Sanam glanced around desperately, panic rising in his chest. He looked like a lost child searching for his parents. His mind faltered, glitching at the impossibility of what his eyes were seeing. He had imagined this once in a thought, but to stand in it now—it was unbearable.
For a moment he froze, forgetting why he had come here at all: to find the girl. Reality struck back like a slap, and he stumbled toward the ruins. But instead of broken stones, he found a post office. Workers bustled about, sorting letters, carrying sacks, paying him curious glances.
Ignoring them, Sanam hurried to the other side. From the gallery, he saw houses scattered on the edge of the village. He pinched himself hard, praying to wake. But the pain stayed, and so did the strange world.
A few villagers stared openly at him, their brows furrowed at his odd clothes and restless movements. Meanwhile, Meera was still running, convinced Sanam was a killer. She tried to cry out for help—but before her voice carried, she collapsed in fear, fainting onto the dirt road.
---
When Meera opened her eyes again, the brightness of day blurred her vision. Slowly, the shapes of a modest room came into focus. At the doorway stood a woman, perhaps in her forties, dressed in a bright lehenga-choli.
"She has woken," the woman called softly, stepping inside.
Another figure entered—a man in dhoti-kurta. Meera stiffened in fear, only to breathe easier when she saw his gentle face. This was not the man she feared.
The woman sat at the edge of her bed.
"Child, are you well? Who are you? Why were you running like the wind?" she asked in a warm, rustic tone.
Meera's breath came shallow. The woman placed a kind hand on her head. But at the touch, Meera's body tensed. A vision surged—a woman feeding a little girl by lamplight. Forcing herself back, Meera inhaled deeply, fighting to stay calm.
The man hurried out and returned with a brass tumbler of water.
"Drink, bitiya. Your throat is dry," he urged.
She drank, the coolness steadying her heartbeat.
"Where… where am I?" she whispered.
"You are in our house," the man said gently. "No fear here. You are safe." His name was Ram.
From outside drifted a sharp, commanding voice. Meera followed the sound into a small courtyard. There, on a swing, sat an old woman with eyes like a hawk. Another woman—Ram's sister-in-law—was bent over a stone grinder, crushing spices with rhythmic strokes.
The old woman's gaze shot up the moment she saw the stranger.
"Arrey! So the girl lives. I thought you had gone to the gods already. Who are you? Where is your husband? You do not look of this village. And these clothes—what manner of dressing is this?" She spat the words like bitter neem.
Meera faltered. "I… I don't know this place."
Champa, the younger woman, piped in timidly, "Maybe she lost her husband on the way, Maaji."
"Chup! Keep that tongue of yours tied!" the old woman snapped.
"I'm not married," Meera said at last. "But yes… I am lost."
The old woman's lip curled. "Unmarried still? Hai re, such shamelessness."
Stung, Meera turned her face away. Later, Ram and Champa quietly offered her shelter, but Meera shook her head. Ram decided to walk with her, to help her find her way.
Outside, the full breadth of the village opened before her—dusty lanes, tiled roofs, and the air heavy with smoke and cattle.
"What do they call this place?" Meera asked, unable to hide her awe.
"Brajnagar," Ram answered.
Her eyes caught sight of tall mansions in the distance. Their style was foreign, arrogant.
"And those houses—whose are they?"
"They belong to the angrez," Ram said bitterly.
Meera froze. "The British… still here?"
"Yes. Those devils still sit on our necks."
"But… that cannot be." Her voice broke. "India has been free for seventy-eight years."
Ram gave a low laugh, shaking his head as though humoring a child. "What riddles you speak. It is the year 1872. Now come, it is near sundown. Tomorrow, perhaps, the gods will show you your road home."
Her stomach turned to ice.
---
That night, at Ram's house, Meera endured the old woman's sharp tongue. During the meal, Champa asked her name.
"Meera," she said softly.
The old woman let out a scoff. "One burden was enough in this house with that name." She explained that Ram's youngest daughter was also named Meera. Meera lowered her eyes. The family allowed her to stay the night, though the old woman's glares made it clear she wasn't welcome.
The coincidence clung to Meera like a shadow she could not shake off her feeling about is that man joking or it real
---
The next morning, Meera awoke to a loud commotion in the village square. Ram led her there, pushing through the gathered crowd. At the center, the body of the richest landlord lay on a platform. At first glance, it looked like a statue.
But it wasn't.
The corpse was posed unnaturally, seated upright with his hands raised like a schoolboy punished by a teacher. His mouth was gagged with cloth. His skin had hardened, a strange white substance coating it like stone. Slips of paper were pinned to his body, fluttering in the breeze.
The villagers whispered, horrified.
Sanam stood at the edge of the crowd, staring intently. Unlike the others, he wasn't afraid. His eyes gleamed with hunger, with recognition.
No… no, this can't be real. It's happening again… even in this time.
He studied the body closer. The same chemical — a mix of boiled animal glue and ash that hardened like plaster — had been used. The same twisted infinity symbol was marked on the victim's hands. Only the position differed from before.
The villagers speculated wildly, their fear rising. British officers soon arrived, equally shocked by the grotesque scene. Sanam said nothing, just kept his eyes locked on the "statue," his mind racing. For the first time in days, his desperation to escape this place dulled. His chest buzzed with dangerous excitement.
Something far bigger was unfolding here.