Few Weeks ago before Sundarban incident
The Farewell at Dawn
The Kerala morning had been suffused with golden light filtering through coconut palms as Anant stood before Gurukkal Govindankutty Nair and Meenakshi Amma for the final time. His month of intensive Kalarippayattu training had concluded, and now the pilgrimage he had been postponing could no longer be delayed.
"Beta," Meenakshi Amma said, her ninety-one-year-old hands trembling slightly as she placed them on his shoulders in blessing, "you came to us as heir to business empire, but you leave as guardian of traditions that extend beyond any individual achievement. Where does your journey take you now?"
Anant's gentle smile carried depths that suggested purposes beyond simple travel. "To Haridwar, Amma. The Maha Kumbh begins in January, but I wish to arrive through pilgrimage rather than convenience. I will walk—barefoot—through the states that lie between here and before Haridwar I will go to Prayagraj to see the sacred confluence where Ganga, Yamuna, and Saraswati meet where I was born."
Gurukkal's weathered face showed concern mixed with understanding. "That is thousands of kilometers, beta. Through terrain ranging from tropical forests to mountain passes. Why subject yourself to such hardship when you could travel in comfort?"
"Because," Anant replied with quiet conviction, "one cannot truly understand the relationship between humanity and nature, between suffering and joy, between dharma and adharma, by observing from air-conditioned vehicles. The earth must be felt beneath bare feet. The people must be met in their villages and fields. The reality of modern India—both beautiful and broken—must be witnessed directly rather than filtered through privilege."
The gathered villagers who had come to bid farewell murmured among themselves, their faces showing the mixture of awe and affection that had characterized their relationship with this extraordinary young man who had blessed their community with his presence.
"Will you return to us, golden boy?" asked little Meera, the five-year-old who had been among the first children to recognize something divine in Anant's morning practices.
Anant knelt to her level, his voice carrying warmth that made her smile despite her tears. "I will return, little one. Perhaps not immediately, but this village holds piece of my heart now. The Kerala earth has drunk my sweat during training. The people here have shown me kindness that transcends transaction or expectation. Such bonds are not severed by distance or time."
As the sun climbed higher and the moment of departure arrived, Anant removed his shoes—expensive leather footwear befitting the heir to the Tata empire—and placed them carefully in his travel pack. His feet, already conditioned by month of Kalari training, touched the earth with reverence that suggested this was not merely practical choice but spiritual commitment.
"Bharat Mata," he whispered in Sanskrit, kneeling to touch the soil with his forehead, "I walk upon you with humility and gratitude. Guide my steps toward understanding. Show me truth without filter or distortion. Let this journey purify whatever remains impure within me."
Then he rose, shouldered his modest pack containing only essentials, and began walking north toward a destination over two thousand kilometers distant.
Through the Diverse Heart of India
The first week carried Anant through Tamil Nadu's temple towns, where ancient stone structures testified to civilizational continuity spanning millennia. In Madurai, he stood before the towering gopurams of Meenakshi Temple, watching thousands of devotees moving through rituals unchanged since ancestors had performed them centuries before.
An elderly priest, noticing the young man standing barefoot and obviously travel-worn despite his youth, approached with concern. "Beta, why do you walk without shoes? Are you performing penance for some sin?"
"No, pandit ji," Anant replied respectfully. "I walk this way to remember that I am not separate from the earth or the people whose lives touch it more intimately than mine ever has. My privilege has insulated me. This journey removes that insulation."
The priest studied him with eyes that had witnessed seven decades of human nature. "You carry weight beyond your years, child. Not physical burden, but something that presses on your soul. What drives one so young to seek such direct encounter with suffering?"
Anant's smile was gentle but carried shadows the priest immediately recognized as indicating depths of experience that transcended apparent age. "Perhaps I seek to understand whether dharma still operates in modern world, grandfather. Whether goodness can survive systematic corruption. Whether hope remains possible for those who suffer without institutional protection or inherited advantage."
Through Karnataka, he witnessed both beauty and brutality. In Hampi, the ruins of Vijayanagara Empire spoke of glory destroyed by invasion and time, yet Hindu temples still functioned amid the rubble, maintaining spiritual practices despite material collapse. In Bangalore, he saw technology sector prosperity coexisting with slums where families lived in conditions that would have shamed medieval societies.
The contrast was stark and painful. Gleaming tech campuses where engineers earned salaries exceeding most Indians' lifetime income stood kilometers from settlements where children worked as domestic labor, denied education and childhood to serve families who viewed them as subhuman commodities.
"The good is weakening," Anant observed to himself one evening, sitting beside a rural well in a village that lacked electricity despite being thirty kilometres from major city. "Corruption spreads like poison through institutions meant to serve public welfare. Exploitation intensifies as those with power discover that consequences rarely follow abuses."
But hope remained. In that same village, he witnessed a teacher who received no salary for three months continuing to instruct children because she believed education represented their only escape from generational poverty. He met farmers who shared their meagre harvest with even poorer neighbours despite knowing their own families would go hungry. He encountered small acts of tremendous courage—people choosing compassion over self-interest even when survival itself hung in balance.
"The good force still defends itself," he concluded with relief that bordered on gratitude. "It bends under pressure but hasn't broken completely. Not yet."
Through Maharashtra's varied landscape—from coastal beauty to drought-stricken interior regions where farmer suicides reached epidemic levels—Anant's understanding deepened about the systemic challenges facing ordinary Indians whose stories never reached newspapers or policy discussions.
He walked through Madhya Pradesh's tribal regions, where indigenous communities struggled to maintain cultural identity against pressures toward assimilation that would erase languages, traditions, and spiritual practices preserved for millennia. He witnessed government schools that existed only on paper, health clinics staffed by corrupt officials who sold medicine meant for poor patients, and police stations where filing complaint required bribes that victims couldn't afford.
But he also witnessed magnificent monuments—the temples of Khajuraho demonstrating artistic sophistication that challenged assumptions about "primitive" ancestors, the stupas of Sanchi testifying to Buddhist philosophical contributions, the forts and palaces reminding him that Indian civilization had produced wonders that rivaled anything European colonizers claimed as evidence of their superiority.
By the time he reached Uttar Pradesh and began his approach toward Prayagraj, Anant had walked over eighteen hundred kilometers across two months of continuous pilgrimage. His feet were weathered but healthy, his body lean from constant movement and simple food, his mind enriched by thousands of conversations with people whose perspectives rarely penetrated the bubble of privilege surrounding wealthy families and business empires.
The Detour to Sundarbans
Yet something pulled him eastward before completing his northward journey. Standing at a crossroads in rural Uttar Pradesh, Anant felt inexplicable compulsion to detour toward Bengal—specifically toward the Sundarbans, the world's largest mangrove forest that he had never visited and had no logical reason to explore.
"Why?" he asked himself, studying the road that would carry him hundreds of kilometers out of his planned route. "The Kumbh begins soon. Delay serves no purpose I can articulate."
