Revised Screenplay – Part 1
Prologue: The Odd Child
01 August 1998 — Mumbai, India
Mumbai, the city of dreams, was always alive. Its heartbeat echoed through rickshaw horns, street vendors, monsoon winds, and the churning Arabian Sea. But away from the glossy skyline, deep in the dusty lanes of Mazgaon, stood a weathered orphanage few ever spoke of.
"Shree Chhaya Sadan Bal Ashram," the rusted sign read, hanging slightly askew over the iron gate. The gate itself groaned with age, and the boundary wall was overgrown with moss and cracked like the memories of the children who lived inside.
Among these children was a boy who did not belong.
He was three years old today. Unlike the other children who squealed at the promise of sweets and a thin slice of birthday cake, he sat quietly by the window, his blue eyes fixed on the rain.
Aarav.
Dark black hair, striking blue eyes that seemed almost unnatural against his brown skin, and a silence that unsettled even the nuns who cared for the children.
No one knew who his parents were. One stormy night two years ago, he had been left at the gates of the orphanage wrapped in a damp, woolen shawl. The only item left with him was a half-burnt note in English:
"Keep him safe. He's not meant for this world."
The sisters had named him Aarav, meaning "peaceful sound." But nothing about him was peaceful. He rarely cried, never played, and never babbled like the other toddlers. Instead, he stared. He watched. He solved puzzles far beyond his age.
Sister Anjali often found him constructing strange geometric patterns with building blocks, forming symbols that she later discovered resembled Tibetan mandalas. Once, he had drawn something in the dirt behind the orphanage—an intricate circle with runes only the Ancient One herself would recognize as ancient sigils of power.
But none of them understood him. How could they? Aarav did not belong here. He never did.
On the morning of his third birthday, as clouds gathered thickly above Mumbai, Aarav felt... strange. The sensation had no name, no source. Like a hand brushing against his spine, like eyes watching him from just beyond the veil.
He sat alone under the neem tree, water dripping through its leaves onto his bare shoulders. His tiny fingers traced the mud, instinctively sketching symbols he'd never seen before. A spiral. A doorway. A key.
"Aarav! Come inside, you'll catch cold!" Sister Leena called.
He looked up but did not move.
Because something else had already arrived.
The air grew denser. The raindrops slowed, not in speed—but in time itself.
Then, without warning, the rain stopped falling around him. The droplets froze mid-air, suspended like glass beads. The children's laughter turned to distant echoes, like sound underwater.
And there she was.
A bald woman dressed in golden-yellow robes stood just beyond the orphanage's gate. The world shimmered around her presence, like a mirage forced into reality.
She walked with grace but carried an impossible authority. Her eyes scanned the playground, stopping on the boy beneath the tree.
Aarav stood up.
He did not run, did not ask questions. He simply looked at her, as if he had always known she would come.
"So small," the Ancient One murmured as she approached, her voice clear despite the warped air. "And yet... so far along the path already."
She knelt in front of him, gazing into eyes far older than three years should allow.
"Do you know why I'm here, Aarav?"
He tilted his head. "To take me home."
A flicker of surprise—rare for the Sorcerer Supreme—danced across her face. She gave a soft smile.
"Yes. Exactly that."
The orphanage stirred slowly as time snapped back into motion. Rain resumed, children cried, and the sisters shouted in confusion. But neither Aarav nor the Ancient One were there anymore.
They had vanished—leaving behind only a wet patch of earth, etched with a perfect circle of glowing runes.
Aarav had stepped beyond the known world.
He had stepped into legend.