Meera finally realized the unthinkable: she was no longer in her own time. Somehow, impossibly, she had slipped into the past. At first her mind refused to believe it. She tried to reason, tried to wake herself up from what felt like a nightmare, but the reality pressed in too strongly. The air, the sounds, the clothes around her—it was all real.
She should have been terrified, but in truth, she had no family to return to anymore. Ravi, the one person she had cared for over the last ten years, was gone. In this strange world, at least, she was alive—and safe from the killer who had chased her. For now, that was enough.
"I'll stay here… I can manage," she whispered to herself, thinking hard. "If I act as a doctor, it'll be easy enough. People will believe me."
She wasn't a real doctor, but after years of caring for Ravi, she had learned enough about medicine and remedies to pass as one. That would give her a place in this village, perhaps even protection.
Resolving this, Meera rose from the bed in the guest room and stepped outside. Voices drifted toward her, growing louder. She froze and then noticed Champa sweeping the courtyard.
"Why is there so much noise, auntie?" Meera asked softly.
Champa looked up, frowning slightly. "I don't know. Your uncle has gone to find out. Don't trouble yourself—are you feeling better now?"
"I'm fine," Meera said, bending down instinctively to help her with the cleaning.
"Stop, you are our guest, beta," Champa tried to protest.
But Meera kept sweeping stubbornly. "You are like my mother… so that means I can help you."
Champa's eyes softened, though she said nothing more.
---
Elsewhere, Sanam still stood before the horrific statue. His heart pounded—not with fear, but with the careful calculation of a man desperate to hide. If the British officials noticed him lingering, questions would be asked. He didn't belong here, and suspicion was the last thing he could afford. Slowly, he stepped back into the crowd, blending in, listening.
Whispers reached him. Villagers muttered that just a day ago, in another village, another body had been discovered—at first thought to be a statue, until the mixture hardened around the corpse began to crack. Now, again, here in Brajnager, another victim.
Sanam's jaw tightened. The killings were accelerating. This wasn't random. This was deliberate.
He thought back to the last two days. Somehow, he had managed to survive here, pretending to be a student studying the village for a project. An old teacher had given him a place to stay, but it was fragile cover. People already eyed him with curiosity. Still, none of that mattered now. He had finally found what he had been searching for.
But catching the killer here, in 1872, was a nightmare. No forensics, no technology. Only his own mind.
His eyes flicked to the body again. The mixture hadn't worn off yet, and the British officials were circling, baffled. But Sanam knew this pattern. He had studied it in his own time—two cases from 2022 with the same uncoupled infinity symbol burned into the victims, their corpses hardened into statues with animal glue and ash. One had died of poison, another from heart failure, yet the presentation was identical.
The killer left nothing behind. No trace.
"How did he die?" Sanam muttered, tilting his head like a puzzled child, studying every detail.
Around him, villagers whispered fearful theories—some blamed spirits, others called it the work of demons. A word passed from mouth to mouth until it grew into one name: Sinner. That was what they would call the killer now.
---
Not far away, Ram stared at the statue from a distance, numb with shock. Recognition crashed into him—the victim was none other than the landlord, the husband of his younger daughter Meera. His heart sank. Without a word, he turned and rushed toward her in-laws' home to bring her back.
Back at Ram's house, Meera had gone with Champa to gather wood from the jungle. The air there felt strangely familiar. She paused at a high point and looked down. The ruin Ravi Singh had once shown her was gone. No road, no crumbling stone. Only lush forest and, beyond it, the breathtaking view of Brajnager.
The village was like a painting. Two sides hemmed in by jungle, the other two stretched into vast fertile farmland. Nearly two hundred houses stood clustered together, old but strong. In the center, a post office buzzed with activity; to the west, a massive British building loomed. A great temple rose proudly, while the river curled through the northern edge of the settlement.
It was beautiful—more alive than the modern villages she knew.
Champa returned with the firewood. "Let's go back," she said, and Meera followed silently, oddly comforted by the older woman's presence.
---
When they returned, the house was in chaos. The old woman was shouting, Champa clutching a sobbing girl tightly. Ram sat on the ground, silent tears streaming down his face. His sister-in-law rushed in, confused, just as Meera entered.
Slowly, Meera understood. The girl crying in Champa's arms was Ram's younger daughter, also named Meera. Seventeen years old, beautiful, her big eyes swollen from tears.
"Someone killed our son-in-law," Ram whispered brokenly.
"Why wouldn't he die? Both of your girls are witches!" the old woman spat bitterly.
The cruelty of the words hit Meera like a slap.
Ram finally gathered himself and spoke firmly. "Stop crying. Get up. Make this last day with our daughter worthy."
At those words, Meera froze. Last day?
Ram's wife gently wiped her daughter's tears with her pallu, murmuring softly. The younger Meera lifted her tear-streaked face, looking fragile as a fallen angel.
"What do you mean by her last day?" the elder Meera asked, unable to hold back.
The girl's aunt laughed harshly. "Don't you know? A wife must burn with her husband after his death. She will be sent to the pyre with his body."
Satī.
The word ripped through Meera's mind, and blurred memories surged—women screaming, dragged toward burning bodies, smoke choking the air. She staggered, clutching her head, sliding to the floor, trying to block it out.
The younger Meera knelt beside her, calming her gently. When their eyes met, the elder Meera felt her breath catch. The girl's face, her eyes, her hair—it was like staring into her own reflection from years ago.
Seventeen and twenty-eight. The same name. in that moment, it felt as if she was looking into her past.