But the pull was undeniable—not intellectual curiosity or touristic desire, but something deeper that operated below conscious reasoning. His enhanced awareness, which usually provided clarity about cosmic purposes and dharmic obligations, offered no explanation. Only certainty that he must go there. Must witness something. Must be present for event whose nature remained concealed but whose importance transcended personal preferences or logical planning.
So he turned east, walking toward Bengali coastal regions with their distinctive culture, language, and the massive mangrove forests that represented unique ecosystem unlike anything else in the subcontinent.
The Sundarbans revealed themselves gradually—first through changing soil composition and increasing water saturation, then through appearance of distinctive vegetation, finally through the overwhelming presence of tidal channels that transformed solid ground into negotiable suggestion subject to lunar rhythms.
The tribal settlements he encountered here carried particular quality of marginalization that exceeded even what he had witnessed in other regions. These were people who existed almost entirely outside formal economy and government recognition—fishing communities, honey collectors, and subsistence farmers whose ancestors had lived here for centuries but who possessed no legal documentation of land ownership or citizenship rights.
"We are ghosts to the government," one elder told him when Anant stopped to share a meal in a village that lacked even basic infrastructure. "No schools, no clinics, no legal protection. When forest rangers or traffickers come, we have no recourse. Who will hear complaint from people who officially don't exist?"
The words carried weight that pressed on Anant's consciousness like physical burden. These were India's most vulnerable—lacking not just resources but recognition, invisible to systems meant to provide protection and opportunity.
The Scream That Shattered Equilibrium
He was walking through particularly dense section of mangrove forest—supposedly exploring the unique ecosystem, though some part of him understood he was really searching for something his conscious mind couldn't yet identify—when he heard it.
A scream.
Not the startled cry of someone encountering snake or the frightened yelp of a child who had fallen. This was soul-wrenching shriek that carried layers of meaning his enhanced perception immediately decoded: violation, desperation, terminal terror, and the particular quality of anguish that came from innocence confronting evil it had no framework to comprehend.
Anant's body reacted before conscious thought processed implications. His carefully maintained walking pace exploded into movement that bent physics and covered distance in time frames that shouldn't be possible for human physiology. Trees became blur, obstacles vanished as his consciousness calculated optimal paths at computational speeds, and the kilometer between him and the scream's source collapsed in heartbeats.
He burst into the clearing and witnessed tableau that would alter everything.
Twelve girls. Aged five to fifteen. Held captive by twenty-three armed men whose faces showed casual cruelty that came from years of viewing other humans as merchandise. And at the center, a beautiful fifteen-year-old girl held by her hair, her clothing being torn, her eyes wide with terror that had progressed beyond hope into simple prayer that death would arrive quickly.
Something inside Anant... shifted.
Not broke—that word was inadequate. Shifted, like tectonic plates that had been stable for eons suddenly remembering they possessed capability to move, to transform landscape, to release forces that had been building in pressurized chambers deep below surface awareness.
His face became still. Perfectly, terribly still. The ever-gentle smile that had characterized his expression throughout months of pilgrimage vanished, replaced by mask so devoid of emotion it seemed carved from stone rather than living flesh.
But his eyes...
His eyes told different story entirely. Behind the wire-rimmed glasses, cosmic depths that usually carried benevolent interest in human welfare transformed into something else. Something ancient. Something that had witnessed violations across countless lifetimes and maintained careful records of debts that would eventually be balanced regardless of how long repayment required.
Infinite rage.
Not hot anger that burned quickly and faded. Not the explosive fury that characterized temporary loss of control. This was cold, calculating wrath that had been refined across lifetimes into something approaching divine judgment—dispassionate assessment of violations so egregious they triggered responses that operated beyond normal human emotional categories.
For the first time since his current incarnation began eleven years, eleven months, and seventeen days( True age) earlier, the birthmark on Anant's forehead began manifesting in visible form.
The mark had always been there—subtle indentation in skin that suggested ancient scar or deliberate marking performed during some long-forgotten ritual. But it had remained flesh-colored, essentially invisible except under close examination in proper lighting.
Now it began glowing.
Deep blood red—not the bright scarlet of fresh arterial spray, but the darker crimson of venous blood that had been pooling, concentrating, waiting for moment when it would be needed to mark something significant.
The glow pulsed in rhythm with Anant's heartbeat, creating visual effect like bindi made from liquid light rather than decorative paste. Each pulse brightened slightly, creating impression of building energy seeking outlet, of pressure increasing toward inevitable release.
And the world... stopped.
When Time Surrenders to Memory
Not metaphorically. Not in the sense of subjective experience where traumatic moments seem to extend. The world actually stopped.
Birds frozen mid-flight, wings extended in positions that defied grahulty. Leaves suspended in air where wind had carried them before time ceased. The armed men caught mid-laugh, mid-motion, their faces showing cruel amusement that would never complete its expression. The girls' tears halted halfway down their cheeks, crystal droplets that should be falling but instead hung motionless like jewelry made from grief.
Only Anant remained capable of movement, awareness, experience of progression through moments that had stopped progressing for everything else.
His consciousness, which normally operated in present moment with full awareness but without being overwhelmed by past or future, suddenly found itself flooded by memories that had been sealed away—deliberately suppressed because they carried trauma so profound that maintaining current incarnation's stability had required their isolation.
The seals that had protected him shattered like glass struck by hammer, and memories of his previous life erupted into awareness with force that would have destroyed less prepared consciousness.
He was Anant Sharma again. Not Anant Gupta—the mathematical prodigy, the Tata and Gupta heir, the cosmic consciousness currently incarnated to serve dharma's return. He was Anant Sharma, and he was dying in ways that exceeded mere physical termination to include destruction of everything that gave his existence meaning.
The visions came in cascade that overwhelmed linear narrative to create simultaneous awareness of trauma that had required his cosmic consciousness to fragment current incarnation's memories to enable functioning:
But the memories had been subconsciously sealed by him—locked away to enable his childhood development without being crushed by trauma that would have destroyed his psychological stability. He had been permitted to grow, to learn, to build relationships and capabilities, while the truth of his past incarnation remained dormant.
Until now.
Until he witnessed scene that triggered perfect resonance with suppressed trauma—armed men violating innocent girls, institutions failing to protect vulnerable, society's most powerless suffering without hope of rescue or justice.
The seals shattered. The memories flooded back. And Anant Gupta remembered who he had been, why he existed, what purpose justified his extraordinary capabilities and impossible advantages.
The Flashback - When Love Met Tragedy (Previous Life)
The Beginning of Everything
The memories flooded Anant's consciousness with crystalline clarity as time remained frozen around him in the Sundarbans clearing...
