Chapter - 1

Sadhvi Rajput pov......

There’s something oddly romantic about Delhi mornings. The way the fog wraps around buildings like a shy lover and the air smells like a confused mix of exhaust fumes and hope. I wish I could say I enjoy waking up early to experience all this beauty. But no, that would be a lie. The only reason I was awake at 6:30 AM on a chilly Tuesday morning was because my dear little sister decided to “borrow” my one and only hair straightener and blew a fuse.

Again.

“Sadhvi dii!” she screamed from the bathroom.

I blinked at the ceiling for a full ten seconds before replying, “If it's the fuse again, I swear to God, Adhya…”

“You left the kettle on. It tripped the fuse box,” she said, now appearing in my bedroom doorway, her curly hair frizzing in every direction and her favorite BTS hoodie hanging lopsided.

I sat up, my blanket wrapped around me like a burrito. “Don’t you dare blame the kettle. That kettle has seen more stable days than you.”

Adhya rolled her eyes.

“Whatever. Just fix it. I have a class at eight.”

I groaned and swung my legs off the bed, dragging myself to the fuse box like a tired old cat. This had become a weekly ritual—me playing electrician, and her playing chaotic gremlin.

Let me back up a little.

I’m Sadhvi Rajput. Twenty-four years old. A professor of English Literature at one of Delhi’s more prestigious colleges, but also apparently the official electrician, chef, therapist, and alarm clock of this two-woman household.

When I’m not teaching about Victorian poets and post-colonial feminism, I write novels. I've written five so far, and, by some miracle of the universe, all five have been bestsellers. Most people think I have my life figured out. I’d like to sit those people down, give them some chai, and explain how I once submitted my students’ term papers to my publisher by accident.

It’s a miracle I’m still employed.

Our home is a small two-bedroom  apartment in South Delhi—cozy, warm, and always slightly chaotic. This aapartment I brought from my own hard earn money .

Adhya, my eighteen-year-old tornado of a sister, moved in with me when she got into her BBA program last year. Her twin, Arav, joined the National Defence Academy. Dad was thrilled. Mom cried for three days straight. I cried too, but mostly because I couldn’t figure out how to tell Arav to iron his own shirts over the phone.

Dad is a decorated army officer—like, actual medals and everything. We grew up saluting more than hugging. But he’s the kindest man I know, with a laugh that could break the sternest general. Mom is also a professor of English Literature, which means my love for books and tragedy is possibly hereditary.

Once the fuse was fixed (again), I went to make breakfast. Adhya was perched on the counter, munching toast like a squirrel and texting at the speed of light.

“Who are you texting so early?”

She smirked. “None of your business.”

“Oh God. It’s that boy from the café again, isn’t it? The one who wears Crocs with socks?”

“He’s nice!”

“He’s a war crime,” I said, pouring tea.

After breakfast, she stood up, dramatically tossed her hair and said, “Your fashion opinions are irrelevant until you stop wearing shawls like a grandma.”

I looked down at my shawl. “This is vintage!”

“That is vintage Nani.”

With one final hair flip, she skipped out of the apartment, nearly colliding with our neighbor’s laundry stand. I shook my head. Every day with her was a sitcom.

After she left, I took a deep breath. Silence. My favorite person in the world had left, which meant I could now pretend to be a mysterious, brooding artist again.

I sat by the window with my coffee and journal. The city outside was already loud and alive. Honks, calls, bells, and shouting chai vendors. Still, something about mornings inspired me.

I flipped to a fresh page and began scribbling down lines for my next novel. It was slow—slower than usual. The characters felt like strangers. I tried to force it, but the words refused to flow.

So I turned to painting.

That usually did the trick.

I set up my easel near the window, dipped my brush in cerulean blue, and let instinct guide me. First, a sky. Then a silhouette. Slowly, a blurred face formed.

I stopped.

It’s always a blur. Like someone smeared color and shadow across where his features should be. I try to focus, to sharpen the image in my mind, but the harder I look, the fuzzier he becomes. Like my mind is protecting me from knowing something I’m not ready to remember.

The same blur face. The one from my dreams.

The dreams I hadn’t told anyone about.

In them, I was someone else—dressed in fabrics I didn’t recognize, lying in the temple of Shiv Shakti, Smoke and screams all around. And then him. The man. Reaching for me. Whispering a name like a vow.

AMBIKA

And just before I touched him—darkness.

Leaving only questions in my mind.

Who is this Ambika ?? Why do they (dreams) appear every night??

What is the  reason behind these dreams??

I whisper to myself, “Why do you come to me every night like this… and why can’t I remember your face?”

I stared at the painting. It was the fifth time I’d painted him. Different settings. But Same blur face. Whenever i had dream of this man it always appear blur. I didn't even know his name, but every stroke felt familiar. It felt like I know him from centuries.

His voice—when he speaks—is low and steady. But even that is distorted, like an echo underwater.

