The morning in the ashram unfolded like a quiet hymn.
A soft mist clung to the earth, rising gently from the damp soil as the first rays of the sun filtered through towering sal and neem trees. The air was cool, touched by the lingering breath of the night, yet alive with subtle warmth that promised a calm day ahead.
Anand stirred awake on his simple bedding of woven grass and cloth. For a brief moment, he lay still, staring at the wooden ceiling above him, listening.
Birdsong.
Wind brushing through leaves.
The faint crackle of a distant fire.
No traffic. No horns. No buzzing electronics.
It had been days—perhaps longer—since he had arrived in this world, yet mornings like this still felt unreal.
"…Right," he murmured under his breath, sitting up slowly. "Not a dream."
Outside, the ashram was already awake.
Disciples moved about in quiet rhythm. Some carried clay pots toward the river, their footsteps steady and practiced. Others swept the open courtyards, pushing away fallen leaves with long, deliberate strokes. A few sat near the sacred fire, chanting softly, their voices blending into a low, continuous hum that seemed to vibrate with the forest itself.
Anand stepped out, stretching slightly. His clothes—clearly out of place in this ancient setting—fluttered lightly in the morning breeze. Even now, he caught occasional glances from newer disciples, though most had grown accustomed to his presence.
He walked toward the well, where a group of younger disciples were drawing water.
"Good morning," Anand said casually.
One of them, a boy no older than sixteen, smiled. "You wake later than most, Anand."
"Yeah… I'm working on that," Anand replied with a sheepish grin.
The boy chuckled. "The forest does not wait for slow risers."
"Clearly," Anand muttered, glancing at the already-busy grounds.
He took the offered pot, washing his face with the cold water. The chill snapped him fully awake, grounding him in the present.
The routine continued.
Water was carried. Firewood gathered. Offerings prepared. Meals cooked in silence or soft conversation.
Anand helped where he could—though his methods were sometimes… unconventional. Still, the disciples appreciated his effort, even if they didn't fully understand him.
By the time the sun had risen fully, the ashram gathered for the morning meal.
They sat in rows upon the earth, simple leaf plates placed before them. The food was modest—boiled grains, fruits, and a light stew—but nourishing.
Anand ate quietly, observing.
There was something… steady about this life. Predictable, yet not dull. Peaceful, yet not empty.
And yet—
A thought stirred.
How big is this world, really?
He paused mid-bite.
It was strange.
He had fought a demon. Walked through forests that felt endless. Lived among sages.
But he hadn't asked the most basic question.
What lies beyond all this?
Anand frowned slightly.
Why didn't I think of that earlier?
Maybe it was survival. Maybe shock. Maybe he had simply been too caught up in adapting.
But now, sitting here in the quiet after a meal, with no immediate danger looming…
The curiosity came rushing in.
Once the meal ended and the others began dispersing, Anand approached a small group of disciples sitting beneath a large banyan tree.
They seemed relaxed—talking quietly among themselves.
Perfect.
"Hey," Anand said, crouching down near them. "Can I ask you something?"
They looked at him, curious but welcoming.
"Of course," one of them replied. He was slightly older than the rest, with calm eyes and a composed demeanor.
Anand hesitated for a second, then spoke.
"This place… the forest… all of this—it can't be the whole world, right?"
The disciples exchanged brief glances, a hint of amusement passing between them.
"No," the older one said gently. "This is but a small part of a vast land."
Anand leaned forward slightly. "Then… how is everything organized? Are there… kingdoms? Cities?"
"Yes," another disciple chimed in. "Many kingdoms. Each ruled by kings, bound by dharma, protecting their people."
Anand's interest sharpened.
"Can you tell me about them?"
The disciples settled more comfortably, as if preparing for a long conversation.
"There are many lands," the older disciple began. "To the east, fertile regions fed by great rivers. To the south, dense forests and tribes that live close to nature. To the west, lands of trade and movement. And to the north…"
He paused briefly.
"…to the north lie some of the greatest kingdoms."
Anand listened intently.
They spoke of rulers, of duties, of the balance between power and righteousness. Of how kings were not merely leaders, but protectors of dharma itself.
It was… different from what Anand knew.
Not just governance. Not just politics.
Something deeper.
"And among these kingdoms," one of the younger disciples added, "there is one that stands above all."
Something in his tone shifted.
Anand noticed it immediately.
The others did too. Their posture straightened slightly, their expressions gaining a subtle reverence.
"What kingdom?" Anand asked.
The older disciple spoke.
"Ayodhya."
The name hung in the air.
And something… shifted.
Anand blinked.
"Ayo…dhya?" he repeated slowly.
The disciple's eyes seemed to gleam faintly as he continued.
"It is a city of unparalleled prosperity. Its streets are filled with order and harmony. Its people live without fear, guided by justice and compassion."
Another disciple added, voice filled with admiration, "Its king is wise and generous, beloved by all who dwell under his rule."
"And its prince…" the younger one said, almost unable to contain himself, "is the embodiment of virtue."
Anand's heart skipped.
"…Prince?" he asked.
The older disciple nodded.
"Rama."
Silence.
For a moment, Anand forgot to breathe.
Rama.
The name echoed in his mind like a bell struck in a vast, empty hall.
Images flickered.
Stories.
Fragments from another life.
A prince of unwavering righteousness. A warrior without equal. A man who chose exile over defiance. A symbol of dharma.
"…Rama…" Anand whispered.
His grip tightened slightly against his knees.
No way…
He stared at the ground, thoughts racing.
Is it… really that Rama?
He looked up again, his voice steadier but filled with a strange tension.
"Tell me more about him."
The disciples didn't need encouragement.
"His strength is unmatched, yet he is gentle with all beings," one said.
"He honors his father's word above his own desires," another added.
"He protects the weak, speaks only truth, and walks the path of righteousness without falter."
"With his bow, he has defeated foes that others could not even face."
As they spoke, each word tightened the knot in Anand's chest.
This wasn't coincidence.
This wasn't similar.
This was exact.
The stories. The traits. The reverence.
I'm… in the Ramayana?
A strange mix of awe and disbelief washed over him.
He had thought this world was ancient, myth-like—but not this.
Not that.
If this is true… then everything… the exile, the war, Ravana…
Anand exhaled slowly, trying to steady himself.
Is it all going to happen? Has it already started?
His mind raced through timelines he barely remembered in full.
Was he early? Late? In the middle of it?
And more importantly—
What does that mean for me?
"…Anand?"
He snapped back to reality.
The disciples were looking at him.
"You seem troubled."
"…No," Anand said quickly, forcing a small smile. "Just… thinking."
He hesitated, then asked the question that now felt inevitable.
"Where is Ayodhya?"
The older disciple studied him for a moment, then answered.
"To the north. Beyond these forests, across rivers and plains. It is a journey of many weeks—perhaps months, depending on your pace."
Another added, "The roads become clearer as you approach. You will know when you are near."
Anand nodded slowly.
North.
A direction.
A destination.
A truth he couldn't ignore anymore.
He stood up, his thoughts settling into something firmer.
Curiosity had brought him here.
But now…
It was something more.
If this truly was that world—if Rama truly existed—then Anand couldn't just stay in the forest, pretending nothing had changed.
He needed to see it.
To confirm it.
To understand where he stood in all of this.
"…Thank you," he said quietly.
The disciples smiled.
Anand looked toward the northern horizon, though it was hidden beyond layers of forest.
Ayodhya.
The city of legends.
The birthplace of a story he had once thought was only a myth.
"…Guess I'm going on a trip," he murmured to himself.
And for the first time since arriving in this world—
He felt like he was walking toward something inevitable.