Delhi, 2019 – Three Years Ago in Previous Life before Reincarnation
The evening sun painted Delhi's skyline in shades of orange and gold as twenty-five-year-old Anant Sharma logged out of his TCS workstation with the satisfaction of another productive day. His fingers had danced across the keyboard for eight hours straight, solving complex software architecture problems that would have taken others weeks. But that was Anant—brilliant, dedicated, and quietly passionate about his work.
"Sharma, heading out already?" called his team leader Rajesh from across the cubicle farm. "We're going for drinks. Join us?"
Anant smiled and shook his head, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. "Not tonight, Rajesh bhai. Early morning run tomorrow, and I promised my sister I'd help her with her science project."
"Your loss," Rajesh laughed. "That dedication of yours is going to make the rest of us look bad."
The walk from his office to his apartment was barely fifteen minutes. He preferred walking to dealing with Delhi's chaotic traffic, and the exercise kept him in excellent physical condition. At six feet tall with a lean, athletic build maintained through daily runs, martial arts and yoga, Anant moved with the easy grace of someone completely comfortable in his own body.
The neighbourhood children were out in force, as they always were during the precious twilight hours before parents called them inside for dinner. Their laughter and shouts created a joyful cacophony that made Anant smile. He had always loved children—their uncomplicated joy, their boundless energy, their capacity for wonder that adults so often lost.
He was perhaps fifty meters from his family apartment building when he saw it happening in slow motion—a small boy, maybe five years old, running backward while looking up at a kite soaring above, completely unaware that he was on a collision course with a thick metal electric pole.
Anant didn't think. His body simply reacted with the explosive speed of someone whose physical conditioning was far above average. His legs pumped, covering the distance in three powerful strides, his arms reaching out to intercept the child just as the boy's head was about to crack against unforgiving metal.
He caught the child with perfect timing, his arms wrapping around the small body as momentum carried them both forward. Rather than let the boy take any impact, Anant twisted in mid-air, taking the full brunt of the fall on his own back and shoulder. They hit the ground hard—Anant's breath whooshing out from the impact while he kept the child cradled safely against his chest.
"Ow," Anant gasped, blinking up at the darkening sky while his shoulder throbbed where it had struck the pavement. "That's... going to leave a bruise."
"Are you okay? Oh God, Rahul, are you hurt?"
The voice was feminine, filled with genuine worry, carrying a melodious quality that made something in Anant's chest tighten unexpectedly. A shadow fell across his vision as someone knelt beside him, and then a hand—slender, elegant, surprisingly strong—extended toward him.
"Let me help you up. Rahul, move aside so the uncle can breathe!"
Anant looked up and felt his heart skip a beat for the first time in his life.
The Face That Changed Everything
She was... extraordinary.
Not in the conventional way that magazines or movies defined beauty, but in a way that hit him like a physical force and made everything else fade into insignificance.
Her skin was deep ebony—so dark it seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, smooth as polished stone and unmarked except for a small beauty mark high on her right cheekbone. In a country that worshipped fair skin to the point of cultural sickness, her darkness was striking, almost defiant in its refusal to conform to colonial beauty standards that still poisoned Indian minds generations after the British had departed.
Her face was a study in elegant geometry—high cheekbones that could cut glass, a straight nose that suggested aristocratic ancestry, full lips that curved naturally upward even in her worried expression, and a jawline that balanced strength with femininity.
Her hair was magnificent—thick black waves that fell past her shoulders, currently pulled back in a practical ponytail that revealed graceful neck and delicate ears adorned with simple silver earrings.
But it was her eyes that stopped Anant's breath entirely.
They were impossible. Unprecedented. A genetic condition he vaguely remembered from medical articles—aniridia, complete absence of the iris. Where most people had colored rings around their pupils, she had only endless black—pupils that seemed to merge directly with the whites of her eyes, creating the impression of twin voids that reflected infinity.
They should have been frightening. Many people probably found them unsettling, disturbing, "freaky" as cruel tongues might say.
But to Anant, they were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Like looking into the depths of space itself. Like standing at the edge of consciousness and peering into mysteries that human language had no words to describe.
He stared, completely transfixed, as she waved her hand in front of his face with growing concern.
"Hello? Sir? Are you hurt? Did you hit your head? Should I call an ambulance?"
Time seemed to be moving in slow motion. He could see the way her eyebrows drew together with worry, creating small lines on her smooth forehead. Could notice how the evening light created subtle highlights in her dark hair. Could feel the warmth of her hand still extended toward him, waiting for him to take it.
"Sir? Sir, please respond if you can hear me!"
Anant blinked, suddenly aware that he'd been staring like an idiot for what must have been at least ten full seconds. Heat flooded his cheeks as embarrassment crashed over him.
"I'm... I'm fine," he managed to say, his voice coming out rougher than intended. He reached up and took her offered hand, feeling calluses on her palm that spoke of manual work alongside whatever else she did. She helped pull him to sitting position, and he became aware of several other adults and children gathering around with concerned expressions.
"You saved Rahul!" a young girl of maybe eight exclaimed, pointing at the boy who was now crying in the arms of an elderly woman in a worn but clean sari. "He was going to hit the pole but you caught him!"
"Is the uncle hurt?" another child asked, tugging on the dark-skinned woman's dupatta. "Shakti didi, is he bleeding?"
Shakti. Her name was Shakti.
Power. Energy. The divine feminine force that drives creation.
"Let me check," Shakti said, her hands moving to examine Anant's head with practiced efficiency. Her fingers probed gently through his hair, checking for lumps or cuts, then moved to his shoulders. "Does this hurt? Can you move your arm? What about your vision—do you see double?"
"I'm fine, really," Anant protested, though he made no move to stop her examination. Her touch was gentle but competent, suggesting medical training or at least significant first aid experience. "Just got the wind knocked out of me. I've had worse falls during my morning runs."
"You shouldn't have had to fall at all," Shakti said, her tone shifting to stern as she turned toward the crying boy. "Rahul! What have I told you about watching where you're running? You could have been badly hurt! This kind uncle saved you from a serious injury, and he got hurt instead because of your carelessness!"
The little boy's crying intensified, his face crumpling with guilt and fear. "I'm sorry, didi! I'm sorry, uncle! I didn't mean to! The kite was so pretty and I wanted to see where it was going and I forgot to watch and—"
"It's okay," Anant interrupted gently, reaching out to ruffle the boy's hair despite his shoulder's protest. "Accidents happen, especially with kites. They're designed to make you look up instead of down. Just remember next time, okay?"
"I'll remember! I promise! Thank you for saving me, uncle!"
As the crowd began dispersing—crisis averted, drama concluded—Shakti helped Anant to his feet with surprising strength for someone who stood barely five and a half feet tall. Up close, he could see she was probably in her mid-twenties, maybe a year or two older than him. She wore a simple salwar kameez in faded blue that had been washed so many times the fabric was soft and thin, but spotlessly clean and neatly pressed.
"I'm sorry about Rahul," she said, genuine regret in her voice. "These children can be so careless sometimes. I try to teach them about safety, but they're still learning."
