Danesh pointed to the coastal region marked Kalinga on the ancient map, present-day Odisha."This," he declared, "was where Emperor Ashoka fought his infamous war.. a state pressed unjustly against an empire. Records speak of hundreds of thousands dead, entire cities reduced to corpses. Even the rivers were said to run red with blood. And yet, that very massacre is what secured his fame. His reign endured not because of dharma, but because fear of that war kept rebellions at bay."
His gaze hardened."And that is why his empire collapsed after his death. With no terror to hold it together, it crumbled and was toppled. Tell me, does such a ruler deserve to be called 'the Great?'"
The room stirred. Several guests clapped in support, emboldened by his defiance. It seemed the verdict leaned in his favor—until a new voice cut in.
"Pardon my intrusion," a smooth baritone said. "But since we're discussing such a fascinating topic, may I add a few words?"
It was Jayesh. He had been circling the group, waiting for his moment. Bowing politely, he locked eyes with Masato, deliberately ignoring both Danesh and Ishita."My name is Jayesh Mittal. My family runs a modest business, but my true passion lies in the history of South and East Asia."
Masato nodded, intrigued."Very well. More knowledge is always welcome."
With a genial smile, Jayesh clapped Danesh lightly on the shoulder."This young man is correct—Ashoka had many flaws. Historians did polish his image for propaganda. Let's not forget he seized the throne by slaughtering ninety-nine of his brothers. And contrary to popular belief, he had already embraced Buddhism before the Kalinga war."
Danesh, surprised but pleased at the unexpected support, inclined his head. But Ishita fired back immediately."You're lying. Even Wikipedia doesn't say that."
Jayesh smirked."Wikipedia isn't the final word, my dear. Check Google.. sources differ sharply. Scholars still debate the timeline."
Ishita hurriedly searched her phone and faltered. She couldn't outright refute him. The crowd murmured at her silence.
But before judgment could settle, Jayesh pivoted sharply."Yet.. this young lady is not wrong either. Ashoka does deserve the title of Great."
The hall froze. Even Danesh's jaw dropped, uncertain what game Jayesh was playing. Rohit clenched his fists, as he knew this snake bastard is scheming again.
Jayesh pressed on, his tone grand and measured."Consider the scale of his achievement. Ruling such a vast land without modern communication, without railways or telegraphs. From north to south, east to west, his authority held. His edicts were carved on pillars across the subcontinent. His enemies still feared him. Yes, he made mistakes, as all humans do. But his reign was remembered as just, his rule marked divine. Even India's national emblem today is drawn from his lion capital."
Everyone was stunned, even Danesh couldn't find words to counter or refute Jayesh's points.
Then, a girl who happened to be a friend of Goenka, asked cautiously, 'Mr. Jayesh, could you please elaborate on what exactly you mean?'"
Jayesh smiled smugly."It is all about perception. Some will paint a man as cruel, others as noble, depending on their interests. But history and legend remains. And speaking of legend, I believe we are overlooking the most important object here—the bowl. How many among us know its true story?"
The room exchanged blank stares. Everyone had read the display notes earlier—nothing beyond that.
Masato leaned forward."Do you know more, young man?"
Jayesh inclined his head."Yes. This bowl was not only used by Ashoka during his Buddhist oath—it is said to be the very bowl once used by Lord Buddha himself before he get enlightened."
Gasps echoed through the hall. Guests leaned in as he continued, his voice rich with story."According to Buddhist scriptures, in his youth Buddha once received rice pudding from a kind boy. In return, he blessed the boy, saying he would one day be a great emperor who spread dharma. That boy, the texts claim, was none other than Ashoka—reborn centuries later. This bowl, passed through holy hands, became the vessel for his oath to serve dharma."
Masato clapped, genuinely impressed."I have rarely seen such passion for history. I am honored by your insight."
Applause followed. The hall swelled with admiration for Jayesh. Danesh seethed and snapped, "What is the source? This bowl is the same one."
Jayesh casually retorted, not even glancing back at him. "If you don't know, that doesn't mean it doesn't exist." His voice was low, yet sharp enough to reach Danesh.
Rohit's eyes narrowed, his gut churning with anger.
He quickly checked on Google, unwilling to trust that trickster. Unfortunately, the man's words turned out to be true—though only as rumors, and with the part about the bowl missing. There was no proof, yet Danesh's verbal rebuke was enough to deter others from crossing him.
This bastard… always scheming. And the worst part? He isn't entirely wrong.
Amidst the mid of applause, Rohit felt a surge of irritation, but he calmed his nerves.
Somewhere deep inside, he suspected his body was reacting from fragments of past memory and instinct. Yet, he reminded himself, it was better not to let emotions dictate him now.
History had never been his interest, and intellectual debates were never his cup of tea. So, he quietly slipped away from the crowd, letting his eyes wander across the other showcases, trying to cool his restless mind.
That was when he froze.
A familiar sculpture stood before him, pulling his gaze like a magnet.
It was the idol of 'Nataraja', Lord Shiva in his cosmic dance. The figure struck him with uncanny familiarity, as its aura strangely resembled their Japanese deity—Daikokuten.
The idol seemed to capture Shiva's mid-movement, each gesture alive with rhythm.
And yet, the face carried that same nonchalant, jovial expression he remembered from the Daikokuten statues he had been forced to bow before during his days with the Yakuza.
He looked around and noticed more Indian deities, as there were idols of Goddess Saraswati and Lord Ganesha, each with similar versions of the dieties of his own land, as written on the nameplates.
