A few minutes later, Mandar regained consciousness.
No—he was no longer in the temple. In fact, the temple itself was gone. He found himself lying on the sandy banks of a river, the cool grains clinging to his skin. The sound of flowing water reached his ears, steady and timeless. Slowly, he lifted his gaze.
It was the Ganga. But something felt different—this was not the Kashi of 2025. The air, the silence, the very energy of the place spoke of another time. He had to know when… and where… he truly was.
Turning his back to the river, Mandar noticed a dimly lit hut a few hundred meters away. A faint fire flickered within, sending thin trails of smoke into the dusk. His legs felt strangely heavy, yet he pushed forward, step by step, until he reached the entrance.
Inside, two figures sat cross-legged, both clad in saffron robes. Between them, a small sacred fire burned—the homa in progress filling the air with the scent of ghee and herbs. Mandar raised his hand to knock, but before he could, the door creaked open.
A man stood before him—young, in his thirties, with a frame and presence uncannily similar to Mandar's own. Behind him sat an older sage, eyes fixed upon the fire, his hands weaving ancient mudras as he chanted.
The younger man smiled and said, "Come inside, brother. We have been waiting for you."
Mandar froze, confusion flooding his mind. Waiting for me? Who were they? Why was he here?
As if hearing his very thoughts, the older man lifted his gaze from the flames. His voice was calm, yet carried the weight of something beyond time itself.
"Mandar," he said, "everything will be explained. Sit. Take your place."
He gestured toward the empty third seat at the homa.
Still in shock, Mandar stepped forward, his heart pounding, knowing his life was about to change forever