The heat in Rajasthan didn't just sit on the skin; it possessed a personality. It was aggressive, rude, and persistent, burrowing deep into the bones until even the marrow felt dry. It was the kind of heat that turned the air into a shimmering, watery haze, blurring the horizon where the dusty brown earth met the bleached-white sky. It was a heat that demanded submission.
In the courtyard of a modest, whitewashed house on the outskirts of Jaipur, an eight-year-old boy stood waging a silent, desperate war against gravity.
Dhruv wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, his messy hair sticking to his skin like damp straw. He stood before a jagged rock, roughly the size of a large watermelon. To the rest of the world—specifically his pragmatic father—it was just debris left over from a neighbor's wall construction, an eyesore that needed to be cleared. But to Dhruv, this was not a rock.
It was the Govardhan Parvat.
He squeezed his eyes shut, his brow furrowing in intense concentration until his head began to ache. He extended one trembling hand toward the stone, palm open, fingers splayed wide like a Jedi attempting a force pull. He wasn't trying to lift it with his muscles. That would be boring. That would be human.
Rise, he commanded in the silence of his mind. Just one inch. Come on.
He visualized the blue skin of Lord Krishna, the effortless grace of a deity lifting a mountain on a pinky finger to shelter villagers from the torrential rain. He imagined invisible energy flowing from his solar plexus, down his arm, and wrapping around the stone like a rope of pure, white light. He could almost feel the phantom tension of the rope in his grip.
Rise!
The stone remained stubbornly terrestrial. In fact, it seemed to settle deeper into the dust, mocking him. A large black fly landed on the peak of the rock, rubbing its legs together, adding insult to injury.
"Dhruv?"
The boy snapped his eyes open. The magical aura he had painstakingly constructed in his head dissipated instantly, shattering like glass. The divine mountain became a dirty rock. The Jedi became a sweaty boy in shorts.
His father, Suresh, stood on the porch, a cup of masala chai steaming in his hand despite the oppressive heat. He looked worn out, his shoulders slumped with the specific, heavy fatigue of a middle-class man who spent his days checking inventory lists and arguing with suppliers about copper wire prices.
"Still trying to be a god, beta?" his father asked. There was no malice in his voice, only a heavy sigh that Dhruv had learned to recognize. It was the sound of a man who knew the world was hard, unyielding, and governed by cold mathematics, and he wished his son would stop pretending it was magic.
"I almost had it, Papa," Dhruv lied, though his heart squeezed with the desperate desire to believe it. "I felt it move. Just a little. The dust swirled around the base."
His father took a slow, deliberate sip of tea, shaking his head. "Stone is stone, Dhruv. It moves when you sweat, not when you dream. Come inside. The books are waiting. Physics won't learn itself."
Dhruv looked back at the stone one last time. For a second—just a fraction of a second—he could have sworn the rock vibrated. A low hum, like a sleeping cat. But perhaps it was just a truck passing on the highway miles away.
"Coming, Papa," he whispered, kicking the dust in frustration.
He didn't know it then, but years later, lying on a cold steel table with electricity burning through his veins, he would wish for the stone to stay heavy. He would wish for a world where things only moved when you touched them.
Ten Years Later
March 23rd, 2024.
Dhruv was no longer the boy in the courtyard, but the dreamer had not died; he had simply learned to hide behind a wall of jokes and indifference.
At eighteen, he was tall-ish—not a tower, but enough to look down on most of his classmates. He was lanky, with fair skin and hair that refused to obey the laws of physics, sticking up in tufts that gave him the perpetual look of an anime protagonist who had just rolled out of bed.
He sat in the back row of the lecture hall, the drone of Professor Sharma's voice fading into background noise. The room smelled of chalk dust, old wood, and the stale sweat of fifty bored teenagers. On the page of his notebook, Dhruv wasn't solving for the velocity of a falling projectile or calculating friction coefficients. He was sketching the Sudarshan Chakra, the divine spinning disc of Lord Vishnu, cutting through a demon that looked suspiciously like his math teacher.
"Oi, Cosmic Dhruv," a whisper snaked through the row behind him.
Dhruv stiffened but didn't turn around. He knew the voice. Rohan. The class bully, built like a refrigerator and with about as much emotional depth.
"Hey, Hawai-jahaj," Rohan whispered louder, kicking the leg of Dhruv's chair. "Airplane. Are you flying right now? Can you ask the clouds when the monsoon is coming? My bike needs a wash."
A ripple of laughter moved through the back of the room. The nickname had stuck since middle school, a cruel reminder of the time Dhruv had told them he could feel the vibrations of the universe. They called him 'Airplane' because his head was always in the clouds.
Dhruv didn't turn. He just leaned back in his chair, lazily spinning his pen between his fingers. "Careful, Rohan," he said, loud enough for the back row to hear but quiet enough to miss the Professor's ears. "If I bring the rain, you might actually have to take a shower. We don't want to shock your immune system."
