Rohit looked around and noticed more Indian deities, as there were idols of Goddess Saraswati and Lord Ganesha, each with similar versions of the deities of his own land, as written on the nameplates.
Rohit wasn't a believer. Not in Buddhism, not in Hinduism—not in anything. Faith had long abandoned him, or perhaps he had abandoned it. Yet the resemblance unsettled him. It felt as though some hidden thread connected these distant cultures.
He lingered, his eyes tracing every detail of the dancing Shiva. A strange reverie washed over him. His anger, his doubts, even the noise of the world—faded. In its place was a calming stillness, born from the sculptor's artistry.
And then, unbidden, a thought whispered in his mind:
"Why was I chosen to regress? I wasn't anyone remarkable in my past life. Nor do I see greatness in my future. Could it really be… that some divine being pitied my soul? My purpose…"
