The morning sun streamed faintly through the half-drawn curtains of the small room. Shashank lay on his bed, rolling from side to side, clutching his head in pain. His temples throbbed, and every beam of light that entered through the window seemed to pierce through his skull. The room was silent except for his uneven breaths and the ticking of the clock on the wall. The door creaked open softly.
"Anna, I brought you some medicinal tea," said Rohan, stepping in with a steaming cup in his hand. His voice was gentle but filled with worry. He set the cup on the bedside table and sat beside his brother. "You've been restless since morning. Please drink this; it might help."
Shashank groaned but obeyed. Rohan carefully lifted his brother's head and helped him sip the bitter concoction. The strong scent of ginger and tulsi filled the room. For a few moments, Shashank felt his nerves calm down, though the dull ache remained, buried deep behind his eyes. Rohan frowned. "This isn't right, Amma needs to see this," he muttered and stepped out. Sushmita was in the kitchen, packing her lunch box before heading to college. When Rohan rushed in, she turned in alarm.
"Mother, brother is not well," he said quickly. "He's tossing and turning. I think we need to take him to the hospital." Sushmita froze, her expression tightening with concern. "Again? It's been days…" she whispered, glancing toward the bedroom. She set down the lunchbox and sighed deeply. "Alright. After my morning classes, we'll go. Tell him to rest."
A history and Hindi lecturer at a Chennai college, Sushmita had lived a life of discipline and duty. Born and raised in Chennai, she was known for her calm nature and her ability to inspire students with stories from the past. But the glow she once carried had dimmed since her husband's untimely death.
Her husband, Dr.Siddharth, had been an archaeologist, brilliant, fearless, and endlessly curious. His life's passion had been uncovering hidden civilizations and forgotten legends buried beneath the soil of India and beyond. From the sands of Rajasthan to the ruins of Egypt, he had devoted his life to the truth of the past.
But fate had its own cruel story to tell. During the dark years of the pandemic, when the world trembled under fear and loss, Siddharth fell victim to the invisible enemy. His death had left a hole in their lives, a void that even time refused to fill.
Sushmita managed to remain strong for her sons, but deep down, the weight of widowhood pressed heavy on her heart. And for Shashank, the elder son who had idolized his father, the loss was unbearable. Since that day, he had been plagued by constant headaches, episodes that came without warning and left him drained.
That afternoon, Sushmita dressed in a simple black and red saree, her hair neatly pinned, and went to college. After finishing her morning lectures, she approached the headmaster's office for half-day leave. He granted it without question, knowing the struggles she had endured recently. Rohan joined her soon after, having skipped his own college classes to help.
At the hospital, the doctor listened carefully as Sushmita explained the situation. Shashank sat silently beside her, his eyes tired and unfocused.
The doctor prescribed mild painkillers and advised, "If the pain persists, bring him back next week. We may need to do a brain scan." They nodded, thanked him, and left. By the time they reached home, the evening sun had begun its descent. Golden light spilled across the veranda, painting the world in hues of amber and crimson. The sky blazed like a fire melting into the horizon, while the air carried the faint scent of jasmine and dust.
Later that night, the city lights shimmered like a scattered necklace across the skyline. The crescent moon hung delicately above, a pale claw against the velvet darkness. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, breaking the silence. Inside the house, everything was still. After dinner, Rohan and Shashank retreated to their rooms. Sushmita sat for a while near the window, lost in thoughts of her husband, his laughter, his eyes, his passion for history. Eventually, she lay down to sleep. But sleep refused to com
It was past midnight when she heard it, the faint sound of the front door creaking open. Her heart skipped a beat. Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Coming closer. She sat up, clutching the edge of her blanket. The room was cloaked in darkness, but she could make out a tall figure entering, around six feet, broad shoulders, a round face half-lit by the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains. "A thief?" she thought, her breath quickening.
Her fingers found the wooden stick she always kept beside her bed. Mustering courage, she raised it and swung it toward the intruder, only for it to pass right through him. The air around her grew cold. The shadowy figure spoke softly, his voice echoing like the wind."Do not be afraid, Sushmita." Her hands trembled. "Who are you? What do you want from me?" The voice replied, calm and sorrowful."The stick cannot harm me. I am not of this world." The figure moved closer, and in the faint light, Sushmita saw his face clearly. Her heart stopped. "Siddharth?" she whispered.
