Ek satya hote.
Ek saathi hota.
Ek paan jodle.
Ek shodh suru jhala.
(One truth. One companion. One leaf joined. One search began.)
**Rudra's Confession — A Threshold of Memory and Trust**
The neem tree rustled outside the hostel window, its leaves whispering secrets in the evening breeze. The familiar scent of earth after rain drifted in, mingling with the faint aroma of chai. Warm light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft, golden glow across the room. Rudra sat across from Niya, his sketchbook closed, fingers fidgeting restlessly on the table, the pulse at his wrist betraying his nerves.
They had shared chai, each sip echoing the comfort of unspoken connections. The porcelain cups left faint rings on the table, tracing the passage of time between glances. Silence wrapped around them, heavy with anticipation. Now, a weight hung in the air, pressing against Rudra's chest as if waiting for him to voice something deeper.
He looked up at her—not just as a friend, but as someone who had walked beside his unravelling. "Before we dive into this… before we seek, Niya, there's something I need to share." His voice was steady, but inside, his heart raced.
**🌌 The Full Confession**
Rudra took a deep breath, gathering the threads of his thoughts. "It started… with dreams. I'd find myself standing on a ledge, engulfed in mist, holding a folded leaf. It felt significant, like a message, but I couldn't understand it. Yet, it clung to me."
He hesitated, searching for the right words. "Then there was Meghraj. When he looked at me, it was like he saw me—really saw me, as if I were someone he'd been waiting for all his life. It unnerved me, but it also felt inevitable, like meeting a stranger who somehow knows your favorite song."
His voice trembled as he continued. "I can't shake this feeling… There are moments when I sketch forts, and it's as if someone is watching me. Not by people, but by memories. Sometimes, when I play my guitar, it's not just music—I hear a whisper, a melody older than I am, tugging at my soul. It's like something's calling me to remember. But I don't know what."
He dropped his gaze, ashamed and vulnerable. "I thought I was losing my mind, Niya. There were nights I'd wake up sweating, afraid to touch my sketchbook, afraid to dream. I almost gave up on drawing altogether… almost stopped dreaming." He looked up, meeting her steady gaze. "But through it all, you were there—walking alongside me, just being present. You never asked why, no pressure, just… support. Sometimes, it was your silence that made me feel safest."
A silence enveloped them, thick with unspoken bonds. "So before we search for the truths hidden in the past, I owe you my truth first. All of it."
**🧑🤝🧑 Niya's Response**
Niya sat silently for a moment, absorbing his words. She let the quiet settle, her thumb tracing the edge of her sketchbook. Then, with deliberate calm, she opened it and turned it toward him.
On the page lay an image—a folded leaf and a spiral, delicate strokes intertwining.
"I didn't just follow you blindly, Rudra," she said, her voice steady and sure. "I followed something I felt, something that pulled me in your direction even before I understood why. And now, looking at this, I realize… it was always you. Somehow, I think I was always meant to find you."
They sat in silence, entranced by the unbreakable thread of trust woven between their hearts. The spiral etched in their minds began to take shape—not as a mere symbol, but as a bridge between their pasts. Outside, the neem leaves rustled, as if affirming their silent pact.
**🧭 From Dream to Discovery**
Later, Rudra settled cross-legged on the hostel floor, his sketchbook open in front of him while his laptop hummed softly. Niya leaned over his shoulder, sipping her chai as she scrolled through search results, their shoulders nearly touching. The room felt alive with possibility.
"Look here," she read aloud, a spark of excitement in her voice. "The spiral symbol carved on a sword near Korlai Fort. It has Portuguese origins—a warrior's mark. Quite rare, apparently."
Rudra broke into a smile, the pieces clicking into place. "That's the same symbol I saw in the museum, on the stone, and even in my dream."
**🧠 The Online Trail**
They delved into research late into the night, their minds buzzing with connections. The blue glow of the screen cast shifting shadows across the walls, illuminating the intensity in their eyes.
"Korlai Fort's history… it's steeped in the narratives of the Portuguese, Maratha, and British," Niya mused, eyes wide. "Layers of conquest, but also layers of silence."
"Look at these spiral motifs," Rudra pointed to the screen. "Used by warrior clans, often linked to reincarnation myths. This connects to something much larger than ourselves."
As they explored further, one article caught their attention. "A ceremonial blade was found near Korlai with a spiral flame etched into the hilt. It could be significant!" Niya exclaimed, excitement brightening her features.
"This isn't random, Niya," she said, glancing at him. "It's a thread—one that you're starting to pull."
**📓 The Sketchbook Grows**
Rudra added new sketches to his notebook—each image radiated a sense of urgency and clarity.
They pored over sketches:
A mural of a warrior holding a spiral sword, fierce eyes burning with purpose.
A girl with a folded leaf in her hair, laughing under the shade of the neem tree, sunlight tangled in her curls.
A horse emerging from the mist.
A clay lamp surrounded by water.
Each sketch felt less like art and more like a memory awakening from slumber, every line trembling with recognition.
**🧕 Niya's Realization**
As she examined one drawing—the girl joyfully tossing a mango, her laughter almost audible on the page—Rudra whispered, "That's Meera."
Niya studied the lines carefully, tracing them with her fingertips. "But she feels like me," she replied, bewildered. "Does that mean I was her?"
He paused, his heart achingly full, and reached for her hand. "Maybe we're remembering together," he said softly, a gentle uncertainty in his voice, the warmth of connection enveloping them like a promise.
**📚 The First Clue**
Later, as dusk descended, they sat side by side beneath the neem tree. The ground was cool beneath them, and the air felt lighter now, the weight of truth set free. Fireflies blinked lazily in the warm twilight.
Rudra opened the brittle old booklet they had discovered in the Panvel archives, the fragile papers crackling under his touch. "Look at this," he said, pointing to a faded line penned in a flowing hand. 'Veerachi gungun ek paan hote… Ek athavan hoti.'
Niya's breath caught in her throat, eyes wide. "That's the line you said your grandfather whispered."
Rudra nodded, the connection threading through time. Beneath the verse was a footnote, a whisper of history: "Attributed to a forgotten warrior of the western coast. Name erased. Legacy preserved in oral fragments."
They exchanged a knowing glance, the spiral within them stirring to life.
"We need to go to Korlai," she said, her voice a blend of excitement, wonder, and determination. "Not just to see it… but to feel it. To stand where their stories unfolded."
With a smile, she tucked a folded leaf into his sketchbook, an offering of connection and faith. As he added a new page—blank, waiting, infinite possibilities ahead—the air was charged with unspoken promise. They didn't speak of destiny. They spoke of feeling, of memory, of mangoes, mist, and horses that listened, of music that lingered even after the last note. They spoke like friends who had found each other again, across lifetimes.
**🌿 The Neem Tree Pact**
The wind danced through the leaves of the neem tree, a gentle murmur of agreement as Rudra and Niya nestled close, the old booklet resting between them, the spiral's energy pulsing in their shared silence.
Rudra traced the verse again with his thumb. "Veerachi gungun ek paan hote… Ek athavan hoti," he murmured thoughtfully.
Niya looked at him, her eyes sparkling, and whispered, "It's not just a clue. It's a call."
"Then we answer it. Together." His heart surged with hope and resolve.
With a smile, she tucked a folded leaf into his sketchbook, an offering of connection. As he added a new page—blank, waiting, infinite possibilities ahead—the air was charged with unspoken promise. They didn't speak of destiny. They spoke of feeling, of memory, of mangoes, mist, and horses that listened.
The spiral had begun. Not in dreams. In trust.