"These children?" Anant asked, flexing his shoulder experimentally. "Are you a teacher?"
"Matron," Shakti corrected, gesturing toward a building across the street that Anant had passed countless times without really noticing. Now that he looked properly, he could see it was a modest two-story structure with peeling paint but well-maintained grounds. A faded sign read "Sunshine Orphanage - Every Child Deserves Love."
"Oh," Anant said, understanding dawning. "That's... that's really admirable work."
"It's necessary work," Shakti replied with simple dignity. "These children have no one else. If we don't care for them, who will?"
She turned to leave, calling out to the children to come inside for dinner, and Anant felt panic grip his chest at the thought of her disappearing before he could... what? He didn't know. He just knew he couldn't let her walk away without some way to see her again.
"Wait!" he called out, fumbling for his wallet. "Please, wait a moment."
Shakti turned back, curiosity replacing the concern on her face. "Yes?"
Anant pulled out his cheque book—he was old-fashioned enough to still carry one—and began writing with hands that trembled slightly from more than just the fall's aftereffects. One lakh rupees. It was more than a month's salary, but he lived simply and had savings. And something about those children's worn but clean clothes, about Shakti's faded but pressed salwar, about the orphanage's peeling but well-maintained facade, told him the money was desperately needed.
He tore out the cheque and extended it toward her. "For the orphanage. For the children."
Shakti's eyes widened as she saw the amount, her hand automatically reaching for it before she caught herself and pulled back. "I... I can't accept this. This is too much. You don't even know us. And you were hurt because of one of our children—we should be the ones—"
"Please," Anant interrupted gently. "I want to help. That's what the money is for—helping, not sitting in my bank account earning minimal interest. And that boy—Rahul—he wasn't doing anything malicious. He was just being a kid, enjoying a kite. If anything good can come from my sore shoulder, let it be that these children have a little more security."
Shakti stared at him for a long moment, those impossible void-like eyes seeming to look straight through his surface intentions to the genuine caring beneath. Then, slowly, she reached out and took the cheque with hands that trembled slightly.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "You have no idea how much this helps. Our funding has been... difficult lately. This will cover three months of food and utilities. The children will be so—"
She stopped, pressing one hand to her mouth as tears began sliding down her dark cheeks, catching the last rays of sunlight and glittering like diamonds against ebony.
"I'm sorry," she managed, wiping at her eyes. "I don't usually cry. It's just been such a difficult year, and then you appear out of nowhere and save Rahul and give us this gift and I'm rambling like an idiot and you probably think I'm insane—"
"I think you're beautiful," Anant said before his brain could catch up with his mouth.
Silence fell like a physical curtain. Shakti froze, her eyes going wide with shock. Anant felt his face heating until he was certain it matched the sunset.
"I... I mean... that is..." he stammered, wanting desperately to take the words back but also knowing with complete certainty that he meant them. "I'm sorry, that was inappropriate. I should go. I live just down the street and my sister and mummy are probably wondering where I am and—"
"You live nearby?" Shakti asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Building number three, apartment 204," Anant replied, gesturing vaguely down the street while wanting nothing more than for the earth to open up and swallow him whole. "I work at TCS—that's how I can afford to donate, I mean, not that I'm bragging or anything, I just wanted you to know it wasn't money I needed for anything important—"
"What's your name?" Shakti interrupted his babbling with a question that was simultaneously simple and earth-shaking in its implications.
"Anant. Anant Sharma."
"I'm Shakti Ramanathan," she replied, and then—impossibly, wonderfully—she smiled. A real smile that transformed her entire face from merely beautiful to absolutely luminous. "Thank you for saving Rahul, Anant. And thank you for your generosity. If you'd like to see what your donation helps support... we have visiting hours on Sundays. You could come meet all the children properly. They'd love to thank their hero."
"I'd like that," Anant said, his heart hammering so hard he was certain she could hear it. "I'd like that very much."
"Sunday, then," Shakti said, still smiling as she backed toward the orphanage where children's faces were pressed against windows, watching the interaction with obvious interest. "Around noon? I'll make sure the children are on their best behaviour."
"Sunday at noon," Anant confirmed, watching as she turned and hurried back to the building, the cheque clutched carefully in her hand, her hips swaying in a way that made his mouth go dry.
Only after she'd disappeared inside did he realize his shoulder had stopped hurting.
The Courtship of Sundays
The week that followed was the longest of Anant's life. Work that normally engaged his full attention seemed tedious, dragging by with agonizing slowness. His colleagues noticed his distraction, teasing him about finding a girlfriend, but he deflected their questions with vague answers that only fueled their curiosity.
"You're different," his younger sister Anjali observed on Friday evening as they worked on her science project together. At twelve, she was already showing signs of the brilliant woman she would become—sharp-eyed, quick-witted, and possessed of the irritating ability to read him like an open book.
"Different how?" Anant asked, carefully helping her assemble a model of the solar system.
"Happy," Anjali said simply, looking up at him with eyes identical to his own—deep purple-black that their mother claimed came from their grandmother's side. "You've been smiling at your phone even when there are no messages. And you keep checking the calendar like you're counting down to something. So... who is she?"
"What makes you think there's a 'she'?" Anant tried for innocent deflection and failed spectacularly based on Anjali's knowing smirk.
"Because you look exactly how Papa used to describe looking when he first met Mama. Like the world suddenly had colors he'd never noticed before. So, spill—who is she? How did you meet? Is she pretty? What does she do?"
Anant sighed, recognizing defeat when it stared him in the face with a twelve-year-old's relentless curiosity.
"Her name is Shakti. I met her three days ago when I saved a child from running into an electric pole. She works at an orphanage. And yes..." he paused, his voice dropping to something approaching reverence, "she's the most beautiful person I've ever seen."
"Ooooh, Bhaiya's in love!" Anjali sang, dancing around the room until Anant grabbed her and tickled her mercilessly, their laughter filling the apartment with joy their parents would have loved to hear has they still been here to witness it as both of them went to their ancestral home to meet relatives.
When Sunday finally arrived, Anant spent an embarrassing amount of time selecting his outfit—casual enough not to seem like he was trying too hard, but nice enough to show respect for the occasion. He settled on dark jeans and a light blue button-down that Anjali assured him "made his eyes look even more mysterious and cool."
The walk to Sunshine Orphanage took less than five minutes, but Anant managed to second-guess himself seventeen times before reaching the front gate. What if she'd only been being polite? What if the invitation hadn't been genuine interest but mere courtesy? What if—
The gate opened before he could knock, revealing a grinning Rahul and a gaggle of other children who erupted into excited chatter.
"Uncle came! Uncle came! Shakti didi, Uncle Anant is here!"
"I told you he'd come! You owe me your dessert, Meera!"
"Is he really going to teach us computer stuff like Shakti didi said?"