The boys next to Rohan snickered. Rohan's face turned pink.
"Silence!" Professor Sharma barked, slamming a wooden ruler on the chalkboard. Dust motes danced in the shaft of sunlight hitting the desk. "Dhruv! Since you are so talkative, tell me—what is the escape velocity of Earth?"
Dhruv stood up slowly. He adjusted his t-shirt, which read 'ERROR 404: WILL TO STUDY NOT FOUND'. He looked at the formula on the board, a jumble of Greek letters that meant nothing to his soul.
"11.2 kilometers per second, Sir," Dhruv said with a charming, lopsided grin. "Which is exactly the speed I need to run away from this lecture."
The class erupted. Even the girl in the front row, the one who never smiled, cracked a grin.
"Get out!" Sharma pointed to the door, his mustache twitching with rage. "Out! And take your hansi-mazak (jokes) with you!"
Dhruv bowed theatrically. "Your wish is my command, O Great One."
He grabbed his bag and sauntered out, winking at Anika as he passed her desk.
As he stepped into the corridor, adjusting his bag strap, a classmate named Sameer leaned against the lockers, blocking his path. Sameer was one of the "popular" guys who couldn't understand why Dhruv, the weird backbencher, got so much attention.
"Nice show in there, Dhruv," Sameer smirked. "You know, half the girls in class were laughing at your joke. You're surprisingly popular with the ladies."
Dhruv paused, feigning innocence. "Am I?"
"Seriously," Sameer leaned in. "Do you have a girlfriend? Is that why you reject everyone? Who is the lucky girl?"
Dhruv let out a long, dramatic sigh, shaking his head as if he carried the weight of the world. He patted Sameer on the shoulder.
"Sameer, my friend," Dhruv said solemnly. "Ladki ka chakkar, truck marde mujhe takkar." (A girl is trouble, like getting hit by a truck). "I prefer my bones intact, thank you very much."
He walked away, leaving Sameer confused, and headed for the college gate.
Dhruv waited outside, leaning against a rusty lamp post. The sun was beginning its descent, painting the sky in bruises of purple and orange. He bought a packet of spicy Chana Jor Garam from a street vendor and munched on it, watching the world go by.
Ten minutes later, the bell rang, and a sea of students flooded out. Anika marched straight toward him, looking like a miniature storm cloud. She was short—standing a good head shorter than him—but she walked with the confidence of someone who could do a backflip on a balance beam. Her shoulder-length hair bounced with every angry step.
"You are impossible," she said, stopping in front of him and crossing her arms. The sunlight glinted off her glasses, hiding her eyes for a moment.
"And you are adorable when you're angry," Dhruv said, offering the packet. "Chana? It has extra lemon today."
She slapped his hand away. "Dhruv! Professor Sharma is going to call your parents this time. Why do you have to provoke him? He controls your internal marks!"
"He asked for escape velocity! I gave him a practical application!" Dhruv defended himself, popping a chickpea into his mouth. "Besides, life is too short to be serious about physics. We're all just atoms vibrating in a void, Ani. Why not vibrate with laughter?"
Anika rolled her eyes behind her glasses. "You're not 'vibrating with laughter,' you're vibrating with unemployment. My dad says if you don't get your grades up, you'll end up selling tea at the railway station."
"Hey!" Dhruv looked offended, placing a hand on his chest. "Tea sellers have a great profit margin. And I make excellent chai. Ginger, cardamom, a pinch of love... wah. People would line up."
"Ugh!" Anika threw her hands up. "You're hopeless. Come on, let's go. My mom made kheer."
Dhruv's face lit up. "Kheer? Real kheer? Not that diet stuff your aunt makes with stevia?"
"Real kheer. With cashews and raisins."
"Anika, you are the goddess of my life. Let's go."
As they walked down the dusty road, the noise of the market fading behind them, Dhruv's mood shifted. The humor faded, replaced by a quiet restlessness that had been gnawing at him for weeks. He looked up at the distant Aravalli hills, purple shadows lengthening as the sun dipped lower.
"Ani," he said softly, kicking a stone. "Do you ever feel like... there's something else? Like we're meant for more than just... this?" He gestured vaguely at the traffic, the college, the mundane reality of Jaipur. "Get a degree, get a job, die."
Anika softened. She knew this mood. "Dhruv, not the superpower thing again."
"It's not a 'thing'," he mumbled. "I can feel it. Sometimes, when I sit still... I feel a hum. Like a wire carrying too much current. It's inside me."
"That's called anxiety, Dhruv," she said gently. "Or maybe hunger. Have you eaten lunch?"
"You only care about food and marks," Dhruv sighed. "But one day... one day, I'll show you."
"Yeah, yeah. Until then, help me with my bag. It's heavy."
They reached the crossroads. To the left was Anika's colony. To the right was the winding path up the mountain.
