A dull throb pulsed behind Kunal's eyes. His vision swam, slowly resolving into the familiar cracks on the ceiling of his bedroom. The air smelled faintly of damp clothes—and something sharper. Antiseptic.
He tried to sit up. A wave of dizziness crashed over him.
"Easy," said a gentle voice.
A hand pressed against his shoulder. Ananya.
Her face appeared, etched with worry lines he rarely saw. She sat on the edge of the bed, holding a glass of water.
"अनन्या (Ananya)," he croaked. His voice was dry.
"You scared me," she said, helping him sip. "You didn't show up at the café. An hour later, I got a call—from कोकिलाबेन अस्पताल (Kokilaben Hospital). They said someone found you collapsed in the rain. Near your office. They thought it was exhaustion. Dehydration. But… I knew better."
Kunal stared at the ceiling, everything rushing back. The rain. The two figures. The voice in his mind. The name—कुणाल (Kunala).
He took a breath. Then met her eyes.
"It wasn't stress," he said. "I saw them. Two of them. Figures in robes. A man. A woman. She spoke to me. Not aloud. In my mind. She called me… Kunala."
Ananya didn't blink.
He continued, the words tumbling now: the battlefield, the flashes of memory, the woman's voice saying it was time to remember. Then came the pain. The collapse.
When he finished, he waited. Expecting disbelief.
Ananya reached across, squeezed his hand.
"Okay," she said. "It's real. I don't get it, but I believe you. If they know who you are—who they think you are—we need to understand why."
A pause.
"Kunala… wasn't he Emperor Ashoka's son? The prince who was blinded?"
Kunal nodded. A chill rolled through him.
"Then that's where we start," Ananya said. "We find out who कुणाल (Kunala) really was. Maybe the past holds answers."
---
The next afternoon
They stepped into the hushed sanctuary of the एशियाटिक सोसायटी (Asiatic Society Library). Dust and paper, ink and silence.
They combed through texts on मौर्य साम्राज्य (Mauryan empire), अशोक (Ashoka), and बौद्ध इतिहास (Buddhist chronicles). Prince Kunala was always a footnote. A tragic figure. A name lost in Ashoka's vast shadow.
Until they found it.
Tucked away in a dim corner was a brittle bundle—palm-leaf manuscripts tied with string. The script was ब्राह्मी (Brahmi), faded but legible.
The moment Kunal's fingers touched the leaves, something stirred. He could read them.
Not understand. Absorb.
The words weren't words—they were memories.
---
Flash.
A golden hall. Celestial maps painted on the domed ceiling. Bronze-armored warriors kneeling in silence.
Beside him, a woman—indistinct, but radiant. A voice echoed, ancient and absolute:
"धर्मो रक्षति रक्षितः।"
Dharmo rakṣati rakṣitaḥ
He who protects dharma is protected by it.
---
Flash.
A scream.
Blinding pain. Fire behind his eyes.
Then: nothing. Darkness.
A sharp voice, mocking, triumphant, laughing.
---
Flash.
Exile. Dust roads. Ragged clothes. Rage coiled in his chest.
A vow whispered under breath:
"अहं पुनः उदयिष्यामि। न्यायं पुनरागमनं करविष्यामि।"
Ahaṁ punaḥ udayiṣyāmi. Nyāyaṁ punarāgamanaṁ karaviṣyāmi.
I shall rise again. Justice shall return with me.
---
Kunal stumbled back from the manuscript. It hit the desk with a dull thud.
He clutched his head. His chest heaved.
Ananya was already by his side.
"Kunal! What happened?"
He looked at her. His voice cracked.
"I remembered… the betrayal. The blinding."
His hands trembled.
"Ananya… I was कुणाल (Kunala)."
And with those words, history ceased to be past.
It had become present.
And it had come calling.