I shook it off. Maybe I just needed to stop binge-watching period dramas at night.

At work, I was the picture of professionalism. Glasses on. Notes ready. Voice calm. Until I tried writing “existentialist themes” on the board and accidentally wrote “egg-sistentialist.” My students burst out laughing. One of them even drew a cartoon egg next to it with a frown and a book.

I wasn’t even mad. It was hilarious.

During lunch, I got a call from  Mom.

She’d seen the magazine interview they did on me last week.

“Fix your hair in the next one,” she said.

“Nice to hear from you too, Ma.”

“I loved what you said about poetry being like a time machine.”

“Thanks.”

“Now, about your wardrobe…”

I sighed. Typical.

During this break, I checked my messages. One from Arav : “Sent you a video of me marching. Rate it out of ten.”

And one from Adhya : a selfie of her in my cardigan.

I responded with a skull emoji.

After all the work, I finally go back to my home.

At evening I took a  long, glorious nap, I walked into the living room and saw Adhya trying to cut her own bangs with kitchen scissors.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I yelped.

“Shhh! I watched a tutorial—”

“No, you watched a disaster unfold in real time. Give me those scissors.”

“But they said it would frame my face!”

“It’s going to frame your forehead like a crime scene.”

She chased me around the sofa trying to get the scissors back. We laughed so hard we fell off the couch in a heap, popcorn flying everywhere.

“Promise me one thing,” I said, wiping tears of laughter. “Never grow up.”

“I won’t if you won’t,” she said, grinning.

Later that evening, I was making dinner when Adhya waltzed in.

“You won’t believe what happened today,” she said, dumping her bag on the couch. “I tripped over my own foot and fell into my professor. He now thinks I was trying to hug him. I might drop out.”

I laughed so hard I nearly dropped the spatula. “I once called my professor ‘dad’ by accident. You’ll survive.”

She looked at me in horror. “Please tell me that’s not true.”

“Oh, it’s true. I called him ‘dad’, handed him my assignment, and walked away like it was normal. Didn’t realize until I was halfway to the cafeteria.”

She fell to the floor laughing. “That’s SO EMBARRASSING!”

“You have no idea. He still greets me with ‘hello, beta’.”

Later, we sat with mugs of hot chocolate, legs tangled under the blanket. We were watching one of those ridiculously dramatic reincarnation romance movies—where the lovers find each other over centuries.

“I love these,” she whispered. “Do you think stuff like that actually happens?”

I looked at her. “I don’t know. But… maybe. Some connections feel older than this life.”

She nodded slowly. “Sometimes I feel like I’ve known you for more than just this life. Like… you’ve always been there.”

I reached out and ruffled her curls. “Maybe I have.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about the man from my dreams. About the way he looked at me like he remembered. Like he’d waited lifetimes. My hand itched to paint again.

I sat up and walked quietly to the living room. Lit a candle. Pulled out a fresh canvas.

The wind outside howled against the windows.

I dipped my brush in crimson red and started painting.

A temple. Fire. Smoke. And us.

Suddenly my phone alarm rang,  showing 11 pm.

I have a habit of  setting an alarm always at 11 pm. so that I can go to bed early.

I gave the painting a long look and went to sleep.

I’m lying on cold Floor.

My back pressed against the smooth marble floor of a grand palace corridor. The sky above is tinted deep orange through the arched windows, the light flickering like candle flames on the polished walls. I can hear distant footsteps, echoing softly, as if someone’s running—toward me or away, I don’t know.

Everything feels heavy.

Like I’ve just fallen—or been dropped by time itself.

My arms are limp at my sides. My breathing shallow. But I don’t feel fear. Only a strange ache in my chest. Not pain, exactly… something else. Like grief that hasn’t been understood yet.

Then I see him.

A figure slowly comes into view, kneeling beside me.

The man.

Always the same man.

He leans over me, his silhouette glowing in the dim light, but his face… it’s always blurred. A smear of light and shadow where his features should be. No matter how hard I try to focus, the image slips through my memory like sand through fingers.

Yet even with the blur, I feel it—that I know him. Or once did.

He lifts my hand and holds it gently in his. I can’t speak. I want to, but no sound comes out.

“Ambika…” he whispers. His voice is broken. Raw. Like he’s saying it for the last time.

Ambika.

He doesn’t call me Sadhvi.

He never does.

Ambika.

And just before the dream fades, I see something fall from his neck—a pendant. It hits the stone beside me with a soft clink. I reach for it.

Then woke up.

The ceiling above me comes into focus. Familiar. Plain. Real.

I sit up with a gasp, heart pounding, palm still outstretched as if trying to catch something that isn’t there. My sheets are tangled around my legs, soaked in sweat. The morning light spills into the room.

It was him again.

The same dream.

The same man with the blurred face.

And the same name that haunts me more with each passing night—Ambika.