Prologue
The Waiting Dream
Ek gungun hoti.
Ek shwas hota.
Ek janma hota.
Ek punarjanma jhala.
(One hum. One breath. One birth. One rebirth.)
Rudra was five when the dreams began. He lay on the cool, red clay floor, his fingers tracing patterns he couldn't quite remember. The faint creak of the ceiling fan and the distant calls of street vendors mixed into the background as early sunlight filtered through the window, warming his face. In that blend of reality, his dreams slipped in unnoticed.
Not stories.
Not nightmares.
Echoes.
They came like waves, gentle at first, then growing louder.
By fifteen, the dreams returned with force.
A battlefield shrouded in mist. The air smelled of ash and wet earth. A black horse stood still, muscles taut, breath steaming in the cold. On its back, a warrior—bare-chested, dusk-eyed, with a spiral glowing faintly on his shoulder. Not a tattoo. A memory. A प्राणचक्र (Prānchakra)—a soul spiral.
He didn't raise a sword. He raised a folded leaf. From the fort wall, a girl watched—her eyes sharp, her smile quiet, like she knew something the world didn't. The wind carried a vow. Not shouted. Whispered.
"I'll return. Not as a conqueror. As a memory."
Rudra woke with a gasp.
His shirt was damp. His heart raced. The room was silent, but his mind roared. He didn't know if he was waking up—or remembering.
He had been having these dreams since he was five.
He sat up, blinking into the dark. The dream clung to him—not like a story, but like a memory. He reached for his sketchbook. His fingers moved without thought—drawing a spiral, a flame, a folded leaf. He didn't remember learning these shapes. But they felt familiar. Old. Like echoes.
He stared at the page.
"What is this?" he whispered.
He tiptoed to the balcony, where the neem tree swayed gently. His grandfather sat there, half-asleep, wrapped in a shawl.
"Dada?"
The old man opened one eye.
"You're awake early."
"I saw something." Rudra sat beside him, sketchbook trembling in his hands. "A horse. A fort. A warrior. I think… I think it was me."
His grandfather didn't laugh. Didn't dismiss. He looked at the sketch, then at Rudra.
"Some dreams are echoes," he said. "Some are invitations."
Rudra swallowed.
"I'm scared."
"Good," his grandfather said. "That means you're listening."
They sat in silence. The wind stirred the pages of the sketchbook. And somewhere in the distance, a conch echoed.
Rudra didn't know it yet, but the spiral he'd drawn would return in stone, in memory, and in choices that would shape not just his life, but the lives of those he had yet to meet. A trek to the mountains was being planned, and he had a strong feeling he was taking his first step toward discovery. The dream wasn't done. It was just waiting. Like a प्राणगाथा (Prāṇagāthā)—a soul verse—unfinished.