The city lights of Mumbai flickered outside the café's window as Kunal and Ananya sat across from each other. The dull red glow from the neon sign outside pooled across the table, casting long shadows on their faces. Kunal's cigarette smoldered in the ashtray, forgotten as he stared out the window. Ananya was swiping through her tablet, but her focus kept slipping back to him.
"I still can't wrap my head around it," she muttered. "The resemblance is uncanny. Not just in looks, Kunal, but in presence."
Kunal leaned back, the chair creaking slightly beneath him. "You're talking like I'm some reincarnated prince."
Ananya tilted the screen toward him. It displayed an ancient painting—Kunala, the blind prince, standing in ornate armor, his expression regal but distant. "I'm talking about this," she said. "Look at the structure of the face, the eyes, even the way he stands. It's you."
Kunal studied the image in silence. The resemblance was more than passing—it was unsettling. The face in the painting could've been his reflection from another lifetime. The only clear difference was the beard. Kunala was clean-shaven in every depiction—his features sharp, youthful, almost ethereal. Kunal, on the other hand, wore a well-kept beard that gave him a darker, more grounded look. Mature. Modern. But the essence remained—the same piercing gaze, the same symmetry that made people stop and stare.
It wasn't something he flaunted. But people noticed. Strangers stared a moment too long. Friends had joked about his 'royal face.' Even as a child, adults had told him he looked like someone out of an epic. It used to amuse him. Now, it unnerved him.
"In Hindi and Sanskrit, the name's the same too," Ananya added, almost to herself. "कुणाल. Only the English spellings try to split them apart—Kunal and Kunala. But the script doesn't lie."
Kunal ran a hand over his face, rubbing his temples. "This is getting too damn weird."
Ananya didn't reply. She was staring at another painting now—of Kunala and a woman beside him, her face half-obscured. The label beneath it read Tishyarakshita. His stepmother. The empress who would later betray him. And, if the rumors from ancient texts were true—desire him.
Kunal looked away. "She fell for him, didn't she?"
Ananya nodded slowly. "She was the empress of the Mauryan empire. She had power, beauty, everything… but she wanted him."
"Disgusting."
"Yes. But also… revealing."
---
That night, as Kunal lay in bed, the city's hum faded into background noise. He didn't fear the dreams anymore. He needed them.
And they came.
---
A golden corridor bathed in torchlight. Polished stone gleamed beneath his feet as he walked in silence. He was no longer Kunal. He was Kunala—the crown prince of the Mauryan empire.
He moved with confidence, dressed in royal robes that shimmered with threads of gold. His hair was long, tied neatly behind his head, framing his face like a sculptor's final touch. Eyes that held both gentleness and steel. He was calm, but his presence demanded attention.
From the shadows, voices echoed.
"सिंहवद् चलति एषः — सत्यधर्मस्य प्रतीकः।"
"He walks like a lion — the embodiment of righteous duty."
"Kunala..."
His name carried reverence and fear in equal measure.
Suddenly, a chill passed through the hall. A figure emerged from behind the pillar—Emperor Ashoka himself. Tall. Commanding. Cloaked in wisdom and sorrow.
"कुणाल, पुत्र,"
"Kunala, my son,"
"कालचक्रः पुनः परिवर्तते। यथास्मिन् जन्मनि त्वमेव धर्मस्य वाहकः।"
"The wheel of time turns once again. In this life too, you carry the weight of dharma."
Kunala bowed, but his expression was taut. "Why now, पिता?" Father?
Ashoka's voice dropped.
"सत्यं, ते साथि अन्यायः पुनः सजीवः जातः। तव स्मृतयः ते पथ प्रदर्शयन्ति।"
"Because the same injustice walks the world again. Your memories will show you the way."
---
Kunal jolted awake.
His body was drenched in sweat, the taste of ancient air still in his lungs. He sat up, gasping. The face of कुणाल—his own face—still burned in his mind. He was him. He had to be.
His phone buzzed violently.
"Ananya," he breathed.
Her voice was urgent. "Kunal—you need to come. I've found something. It changes everything."
"Where?"
"University archives. Now."
Without thinking, Kunal threw on a jacket, lit a cigarette, and stepped into the humid night air. His beard was coarse against the wind—one of the few things separating him from the man history had buried.
But now, कुणाल was waking. In memory. In flesh. In destiny.
---
To be continued....