Anant found himself swept into the orphanage on a tide of small hands pulling him forward, children's voices overlapping in enthusiasm that was both overwhelming and deeply touching. The interior was clean but obviously aged—furniture that had been repaired multiple times, walls that showed layers of different paint colors where patches had been made, but everywhere he looked were signs of care and love. Children's artwork covered the walls, plants thrived in repurposed containers, and despite the obvious poverty, there was a warmth here that many wealthier homes lacked.
And there, in the centre of what appeared to be a common area, stood Shakti.
She wore a different salwar kameez today—deep green that made her dark skin seem to glow like polished mahogany. Her hair was braided in a long plait that hung down her back, threaded with small jasmine flowers that released their sweet scent into the air. She smiled when she saw him, that same luminous expression that had haunted his dreams all week, and Anant felt his heart do something complicated in his chest.
"You came," she said, and he couldn't tell if that was relief or pleasure in her voice. Maybe both.
"I promised I would," Anant replied, suddenly shy despite being surrounded by two dozen children who were examining him like he was the most interesting thing they'd ever seen.
"Children, give Uncle Anant some space to breathe," called an elderly voice, and Anant looked up to see a woman who must have been in her seventies shuffling forward with the aid of a cane. Her face was a roadmap of wrinkles, each line telling stories of a life fully lived, and her eyes held the sharp intelligence of someone who missed very little.
"This is Matron Kapoor," Shakti introduced, respect clear in her tone. "She founded this orphanage thirty-five years ago and raised most of us here, including me. Matron, this is Anant Sharma—the man who saved Rahul and made such a generous donation."
"Ah, the hero and the philanthropist," Matron Kapoor said, her eyes twinkling as they assessed Anant with the thoroughness of someone who had spent decades evaluating potential threats to her children. "Walk with me, young man. These old bones move slowly, so you'll have to be patient."
It wasn't a request. Anant found himself falling into step beside the elderly matron as they made a slow circuit of the building, Shakti and the children trailing behind at a respectful distance that still allowed them to observe the conversation.
"Tell me why you're really here," Matron Kapoor said without preamble once they were out of easy earshot. "And don't insult my intelligence by claiming it's purely charitable interest in orphaned children. I've been alive too long not to recognize when a young man is courting."
Anant felt his face heating but refused to be dishonest with someone who clearly valued directness. "I came because I promised Shakti I would. And because I wanted to see her again. And yes, because I'd like to help if I can, but you're right—the main reason I'm here is her."
"At least you're honest," the old woman said with a satisfied nod. "Do you know anything about her? Her background? What she's faced?"
"Only what I saw—she's dedicated to these children, she's brilliant enough to run this place despite what must be significant challenges, and she's beautiful in ways that transcend physical appearance."
Matron Kapoor stopped walking and turned to face him fully, her expression serious. "She was left on our doorstep as an infant. No note, no explanation, just a tiny baby with skin so dark her birth parents probably decided she was cursed. Add in the aniridia—the complete absence of irises—and she was deemed unmarriageable, unlucky, possibly demonic by some of the more superstitious villagers."
Anant felt anger kindle in his chest at the thought of anyone viewing that incredible woman as anything but a miracle.
"I raised her," Matron Kapoor continued. "Watched her face discrimination that would have broken weaker souls. She was brilliant in school—top of every class, scholarships to colleges that usually accepted only the wealthy. But she never forgot where she came from. She completed her master's degree in arts at St. Stephen's College with perfect scores, could have taken any number of high-paying positions in Mumbai or other places, but she came back here. Came back to help raise the next generation of orphans because she understands what it means to have no one."
The elderly woman's eyes—sharp despite their age—fixed on Anant with laser focus. "She has been never courted by men who claimed interest until they got what they wanted or discovered their families would never accept someone so dark, so unusual-looking. She has been mocked, propositioned, treated as exotic curiosity rather than human being with thoughts and dreams and a heart that breaks despite her strength. If you are going to pursue her, if you plan to make her care about you, then you had better be prepared to stand by her regardless of what your family says, what society thinks, or how difficult the path becomes. Because I will not watch another man break that girl's heart. Am I understood?"
"Yes, ma'am," Anant replied without hesitation. "And for what it's worth—my family would love her just based on her character alone. My sister will adore her. And anyone who has a problem with her appearance can answer to me."
Matron Kapoor studied him for a long moment, then smiled—a real smile that transformed her severe expression into something almost grandmotherly. "Good. Now go spend time with the children. Show Shakti that you're interested in her whole life, not just courtship. That will tell me more about your character than any words could."
The Sundays That Changed Everything
Over the following months, Sundays became sacred to Anant Sharma in ways that transcended religious observance. Each week, he would arrive at Sunshine Orphanage with carefully planned activities—sometimes bringing art supplies for the children, other times organizing educational games, occasionally arranging field trips to museums or parks that the children had never experienced.
But the real purpose, the magnetic force that drew him back week after week, was Shakti.
"You're teaching them computer basics?" Shakti observed one Sunday afternoon, watching as Anant patiently showed a group of eager children how to navigate educational software on the donated laptop he'd brought. "That's incredibly valuable. Most of these children will never have access to technology otherwise."
"Everyone deserves a chance to learn," Anant replied, adjusting his glasses as little Meera climbed into his lap to see the screen better. "The digital divide is just another form of discrimination. If I can help bridge that gap even slightly, the time is well spent."
Shakti smiled—that luminous expression that made his heart perform complicated gymnastics—and settled beside him to help explain concepts to the younger children. Her presence was intoxicating—the jasmine scent she always wore, the warmth of her shoulder occasionally brushing his, the musical quality of her voice as she encouraged the children's efforts.
"You're different from other volunteers we've had," she said softly during a moment when the children were absorbed in their activities. "Most people come once, take photos for social media to show how charitable they are, and never return. But you... you actually care about these children as individuals."
"I care about someone who cares about them," Anant replied before he could stop himself, then felt heat flood his face. "I mean—that is—"
"I know what you mean," Shakti interrupted gently, and when he dared to look at her, those impossible void-like eyes held warmth that made breathing difficult. "And for what it's worth... I'm glad you keep coming back."
The Conversations That Revealed Souls
As weeks became months, their relationship deepened through conversations that occurred in stolen moments—while preparing afternoon snacks for the children, during evening walks through the neighborhood when Anant insisted on escorting her home safely, in the quiet hours after the children were put to bed when Matron Kapoor would invite him to stay for chai.
"Tell me about your family," Shakti asked one evening as they sat on the orphanage's modest rooftop, watching the Delhi sunset paint the sky in shades of orange and purple.
"My parents lives a simple life, father is an engineer and my mother is a housewife and both of them love me in their own way," Anant said.
"I have a younger sister—Anjali. She's twelve now, brilliant and bossy and the light of my life. Our family have enough savings for us to be comfortable if we're careful, and my job at TCS pays well enough to ensure she can attend good schools and have opportunities they would have wanted for her."