Rohit wasn't a believer. Not in Buddhism, not in Hinduism—not in anything. Faith had long abandoned him, or perhaps he had abandoned it. Yet the resemblance unsettled him. It felt as though some hidden thread connected these distant cultures.
He lingered, his eyes tracing every detail of the dancing Shiva. A strange reverie washed over him. His anger, his doubts, even the noise of the world—faded. In its place was a calming stillness, born from the sculptor's artistry.
And then, unbidden, a thought whispered in his mind:
"Why was I chosen to regress? I wasn't anyone remarkable in my past life. Nor do I see greatness in my future. Could it really be… that some divine being pitied my soul? My purpose.."
The question sent a shiver through him. But Rohit quickly pushed it away. His philosophy was simple: the unknown is best left unknown. Better to leave the void empty than to fill it with half-truths.
For now, he let himself simply… admire. Whether Shiva was truly divine or not no longer mattered. The sheer artistic brilliance was enough. Whoever had carved this idol deserved immortality, yet here was their work—buried beneath centuries, nearly forgotten. What a pity.
His musings were interrupted by a voice, polite yet firm, spoken in accented English."You seem rather fascinated by this idol, young man."
ohit turned. Standing beside him was Masato Fujimura. His sharp gaze carried curiosity, and behind him, others had turned as well, noticing the exchange. Rohit realized, uneasily, that he had become the center of attention.
Scratching his head, he replied,"Ah, yes… I was just admiring the idol of Lord Shiva. What caught me off guard is how much it resembles the Japanese god Daikokuten, revered for peace and happiness. Look at the serenity in that smile—it's uncanny."
Masato's brow rose. He had approached because Rohit was the only one ignoring him in favor of an idol. Now, hearing his words, he felt a flicker of surprise. How does this boy know of Japanese deities?
"You seem to know quite a bit about Japanese gods," he remarked.
Rohit quickly shook his head, raising a hand apologetically before tilting it to reveal the bandage across his forehead."Please don't misunderstand. I lost my memory in an accident not long ago. While recovering in hospital, I came across a magazine that spoke of how some Indian gods found counterparts in Japanese Buddhism. That's all I know."
Masato's sternness softened into a smile."Even so, it's an intriguing observation. Tell me—what else do you recall?"
Encouraged, Rohit pointed at the next idol."This is Ganesha, son of Shiva. Worshipped as the remover of obstacles, bringer of good fortune. In Japan, he's known as Kangiten—different name, same essence."
Masato's eyes lit up. "Yes, yes… fascinating indeed."
Rohit continued, gesturing toward Saraswati."And here, our goddess of wisdom and learning. In Japan, she is Benzaiten, goddess of music, water, and knowledge. See the instrument? The resemblance is hard to miss."
Masato leaned closer, his interest growing. "You notice what most overlook. Sharp eyes."
Rohit smiled modestly and shook his head.
"Sadly, that's all I remember. The magazine listed more, but… these are the few I can recall."
Masato studied him. What struck him most wasn't just the knowledge, but the honesty. The boy wasn't overreaching.
Placing a hand on Rohit's shoulder, he asked warmly,"Tell me, then—what do you think of Japan's role in the world, especially in relation to India?"
Rohit hesitated, then spoke with careful sincerity."Japan is called the land of the rising sun for a reason. The first Asian nation to modernize, the only one to forge an unmatched legacy of swordsmanship, and even after the devastation of war, it rose to stand at the forefront of science and technology. That's… remarkable."
Masato's expression brightened as pride flickered in his eyes.
Rohit went on, his tone steady,"I may not know much, but I do believe this—India and Japan have much to offer each other. Especially when facing common rivals, whether China, Europe, or the United States."
Masato's eyebrows shot up. The crowd murmured. The boy had struck directly at the geopolitical tension hanging beneath polite diplomacy. Sharp. Too sharp for mere coincidence.
"Good. Honest. Upright," Masato said slowly, measuring every word. "Young man, I am very curious about who you are."
Rohit bowed slightly, adopting an apologetic tone."Forgive my manners. I am Rohit Singhania, son of Raj Singhania. My family runs a small business here in the capital." He deliberately tied his name to the branch family, downplaying his connection to the more powerful relatives.
Masato studied him, then turned to the crowd with a smile."Ladies and gentlemen, a round of applause for this young man. His words tonight were a contribution not just to this gathering, but to his nation."
The hall erupted. Faces turned toward Rohit—some impressed, others green with envy. A few simply baffled at how he had caught such notice.
Masato reached into his pocket and handed over his business card.
"This is my card. If ever you need assistance, do not hesitate to call."
Rohit glanced down. The card bore the title Managing Director, Takamura Heavy Industries. His lips curved into a restrained but satisfied smile.
He lifted his gaze. His driver, his secretary, onlookers—their reactions were priceless. Awe. Jealousy. And then Jayesh, whose smirk was gone, replaced by a hard, unreadable stare.
Rohit bowed.
"The honor is mine, Mr. Fujimura."
Before more could be said, music drifted through the hall—a piano, its notes flowing like silver. Heads turned toward the stage, where a girl sat at the instrument, fingers dancing across the keys.
Rohit's steps carried him closer almost unconsciously. But as he finally saw her face, he froze.
It was her. The same girl from earlier. Same elegant one-piece dress, jeweled bracelet, and curling hair. The same melody she had been rehearsing in the washroom now soared across the room, pulling every gaze to her.
And Rohit, frozen, could only stare.