"I... I have to go somewhere first," Dhruv said, stopping.
Anika frowned. "Where? The Kheer is waiting. It gets cold."
"The Old Temple," Dhruv said, looking toward the hills. "It's... it's Monday. Shiva's day. I just need to... sit for a bit. Clear my head."
Anika studied his face. She saw the sadness behind the goofy smile. She knew he went there when the world felt too small for him. It was a ruin, abandoned by the city, but Dhruv loved the stories the old priest, Panditji, told him there.
"Okay," she said softly. "But don't be late. And don't try to lift any rocks."
"No promises," he grinned, but it didn't reach his eyes.
He watched her walk away, her small figure disappearing into the crowd. Then, he turned and began the long walk up the winding path toward the mountains, toward the abandoned Shiva temple that sat like a lonely sentinel overlooking the city.
He didn't know it yet, but he was walking toward the end of his life. And the beginning of something far, far worse.
The sun was a dying ember by the time Dhruv reached the ruins. The Old Shiva Temple was crumbling, its stone walls swallowed by the roots of a massive Banyan tree that looked like it was strangling the structure. It was silent here, far from the honking horns of the city. The only sound was the wind whistling through the cracks in the stone.
Dhruv kicked off his sneakers at the broken steps. The stone was cool under his feet. He walked into the garbhagriha, the inner sanctum.
It was dark inside, illuminated only by a sliver of moonlight filtering through the collapsed dome. The air smelled different today. Usually, it smelled of dry leaves, bat droppings, and old marigolds. Today, it smelled... sweet. Metallic. Like ozone before a thunderstorm.
"Panditji?" Dhruv called out.
The old priest was usually here, sweeping the floor or humming bhajans. But today, the temple was empty. The priest's mat was rolled up in the corner, covered in a thin layer of dust.
Dhruv shrugged and sat down before the ancient black Lingam. He closed his eyes, folding his hands in his lap.
"Hey," he whispered to the darkness. "It's me again. The failure."
He took a deep breath, trying to find that hum he always talked about. He wanted to feel something—anything—that proved the world was more than just atoms and empty space.
Hiss.
A soft sound, like a serpent exhaling, echoed from the shadows behind the idol.
Dhruv opened his eyes. "Who's there?"
Before he could stand, the air in the chamber shifted. A white mist began to curl around the base of the Lingam. It wasn't natural. It didn't drift like smoke; it poured heavy and thick, clinging to the floor like dry ice. In seconds, it swirled up, filling the small stone chamber with a dense, opaque fog.
Dhruv coughed. The mist tasted chemical, sweet on his tongue. He tried to stand up, but his knees buckled.
Dizzy.
The world tilted on its axis. The stone walls seemed to stretch and warp like melting wax. Dhruv slumped back against the wall, his head lolling to the side. His limbs felt like they were made of lead. He couldn't lift his arms. He couldn't speak.
Through the thick white haze, shadows moved.
Two figures emerged from the fog. They were blurry, indistinct shapes towering over him. To his drug-addled mind, they looked tall, majestic, almost divine—but something was wrong. Their silhouettes were too sharp, their movements too clinical.
Dhruv blinked, trying to focus. Were they gods? Were they demons?
One of the figures stepped closer. Through the blur, Dhruv saw it holding a metallic ring—a crown? A halo? It descended toward him.
Click.
Cold metal clamped around his skull, tightening against his temples. A low, mechanical hum started inside his head, vibrating against his skull bone. It felt invasive, wrong.
The other figure leaned in. Dhruv saw a flash of metal through the blur—a cup? A chalice?
The rim of the vessel was pressed forcefully against his lips.
"Drink," a whisper floated through the fog. It didn't sound like a voice; it sounded like a thought placed inside his brain via the metal crown.
Dhruv didn't want to, but his body obeyed. He swallowed. The liquid was bitter, cold, and tasted of iron. It burned his throat on the way down, settling in his stomach like a stone.
Prasad? his mind wondered sluggishly. Is this the nectar?
Then, the second figure moved. Dhruv felt a hand on his neck, rough and searching for a vein.
Pinch.
A sharp, stinging pain pierced the side of his neck. It felt like a massive bee had just buried its stinger into his flesh.
"Ah..." Dhruv tried to cry out, but only a wheeze escaped his lips.
Fire.
The fire started at his neck and raced down his spine. His veins felt like they were being filled with molten lava. His heart hammered against his ribs—thump-thump-thump—faster and faster until it was just a continuous vibration.
The figures stood up, watching him. They didn't help. They just watched as he convulsed on the cold stone floor, the metal crown humming louder, syncing with his screams.
As the darkness rushed in to swallow him, Dhruv reached out a trembling hand toward the Lingam, seeking purchase, seeking help. But his hand found nothing but air.
His eyes rolled back. The white mist turned to black void.
And then, there was nothing.