He paused, looking at their joined hands—his pale against her dark—and marvelled at how natural it felt.
"What about you?" he asked. "Matron Kapoor mentioned you got your master's from St. Stephen's. That's incredibly impressive."
Shakti's expression grew complicated—pride mixed with old pain. "I was lucky. A scholarship program specifically for disadvantaged students covered my fees, and I worked three part-time jobs to cover living expenses. The other students..." she trailed off, her jaw tightening.
"What about them?" Anant prompted gently.
"They called me Kali's (Black colour) curse,'" Shakti said flatly. "Because of my dark skin and my eyes. Some of the girls wouldn't sit next to me in class, convinced I'd contaminate them with my 'bad luck.' Boys would either avoid me entirely or make crude propositions, assuming a girl who looked like me must be desperate for attention."
Anant felt rage kindle in his chest—not the explosive anger of the moment, but cold fury at a world that could look at this incredible woman and see anything but beauty and brilliance.
"Their loss and their shame," he said fiercely. "Anyone who couldn't see past superficial appearance to recognize your intelligence, kindness, and strength doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as you."
Shakti turned to look at him fully, those impossible eyes seeming to see straight through to his soul. "You really mean that. You're not just saying what you think I want to hear."
"I've never meant anything more in my life," Anant confirmed. "Shakti, you're the most beautiful person I've ever met—inside and out. The fact that society's been brainwashed into worshipping fair skin doesn't make their stupidity your problem."
Tears welled in her eyes—happy tears this time—and she leaned her head against his shoulder with trust that felt like the greatest gift he'd ever received.
"Thank you," she whispered. "You have no idea how much I needed to hear that."
Matron Kapoor's Observations
Two months into Anant's regular visits, Matron Kapoor pulled him aside with her characteristic directness.
"You're in love with her," the old woman stated flatly. "Don't bother denying it—I've been alive too long not to recognize the signs."
"Is it that obvious?" Anant asked, embarrassment warring with relief at not having to hide his feelings.
"Only to everyone with functioning eyes," Matron Kapoor replied dryly. "The children have started calling you 'Shakti didi's special friend.' And Shakti... well, she looks at you the way she's never looked at anyone else."
Hope bloomed in Anant's chest. "Really?"
"Don't let it go to your head," the old woman warned, but her eyes were kind. "I need to tell you something about her that you should know before you make any commitments."
She led him to a small office filled with filing cabinets and faded photographs. From one drawer, she withdrew a folder thick with certificates, awards, and academic records.
"This is Shakti's educational history," Matron Kapoor explained, spreading documents across the desk. "Perfect scores in her board exams—both tenth and twelfth standard. University entrance exam ranked in the top 100 nationally. Bachelor's degree in Arts with first-class distinction. Master's degree with perfect marks—something her professors said they'd never seen in thirty years of teaching."
Anant examined the documents with growing amazement. "She's brilliant."
"She could have been anything," Matron Kapoor continued. "Professors offered her research positions at prestigious universities. NGOs wanted to hire her for international development work. She had job offers that would have paid five times what most people her age earns."
"But she came back here," Anant finished, understanding dawning.
"She came back here," the old woman confirmed. "Because these children are her family, and she couldn't abandon them for personal advancement. Because she understands what it means to have nothing and no one, and she's determined to ensure the next generation has someone who truly cares about their welfare."
Matron Kapoor fixed Anant with a stern look. "If you're going to pursue her seriously, you need to understand—she comes with responsibilities. These children depend on her. This orphanage is her life's work. Any man who marries her needs to accept that package complete."
"I wouldn't want it any other way," Anant said firmly. "This place, these children—they're part of what makes her who she is. I'm not asking her to choose between her calling and a relationship. I want to support her in both."
The old woman studied him for a long moment, then smiled. "You'll do, young man. You'll do just fine."
The Decision to Propose
Four months after their first meeting, Anant knew with absolute certainty that he wanted to spend his life with Shakti. The decision wasn't dramatic or sudden—it was simply the crystallization of feelings that had been building since the moment she'd extended her hand to help him up from the pavement.
He planned carefully. His savings weren't extravagant, but he'd been living frugally specifically to build resources for his future. He visited a jeweller recommended by one of his colleagues and spent hours selecting the perfect pieces—a delicate gold chain with a small diamond pendant for the proposal, and more significantly, a simple but elegant Mangal sutra that would serve as their marriage necklace.
"This is a big step, Bhaiya," Anjali observed, watching him prepare for what he'd told her was "an important conversation" with Shakti. "Are you absolutely sure?"
"Surer than I've been about anything in my life," Anant confirmed, adjusting his collar nervously. "She's... she's everything, Anjali. Smart, kind, dedicated to making the world better in tangible ways. And when she smiles at me, I feel like the most important person in the universe."
"She makes you happy," Anjali said simply. "I can see it. You've been different since you met her—lighter somehow, like you're not carrying the world on your shoulders anymore."
"She does make me happy," Anant agreed. "And I want to spend the rest of my life making her happy in return."
He kissed his sister's forehead, carefully placed the jewellery box in his pocket, and headed out into the Delhi evening toward what he expected would be the beginning of his forever.
The Day Everything Shattered
The evening was perfect—clear sky, temperature cooling into comfortable warmth, the neighbourhood children playing their evening games before dinner called them home. Anant walked toward Sunshine Orphanage with a spring in his step, his hand unconsciously checking his pocket every few meters to ensure the jewellery box was still secure.
But as he approached the orphanage gates, something felt wrong.
The usual sounds—children's laughter, music from someone's radio, the general ambient noise of a functioning household—were absent. Instead, there was eerie quiet broken only by...
Crying.
Not the simple tears of a child with a scraped knee, but deep, soul-wrenching sobs that spoke of grief beyond consolation.
Anant began running, his heart hammering with primal fear. He burst through the gates to find chaos—police cars with lights flashing, neighbours gathered in worried clusters, and at the center of it all, a crowd of orphanage children and staff members weeping in the courtyard.
"What happened?" Anant demanded, grabbing the nearest adult—a neighbour he recognized from previous visits. "Where's Shakti? What's going on?"
"Kidnappers came," the woman said, her voice shaking. "They tried to take some of the children to sell to trafficking networks. Shakti fought them—she actually beat several of them—but one of them had a gun and—"
She didn't need to finish. Anant was already pushing through the crowd, his vision tunnelling as panic threatened to overwhelm rational thought.
He found her in the orphanage's small medical room—what they optimistically called their "infirmary" despite having nothing more than basic first aid supplies. She lay on a cot, her green salwar kameez soaked dark red on the left side of her chest. Matron Kapoor knelt beside her, pressing cloth against the wound while tears streamed down her weathered face. The children crowded in doorway and windows, their crying creating heartbreaking chorus of grief.
"SHAKTI!" Anant's voice cracked as he dropped to his knees beside her, his hands automatically reaching to cradle her head. "Someone calls an ambulance! She needs a hospital NOW!"