The image smiled faintly. "Yes. My soul has not yet found peace. I wander between worlds, bound by an unfinished duty, my past life debt." Her mind spun. "Past life debt? What are you saying? Did you owe someone money?" The spirit laughed softly, a sound both familiar and distant. "No, my dear. This debt is not of wealth, but of duty. Before I can leave this Earth and attain Moksha, my mission must be completed." Sushmita could barely speak. "What mission?"
"You will soon meet someone," the image said, "a person from the future. Only with their help can this be fulfilled. And remember, only he can cure Shashank's pain." "Person from the future?" she gasped. "Who is he? How can I find him?" "I do not know," the spirit said gently. "But when the time comes, you will understand. Trust your instincts." As his final words faded, the image dissolved into the darkness, leaving behind a faint shimmer in the air.
Sushmita's heart pounded as she stared at the empty space where he had stood. Moments later, she woke up, sweat glistening on her forehead, breath uneven. Was it a dream… or a message? The first rays of dawn broke through her window, warm and gentle. The light kissed her face as she sat up, still replaying every word from her dream.
"Past life… future person… Shashank's cure…" she murmured. Unable to rest, she decided to seek answers. If there was even a fragment of truth in that vision, she had to uncover it. After finishing her morning chores and sending Rohan to college, she went to the library near her campus.
Among the quiet aisles of old books, she searched feverishly, titles on Moksha, rebirth, karma, and spiritual debts. But most of it seemed abstract, beyond her comprehension. Still, she checked out two volumes to study later at home. That evening, she returned, exhausted yet restless. Entering Shashank's room, she found him lying motionless, his forehead burning with fever. Panic shot through her. She pressed her hand to his head. "Oh no… it's worse." She called out, "Rohan! Get ready, we're going to the hospital!"
At the hospital, they met the same doctor, who frowned upon seeing the boy's condition. "The medicine didn't help?" he asked. "No, Doctor. The pain's stronger now," Sushmita said anxiously. The doctor ordered a scan and asked Sushmita to wait outside while he examined the results. After a while, he called her into his cabin.
"Mrs. Siddharth," he began cautiously, "there's something unusual about your son's condition." Sushmita's hands tightened on her purse. "Unusual? What do you mean?"
"When I examined him last time, I noticed strange neurological activity. Today's scan confirms it. Your son's brain shows the presence of three distinct energy patterns." Three?" she echoed.
"Yes," he said gravely. "Normally, human beings have two kinds of energies, positive and negative. But your son's brain has developed a third, neutral energy. It seems to interfere with the other two, causing internal conflict, hence the headaches." Sushmita's eyes widened in disbelief. "A… third energy?"
"Yes. It's rare, almost unheard of. It's as if his mind is being influenced or controlled by another force." The doctor hesitated, then added, "I'm referring you to Dr. Ramesh Shah, one of the top neurologists in Chennai. He might be able to explain this better." Sushmita's pulse quickened. Her husband's voice echoed in her mind."Only he can cure Shashank's pain." She swallowed hard, gripping her handbag. "Thank you, Doctor. I'll take him there." Outside, she leaned against the wall for a moment, trembling. Was this coincidence, or the beginning of the mystery her husband had spoken of?
That night, the rain drizzled softly over the city. Inside the house, Sushmita sat by Shashank's bedside, watching his calm, sleeping face. The dim lamp flickered beside her, casting long shadows on the wall. Her thoughts spiraled into the unknown.
"Who is this person from the future?" she whispered. "And how are we connected to the past?" She opened one of the library books and read the first lines aloud: "Every soul carries the imprint of its previous life. Some debts are paid in gold, some in love, and some in pain."
Her eyes lingered on the words. The pieces of her life, her husband's death, Shashank's strange illness, the dream, the doctor's revelation, all seemed like parts of a larger, invisible puzzle. Somewhere deep inside, she knew the past was calling to her… and this was only the beginning.
To Be Continued...
What was the connection between Siddharth's soul and Shashank's mysterious condition?Who was the person from the future that could heal him?And how far would Sushmita go to uncover the truth about their past lives?