The Dravidian Post, Nungambakkam, Chennai. 2:17 AM. October 26, 2025.
Sita Lakshmi slumped into her cubicle, the Pelican case slamming the desk like a thunderclap. Rain dripped from her hair, pooling on the keyboard, her reflection a ghost in the dark monitor. Her pulse hammered, relentless, since Marina Beach, since Ravi's eyes sharp, tired, ancient pierced her through the storm. The riff, that raw dang-dang-dang… dheem-dheem-dheem, wasn't just sound. It was a thread, tugging her to a past she shouldn't know: Ashoka Vatika, where Sita sat under the Simshapa tree, jasmine thick, while Ravana's voice spun poetry, not chains. His plea had echoed, not forcing but mourning. Only she remembered. He didn't. Not yet.
Karthik, her editor, hunched at his desk, fueled by filter coffee and ambition. He wheeled over, eyeing the case. "Sita, what the hell? You look like you drowned in the Bay of Bengal."
She popped the latches. Inside: the matte black 7-string, mother-of-pearl Shiva lingam inlay glinting under fluorescent buzz. Coiled cables, a notebook, a lingam-shaped USB drive. No pedals, Ravi had taken those. "This story's bigger than a PR stunt," she said, voice steady despite the storm in her chest.
"That's his guitar?" Karthik squinted, leaning closer. "You stole it?"
"He left it. For me." Her fingers grazed the inlay, warm, almost alive.
"For you?" Karthik snorted, folding his arms. "What, you and Ravan Shanmugam are besties now? Guy's worth 12,000 crore, and you're hauling his gear? Spill it, Sita."
She met his gaze, unflinching. "He was on the beach, playing in the rain. Then he vanished. Left this behind. It's not a stunt."
"Vanished?" Karthik's eyebrow shot up. "After the ED showed up? Sounds like a fugitive, not a rockstar. You sure he's not dodging taxes?"
"He's not," she snapped, plugging the USB into her laptop. Password prompt. Her fingers paused, then typed: AshokaVatika. The drive unlocked. Files flashed: Brahmastra_Prototype.py, Lanka_Lullaby.mid, Exile_Notes.txt. Her breath caught. "He trusted me."
"Trusted you with what?" Karthik leaned over her shoulder. "His demo tracks?"
She clicked Lanka_Lullaby.mid. The riff spilled through tinny speakers dang-dang-dang… dheem-dheem-dheem. It sliced the air, sharp as a blade, heavy as grief. Karthik winced. "Sounds like a Tamil metal band butchering Carnatic. What's the angle here?"
Sita's throat tightened. The riff wasn't music. It was Ravana in the grove, his heart bared without touch. She saw it: Ashoka Vatika, stone walls, Simshapa leaves whispering defiance. Ravana, ten-headed, pleading, not taking. "It's not about music," she said softly. "It's memory. Ashoka Vatika you know the story? Sita, captive in Lanka. Ravana didn't force her. He… sang to her. Poetry. This riff, it's like his plea."
Karthik stared, then laughed. "You're saying Shanmugam's channeling a 3,000-year-old demon king? Sita, you need sleep."
"It's not a joke," she said, opening Exile_Notes.txt. Scribbles:
AI swarm thinks like 10 heads. One body.
Why does the journalist have her eyes?
Delhi wants Brahmastra. For borders. Or control.
Run to Jaffna? Or deeper?
Karthik read, whistling. "Delhi? ED raid? This is front-page gold: 'Tech King Flees Tax Net.'"
"It's not tax," Sita said, voice sharp. "It's older. Bigger."
"Older?" Karthik smirked. "Like, 2G scam older? Or are you going full Ramayana on me?"
She clicked Brahmastra_Prototype.py. Code scrolled: Python, elegant, deadly. Drone swarm AI. Self-learning. Comments: Inspired by Lanka's battlefield. Arrows that multiply. Her mind raced. This wasn't tech it was war reborn, arrows flying across centuries. "This is Brahmastra," she said. "His AI. It thinks. Adapts. Delhi wants it."
Karthik's grin faded. "National security? You're in deep, Sita. You sure about this guy?"
"I'm sure," she said, but her heart wavered, picturing Ravi's face sharp cheekbones, wet hair, pendant glinting. His voice on the beach: You're getting wet. Soft, shy, yet it had unraveled her. She'd wanted to step closer, to see if his touch would spark like his gaze. She hadn't. The want lingered, electric, forbidden.