"Already called," Matron Kapoor said through her tears. "But it's been fifteen minutes. In Delhi traffic, it could be another twenty before they arrive, and she's already lost so much blood..."
The old woman's voice broke completely, and Anant understood what she wasn't saying: Twenty minutes might be too long.
Shakti's eyes fluttered open, those impossible void-like eyes focusing with obvious difficulty on his face. When recognition dawned, she smiled—actually smiled, despite the pain that must have been excruciating.
"Anant," she whispered, his name barely audible. "You came."
"Of course I came," he choked out, tears streaming freely now. "I always come. Every Sunday. You know that."
"Such... a good man," Shakti said, each word clearly requiring immense effort. "Too good for someone like me. You should... should find someone beautiful. Someone your family would be proud of."
"You ARE beautiful!" Anant nearly shouted, his voice raw with anguish and frustration that even now, dying, she couldn't see what he saw. "You're the most beautiful and kindest person I've ever known! And my family WOULD be proud—Anjali already loves you from everything I've told her!"
Shakti's smile grew sadder. "I'm sorry," she whispered, tears sliding from the corners of her eyes to dampen the makeshift pillow beneath her head. "Sorry we won't get to... journey together in this life. Promise me... promise you'll move forward. Find someone else. Get married. Have children. Live the life we..."
She broke off, coughing weakly, and fresh blood stained her lips.
"I promise," Anant lied, knowing with absolute certainty that he would never love anyone else, could never love anyone else. Shakti was it—his only one, his everything. "But you're going to be fine. The ambulance is coming and they'll fix you up and we'll—"
"No," Shakti interrupted gently. "I can feel it, Anant. I'm not going to make it. But before I go... I need you to promise me something else. Promise you'll keep helping these children. Keep coming here. Make sure Matron has support. Promise they won't suffer because I'm gone."
The Sacred Marriage
Anant's hand moved without conscious thought, reaching toward her wound. His fingers came away bright red, and somewhere in his grief-shattered mind, a thought formed—clear, certain, and completely insane by conventional standards but absolutely right in the moment's cosmic significance.
If this was her blood, then he would honor it. If this was their ending, he would make it a beginning. If society said they couldn't be married because she was dying, then he would prove society wrong.
His blood-covered fingers moved to Shakti's forehead, pressing gently at her hairline in the traditional placement for sindoor—the vermillion powder married women wore to signify their status. But he had no sindoor, only her blood, and that would have to be enough.
Shakti's eyes widened with shock as she understood what he was doing. "Anant, no! You can't—this isn't—"
"I can and I am," Anant said firmly, his voice steadying despite the tears. With trembling hands, he pulled the jewelry box from his pocket, extracted the simple gold mangalsutra he'd selected with such care, and tied it around her neck with movements that were ceremonial despite their improvisation.
"I, Anant Sharma," he announced clearly enough for everyone present to hear, "take you, Shakti Ramanathan, as my lawfully wedded wife. In sickness and health, for better or worse, in this life and whatever comes after."
Gasps erupted throughout the room. In Hindu or Sanatan tradition, what he was performing was a valid marriage—simplified from traditional ceremony but no less binding. The sindoor, the mangalsutra, the public declaration witnessed by the community—these were the essential elements, and he had provided them all.
"You're insane," Shakti whispered, but her voice carried wonder rather than protest. Fresh tears flowed, but these were different—joy mixed with grief, gratitude mixed with pain. "Why would you bind yourself to someone who's dying? You're throwing your life away for a few minutes of marriage."
"I'm not throwing anything away," Anant replied, his tears falling to mix with hers. "I'm claiming what should have been ours for decades. I'm making sure everyone knows you were loved. You were chosen. You were treasured. And no one—NO ONE—will ever say that Shakti Ramanathan died alone or unloved."
He smiled through his tears, removing his glasses so she could see his eyes—those deep purple-black voids that matched hers in their unusual nature, creating visual connection that seemed to transcend normal human appearance.
"Besides," he added, his voice dropping to intimate whisper, "now the orphanage is my family too. These children are my responsibility. So, your last request? Already granted before you asked."
Shakti stared up at him, those impossible eyes seeing him—truly seeing him—in ways that transcended physical vision. Slowly, with obvious effort, she raised her hand. Her fingers were cold, and he could feel them trembling with the weakness that preceded death.
Her hand touched his face, trembling fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheek, memorizing his features through touch as though she wanted to carry them with her wherever she was going.
Then, with her last strength, she touched and tap his forehead—right in the center with bloodied finger, at the point where his birthmark lay hidden beneath unmarked skin.
The touch burned like fire and ice simultaneously, creating sensation that transcended physical contact to feel like something was being inscribed directly into his soul.
"I'm always with you," Shakti whispered, her voice fading to barely audible. "No one can separate us. Not death. Not time. Not anything. I'll find you again, Anant. In another life, another time. I'll find you and we'll have the life we should have had here."
"Promise?" Anant asked, his voice breaking completely.
"Promise," Shakti confirmed. "Look for me. I might look different. Circumstances might be different. But you'll know me when you see me. You'll know."
Her hand fell away, suddenly heavy, and Anant felt her body go rigid beneath his hands—that distinctive stiffness that marked the exact moment when life ended and became just biological matter following physical laws.
"Shakti?" he said, knowing it was futile but unable to stop himself. "Shakti, please. Stay. Please don't leave me. SHAKTI!"
Her name emerged as agonized howl that shattered the evening quiet and sent the children into renewed sobbing. The adults moved forward to comfort him, but Anant barely registered their presence. He held his wife—his wife of five minutes—and felt something fundamental break inside himself.
The ambulance arrived eight minutes later to find him still kneeling beside her body, still holding her, still whispering her name like a prayer that would never be answered.
The Aftermath
The flashback continued as Anant's sealed memories showed what came after...
The funeral was attended by hundreds—orphanage children past and present, former students she'd tutored, NGO workers she'd collaborated with, and countless others whose lives she'd touched through her quiet dedication to making the world incrementally better.
Anant stood through it all in daze, the mangalsutra still visible around Shakti's neck in her funeral shroud, the sindoor still marking her forehead. People whispered about the marriage, some approving of the romantic gesture, others scandalized by its unconventional nature.
He didn't care what they thought.
For days afterward, he functioned on autopilot—going to work, coming home, existing in space where Shakti's absence created void that nothing could fill. Anjali and her family worried about him, staying close, trying to draw him back to engagement with life that felt meaningless without the woman who had given it purpose.
Three weeks after Shakti's death, the police called. They'd caught the traffickers who had shot her—a network that had been operating for years, selling children to international buyers, protected by corrupt officials who took cuts of the profits.
Anant went to the station, expecting closure. Instead, he found despair.
