The shattered glass had been swept away, but the psychic shrapnel from the vision remained lodged in Parth's mind. It was now 3:15 PM on Thursday afternoon. He sat on the edge of his bed, the image of Suyodh Mehra's face superimposed on that ancient, sneering king replaying in an endless loop. The visceral hatred he felt finally had a face, a context, and that was somehow more terrifying than the mystery had been. It felt less like a hallucination and more like a diagnosis.
Coach Singh drove. He didn't speak, for which Parth was grateful. They left the manicured lawns and modern structures of the sports academy behind, plunging into the labyrinthine heart of old Nashik. The car, a modern sedan, seemed like an intruder here. The lanes grew narrow, flanked by old wadas with intricately carved wooden balconies and walls stained by a hundred monsoons. The air changed, growing thick with the smells of marigold garlands, frying samosas, and fragrant sandalwood incense.
Parth stared out the window, a knot of skepticism and dread tightening in his stomach. He was an athlete. His world was one of physics, nutrition, and mental conditioning. This—a visit to a mystic recommended in a moment of panic—felt like a desperate, irrational detour. He should be at the range, working on his form, not seeking answers in ancient alleyways.
They parked near the towering stone edifice of the Kalaram Mandir and proceeded on foot. The coach led him down a lane so narrow that their shoulders almost brushed the walls on either side. He stopped before a heavy, dark wood door with a simple brass knocker. There was no sign, no nameplate.
"He is Pandit Avinash," the coach said quietly, as if sensing Parth's final surge of resistance. "He is not a showman. Just listen."
The man who opened the door was not what Parth expected. He wasn't ancient or frail. Pandit Avinash was perhaps in his late sixties, with a straight back, a neatly trimmed white beard, and eyes that were startlingly clear and intelligent. He wore a simple white kurta and radiated a sense of profound calm. He led them not into a prayer room, but into a study. The chamber was filled with books on towering shelves—ancient scrolls bound in red cloth sat beside modern hardcovers on philosophy, astronomy, and history.
"Coach Singh. It has been a while," the Pandit said, his voice even. He gestured for them to sit on the simple woven mats on the floor. His gaze then fell upon Parth, and he held it. It wasn't an intrusive stare, but an act of deep, quiet observation. Parth felt the strange sensation of being read, not judged, his carefully constructed walls of modern skepticism turning to glass under that gentle gaze.
Coach Singh began to explain. "He is my student, Parth. A good boy, a brilliant archer. But his mind is... troubled. He sees things. Visions of another time."
Pandit Avinash held up a hand, stopping him. He never took his eyes off Parth. "The trouble is not that he sees another time," the Pandit corrected softly. "The trouble is that he believes he only belongs to this one."
Parth flinched as if the words had physically struck him.
"You carry the weight of an oath," the Pandit continued, his voice resonating in the quiet room. "A promise made in the heart of a great battle. A duty—a Dharma—that was left unfinished. The river of time has flowed on, but your soul remains on that riverbank, waiting. This new life is not a clean slate; it is another chance to complete the task."
Parth felt the blood drain from his face. This man was describing the core of his turmoil, the sense of ancient obligation that warred with his modern ambitions.
"What... what was the promise?" Parth asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"I cannot tell you," Pandit Avinash said simply. "To be told an answer is to borrow it. To discover it for yourself is to own it. The memories are not gone, young warrior. They are simply locked. You are trying to break the door down with force. But this lock requires a key."
"What is the key?" Parth leaned forward, his skepticism forgotten, replaced by a desperate need to understand.
"Acceptance," the Pandit replied. "Stop fighting the echoes. Start listening to them. Tomorrow, before the sun rises, go to Ram Kund. Do not go as an athlete or a confused young man. Go as a seeker. Place your hands in the waters of the Godavari and do not ask to see the past. Ask a single question, and ask it of the part of you that wears the golden kavacha."
The Pandit paused, his gaze piercing. "Ask, 'What is my duty now?'"
The journey back to the academy was as silent as the one before, but the quality of the silence had changed. It was no longer fraught with skepticism and dread. It was filled with a sense of awe, terror, and a fragile, emerging purpose. Parth wasn't just a haunted athlete anymore. He was a seeker who had just been given a map. The first destination was marked: sunrise, at the edge of the sacred river.