, revealing a hulking figure—a rakshasa, its skin like charred coal, eyes blazing red, claws glinting like the knives in Delhi's back alleys. Arjun's legs turned to jelly. This is not a golgappa stall situation.
"Chant the mantra, boy!" the sage barked, stepping back with infuriating calm. "Focus your prana, or you're dinner."
Arjun's mind blanked. Mantras? He'd only heard them at his cousin's wedding, mumbled by a bored pandit. The rakshasa lunged, its claws slashing the air. "Om… Prana Ignis!" Arjun shouted, mangling the Sanskrit from the system screen. A weak spark flared from his palm, fizzling against the rakshasa's arm. It roared, more annoyed than hurt, and swiped again.
"Pathetic," the sage sighed, tossing Arjun a wooden staff, its surface carved with lotus patterns. "Try harder, or your second life ends here."
Arjun ducked, his heart pounding like a tabla at a qawwali concert. He gripped the staff, sweat slicking his palms, and pictured the golgappa vendor's fiery chutney. "Om Prana Ignis!" he yelled, channeling his panic. A brighter spark shot out, grazing the rakshasa's chest. It stumbled, snarling, but didn't fall.
The sage clapped slowly, his eyes gleaming. "Not bad for a city boy who skips exams. But Bharatvarsha demands more." He pointed to the canopy, where a shadowy figure watched—a man in armor etched with demonic runes, his crimson eyes locking onto Arjun. "The asura prince has marked you. Your destiny begins now."
The system pinged: Karma Points: +10. Quest Unlocked: Survive the Night. The sky darkened, and a distant chant grew louder, like a warning from the gods themselves. Arjun clutched the staff, his Delhi life fading like a dream. What the hell have I gotten into?