Mumbai was a city that never really slept. Even in those early hours before dawn, its heart beat with the restless energy of twenty million dreams, fears, and desires. Skyscrapers loomed like modern-day temples, their glass surfaces reflecting the dim glow of streetlights choked by pollution. Somewhere in the tangled alleys of Dharavi, a stray dog let out a mournful howl—a sound quickly swallowed by the distant rumble of a late-night train.
And then, the earth stirred.
Not from an earthquake or the creaking of crumbling buildings, but from something much deeper. A vibration as ancient as time itself. In the remnants of a forgotten construction site—a graveyard of half-finished luxury condos—the air shimmered. Dust motes floated, defying the pull of gravity. A single crack split the concrete, and from it, a hand broke through.
Ash-covered fingers clawed at the debris. Then an arm. Then a figure emerged, rising like a ghost from the depths of history.
He stood tall, clad in a tattered hoodie and jeans, his skin marked with sacred vibhuti. His hair, tangled and wild, caught the faintest glimmer of moonlight. When his eyes opened, they were anything but human.
They held the void and the stars.
Shiva had awakened.
And the world, though it remained unaware, was about to change forever.