The mountains stood silent that evening, their icy peaks glowing under the pale silver light of the moon. A soft wind slid through the tall eucalyptus trees, carrying with it the scent of wet earth and pine. In the distance, the echo of temple bells mingled with the rustle of the forest, an eternal rhythm that felt older than time itself.
Mr. Ramakanth slowly walked up the stone path, holding two steaming cups of coffee in his hands. His breath fogged in the cold air as he stopped near a large moss-covered rock. Prabhas was already sitting there, lost in thought, staring at the horizon where the Himalayas kissed the stars. Ramakanth handed one cup to his son and lowered himself beside him. The rock beneath them was cold, but the warmth of the coffee spread through their palms like a quiet promise of comfort.
Prabhas glanced sideways. "Father… how are you feeling today?" Ramakanth took a sip, his eyes twinkling as if holding back a thousand unsaid stories. "I'm good, my son. These quiet evenings remind me of the days I spent with your mother and you when you were little. Those moments… they were like spring. Gentle. Full of life. Like warm sunlight falling over the whole of India."
Prabhas smiled faintly. But Ramakanth's voice suddenly lowered, soft like wind through dry leaves. "Those memories… now live only in my dreams." Prabhas straightened. "Father, what are you saying? Why are you talking like this? You… you've always been strong. You once said you achieved immortality."
Ramakanth's smile deepened, calm and haunting. "Immortality is a fragile word, my son. Even the soul must die one day." The wind howled softly in the valley. Prabhas frowned. "What do you mean?" "I have lived for seven hundred years." The world around Prabhas seemed to still. He let out a shaky laugh. "Seven hundred? Father, what are you talking about? You're just sixty."
Ramakanth looked at him, his gaze sharp and ancient. "This body is sixty. My soul has walked on this Earth for seven centuries. And now… it's time for me to leave." Prabhas blinked rapidly. His heart pounded in his chest. "Leave? Where?" "To moksha," Ramakanth whispered, staring at the moon. "To mukthi." "Father, I don't understand any of this," Prabhas said. "Please speak clearly."
Ramakanth chuckled softly. "Do you know, Prabhas, humans are the most beautiful creatures among all living beings. Not because of strength… but because of choice. According to Garuda Purana, after death, every soul faces a trial. God asks the soul—'Do you wish to live again, or dissolve into peace?'"
He continued, "If the soul chooses to live, it's reborn as a human to complete its unfinished work. If it chooses to end the cycle, it drinks the potion of forgetting, lets go of every past attachment, and walks the path of moksha. The soul is then purified in the river of heaven, washed clean of greed, pride, ego, and desires. Then, it merges back into the Divine."
Prabhas stared at his father in disbelief. He had grown up hearing mythological tales, but hearing it like this, from his own father's mouth, spoken with quiet certainty, shook something deep inside him. "Seven hundred years … seven lives," Prabhas whispered. Ramakanth nodded. "Yes. And this is my last birth." "Why are you telling me this now?" Prabhas asked slowly.
Ramakanth looked at the ground, his voice thick with emotion. "Yesterday, after decades of penance, I reached the peak of spirituality. For the first time… I spoke to God through telepathy."Prabhas's eyes widened. "That's incredible, Father. That's"But it also means," Ramakanth interrupted softly, "that my time on Earth is coming to an end."
A shiver ran down Prabhas's spine. The old man's calm acceptance of death felt more terrifying than death itself. "You remember the old globe I kept locked away?" Ramakanth asked. "The crystal one?" "Yes," Prabhas whispered. That globe had always made him uneasy, its surface seemed to hum when touched.
Ramakanth exhaled slowly. "That globe holds the power to see past lives. When I touched it, the story of my seven births unfolded before me like a film. I finally understood the mission assigned to me by God. It ends next month. Once I complete it… I will leave this world." "Mission?" Prabhas asked.
Ramakanth turned to him, his eyes intense. "I cannot finish it alone. I need you. If we succeed, I'll return to where I came from. If we fail… everything will change, not just for us, but for this entire world." Prabhas's throat tightened. His father wasn't joking. He never joked about things like this. That night, Prabhas returned to his room in silence. His father's words looped through his mind like a chant he couldn't escape.
Outside the window, black branches of ancient trees traced the star-filled heavens. A pale full moon floated high, its silver light spilling through the glass and painting the room in quiet blue. A cold wind swept down from the Himalayas, swirling around him, touching his face as if testing his resolve. He opened his wooden drawer and pulled out an old framed photograph. In it, his father, mother, his young self, and a woman with warm eyes, his wife Anamika, smiled back at him.
Tears blurred his vision. One drop fell onto the glass frame. And in that moment, something impossible happened. Anamika's eyes in the photograph blinked. Prabhas froze. He blinked again, wiping his tears away, thinking it was a trick of the light. But the frame was empty. The photograph… had vanished. And standing before him, illuminated in moonlight—was Anamika herself.
His heart skipped a beat. "A-Anamika?" She stood there, wearing the same crimson saree she had worn the night before she died. Her hair flowed like black silk down her shoulders, her lips curved into a familiar smile. She looked… alive.
He took a step forward. His hand trembled as he reached out. And to his shock, he could feel her skin, warm beneath his fingertips. "Why are you staring at me like that?" she teased softly. "I'm your Anamika." His knees felt weak. "You… you died. I burned your body."
She shook her head slowly. "No. The woman you cremated was someone else. A victim of the atomic war. My soul has been wandering for years, searching for my body. Until it's found and purified, I can't leave." Her words sent a chill through him. "Then what are you?"
"I'm not a ghost," she whispered. "I'm a soul, half here, half trapped in another realm. I can't rest until you help me." Prabhas clenched his fists. "What do I need to do?" "Find my body," she said. "Burn it with your own hands. Only then will my soul be free. And Prabhas…" she leaned closer, her voice barely above a whisper, "there's something you don't know. My death… wasn't an accident." Her eyes darkened like storm clouds. "Someone wanted me gone."
Prabhas's chest ached. He had loved Anamika beyond words, she was his anchor, his only constant in a world that kept taking everything from him. Losing her had broken him once. Seeing her now, between life and death, was tearing him apart again.
He took a deep breath. "Then I'll help you. No matter what it takes." A gentle smile played on her lips. "I knew you would." And just like that, she faded away, leaving only the echo of her voice and the cold moonlight on the floor. Prabhas stumbled back, heart pounding. His hands were slick with sweat. The room was empty, but it smelled faintly of her jasmine perfume.
He pressed his palms against the wall, trying to make sense of it all. Seven births. A father who'd spoken to God. A mission to save the world. A wife trapped between realms. Everything he believed about life and death was crumbling before his eyes. From outside came the distant sound of a temple conch, long and mournful. The wind picked up, whistling through the valley like a warning. Prabhas whispered to himself, "What are you hiding, Father?"
As he looked toward the moon, it slipped behind a dark cloud, plunging the room into shadow. Far away, deep within the forest, something moved. The rustling of leaves was too deliberate, too alive. A faint light flickered between the trees—like the glow of an ancient lantern. Something… or someone… was waiting.
What exactly is the mission that Ramakanth must complete before the month ends? Who is responsible for Anamika's death, and why was her soul never allowed to rest? What dark truth lies buried in Ramakanth's seven past lives? And what awaits Prabhas in the forest, beneath the cold moonlight?
The answers lie hidden in the mist of centuries.To be continued…