Her phone buzzed. Unknown number. Sinhala prefix. She answered, heart pounding.
"Sita-ma?" A woman's voice, old, crackling. "Is that you? He left the case?"
Sita's grip tightened. "Who's this?"
"Ajji. His grandmother. From Colombo." The voice was warm but urgent. "He said you'd find it. Protect the riff. It's the key."
"Key to what?" Sita asked, her pulse spiking.
"To him. To you. The past." Ajji's voice softened. "You feel it, don't you? His eyes. Your heart."
Sita's breath caught. "How do you know?"
"I see what he doesn't yet," Ajji said. "Find him. Jaffna. Keep the riff safe."
The line went dead. Karthik stared. "Ghost from Jaffna?"
"His grandmother," Sita said, copying the files to her drive. She wiped the USB, handed the case to Karthik. "Lock it up. Evidence."
He took it, grinning. "You're on fire, Sita. Don't burn out."
She wasn't fire. She was ash, scorched by a past she shouldn't know.
FLASHBACK: Chennai, 2019. Coffee Shop.
Arun, an accountant from Coimbatore, had been kind, steady, his smile too eager. They sat in a cramped café, air thick with roasted beans. "You're distant, Sita," he said, stirring his coffee. "Like you're waiting for someone else."
She'd laughed, sipping to hide the sting. She liked Arun safe, predictable. But that night, alone, her reflection whispered: He's not him. She ended it the next day. No one fit. Her heart was locked, waiting for a key she didn't understand. Until Ravi.
CHENNAI CENTRAL STATION. 4:45 AM.
Sita boarded the train to Rameswaram, first leg to Jaffna. No sleep. The riff looped in her earbuds, each note a memory Ravana's plea, Sita's defiance. She was free, chasing truth, chasing him. Her notebook: Why him? Why now?
The train rattled, dawn breaking over paddy fields. A deer crossed the tracks golden fur? No, a stray dog. Her mind was slipping. Her phone buzzed. Text: Unknown. Check the guitar neck. Hidden compartment. - R.
Panic. The guitar was back at the office. She texted Karthik: "Don't touch the guitar. Coming back."
She bolted from the train at the next stop, hailing an auto to Nungambakkam. The newsroom was dark, Karthik gone. The case was in his drawer, locked. She pried it open, hands shaking. The guitar gleamed, inlay glowing faintly. Her fingers found a ridge near the 12th fret. A click. The inlay opened. Inside: a microchip, taped to a note in Ravi's sharp script: Sita. You know why. Keep it safe. Find me in Jaffna.
Her name. Not "journalist." Sita. Like he'd known her forever. She slipped the chip into her jacket, the note into her pocket. Her heart raced not from the chase, but from him. His face on the beach, wet hair plastered, pendant glinting. The way he'd looked at her, confused, certain, like she was his answer. She wanted to find him, to ask why her eyes felt familiar, to see if his touch would burn like his gaze. The pull wasn't music it was them, across time.
LANKAI TECH SAFEHOUSE, TAMIL NADU HILLS. 5:12 AM.
Ravi Shanmugam Ravan hunched over a laptop, migraine splitting his skull. The riff echoed in his mind, not a lullaby but a scream. His ajji's voice crackled on speaker: "I called her. She has it."
"Who is she, Ajji?" he asked, voice raw. "Why her eyes?"
"Past lives, kanna," Ajji said. "You don't remember yet. The Brahmastra will wake it."
He hung up. Monitors showed drone feeds swarm test successful. Delhi wanted it for "security." Control, more like. He typed to Sita's number, pulled from her recorder's metadata: Check the guitar neck. Hidden compartment. - R. The chip held the real code, not the prototype. His war. His heart.
Shadows moved outside. Safari suits. They'd tracked him. He grabbed a backpack, slipped into the mist. No Vimana. Just a stolen scooter. The king fled again.
CHENNAI. 6:03 AM.
Sita stood in the newsroom, chip in her pocket, note in her hand. "You're running," she'd said to him on the beach. "I'm surviving," he'd replied. The riff hummed in her memory, not sound but connection Ravana to Sita, Ravi to her. She booked a ferry to Jaffna. The chip was his trust. The note was his plea. She'd find him. Not for the story, but for the truth. For them.