"We can't prosecute," the detective said uncomfortably. "The network has protection at the highest levels. Politicians, judges, senior police officials—they're all involved. Any case we build gets thrown out on technicalities or evidence mysteriously disappears."
"So they walk free?" Anant asked, his voice dangerously quiet. "They murdered my wife, they terrorize children, they destroy families, and they just... get away with it?"
"I'm sorry," the detective said, genuine regret in his tone. "But that's how the system works. The powerful protect themselves."
That was when Anant's world view shattered completely.
He had believed in justice. In institutions. In the fundamental idea that good would prevail if people just followed proper channels and did things the right way.
But proper channels were corrupted. Institutions were compromised. Justice was available only to those wealthy or connected enough to purchase it.
And Shakti's murder—along with the suffering of countless children—would go unpunished because the people meant to deliver justice were the same people profiting from evil.
The rage that filled him then was cold, calculating, and utterly consuming. For weeks, he investigated on his own time, building cases, gathering evidence, identifying every person involved in the trafficking network from street-level kidnappers to the politicians whose protection enabled their operation.
When he finally presented his findings to higher authorities, they responded by having him beaten—not killed, but injured severely enough to teach him that some truths were dangerous and some fights were unwinnable.
Lying in the hospital with cracked ribs and internal injuries, Anant understood with devastating clarity that human systems had failed completely. That institutional justice was a comforting fiction. That Shakti's death was meaningless in a world where evil prospered with impunity while good people who opposed it were crushed for their audacity.
Six months after Shakti's death, Anant Sharma stood on his apartment roof, looked up at stars that seemed impossibly distant.
If the world wouldn't deliver justice, if institutions existed only to protect the powerful, if Shakti's murder and children's suffering meant nothing to those with authority to intervene...
Then what was the point of continuing to exist in such a broken reality? If his Family not with him especially his little sister Anjali and Shakti promise regarding Orphanage then he does something unthinkable to himself.
He whispered her name —"Shakti"—and stepped forward into void.
Return to Present
The flashback ended, and Anant's consciousness returned fully to frozen moment in Sundarbans clearing, the birthmark on his forehead still pulsing with blood-red glow, the memories now completely integrated...
Now he understood. Now he remembered. Now he knew why seeing those twelve girls—especially Kali, held by her hair just as Shakti must have fought her attackers—had broken the seals that protected his current incarnation's stability.
This wasn't just random violence against children. This was echo of everything that had destroyed his previous life. The trafficking, the institutional failure, the evil operating with impunity, the suffering of innocents while those with power to intervene chose profit over protection.
And somewhere in his cosmic consciousness, he knew—absolutely knew—that Shakti was watching, had been watching throughout this incarnation, waiting for him to remember their promise and continue the mission they should have shared together.
"I remember," Anant whispered into the frozen silence, tears streaming down his face—grief for what was lost mixing with determination for what must be done. "I remember everything, Shakti. And I swear—on our marriage, on your sacrifice, on the promise you made me keep—these men will face justice. These children will be protected. And the systems that enable this evil will be systematically dismantled."
The birthmark pulsed one final time, brighter than before, and Anant felt the last of his restraints dissolve.
Time resumed.
And cosmic justice, delayed but never denied, prepared to deliver consequences to those who had believed themselves immune to accountability.
For Shakti. For Anjali. For Kali and her eleven companions. For every child who had suffered while institutions meant to protect them choose convenience over compassion.
Shakti's death would be honoured through ensuring countless others survived violations she had not.
And every predator who believed themselves immune to consequences would learn that some violations triggered responses that transcended human justice to deliver accountability ordained by consciousness that never forgot and never failed to balance scales when suffering became so egregious that silence itself became complicity.
The hunt had ended.
The judgment had begun.
And in frozen moment before violence manifested, Anant stood between two lives—the one he had lived and lost, the one he currently inhabited—and found peace in recognition that suffering, properly understood and channeled, could serve purposes that honored both victims and cosmic principles requiring that dharma ultimately prevail over adharma regardless of how long the struggle required or how many incarnations necessary to achieve final victory.
The Inner Sanctum Cosmos - When Three Souls Witness Divine Awakening
The Valley Beyond Understanding
Within Anant's inner world—that impossible space where consciousness-maintained architecture beyond normal spatial dimensions—reality operated according to principles that would have shattered lesser minds attempting comprehension.
The valley stretched infinitely in all directions, yet somehow felt intimate and contained. Emerald grass carpeted rolling hills that seemed to breathe with life of their own, each blade pulsing with subtle luminescence that suggested awareness rather than mere biological function. Flowers bloomed in colors that had no names in human language—shades between purple and gold that created synesthetic experiences of sound and taste alongside visual beauty.
Above, the sky held three suns and two moons simultaneously, their light blending into illumination that was simultaneously day and night, creating perpetual twilight that felt like dawn and dusk merged into eternal moment of transformation.
But most magnificent was the river.
It wasn't water that flowed from the infinite mountains shrouded in purple hue at the valley's edge. It was pure sacred energy—pranic force that sustained all life, cosmic consciousness made liquid and mobile. The river glowed with inner radiance that cycled through spectrum of divine colors: the deep blue of Vishnu's preservation, the fierce red of Shiva's destruction, the creative gold of Brahma's generation, and countless other hues representing aspects of ultimate reality that human philosophy had barely begun to catalog.
This energy-river nourished everything it touched, bringing not just sustenance but evolution—accelerating the natural development of consciousness toward higher states of awareness and capability.
At the valley's exact center stood the Tree.
The Sacred Tree of Integration
To call it enormous would be inadequate. The Tree's trunk was wider than skyscrapers, its bark displaying patterns that resembled Sanskrit mantras, mathematical equations, and DNA helixes simultaneously. Its roots plunged so deep they seemed to anchor reality itself, while its branches reached toward the three suns with leaves that caught cosmic light and transformed it into nourishment for the entire inner world.
Beneath the Tree's massive canopy, protected by its sheltering presence, sat a simple hut constructed from materials that seemed simultaneously primitive and impossibly sophisticated—woven grass that was also crystallized light, wood that was also pure consciousness made tangible.
Inside this hut, invisible to normal perception but obvious to those with enhanced awareness, the fusion process occurred.
Three souls—three distinct patterns of consciousness that had once inhabited separate bodies across different universes and timelines—were slowly, methodically integrating with the core consciousness that was Anant Gupta's true self.
The process was represented by a golden orb suspended in the hut's center, rotating slowly while displaying percentage completion in symbols that transcended numerical representation yet conveyed meaning directly to any consciousness that perceived them.
45%
The number pulsed with significance. Last measurement had shown 20%. In normal fusion processes, such acceleration would be impossible—souls integrated gradually over years or even decades, their unique patterns carefully woven together to create enhanced consciousness without losing the individual contributions that made each component valuable.
But Anant's sealed memories breaking free had triggered cascade effect. The trauma, the recognition, the unleashing of suppressed rage refined through love—all of it was accelerating integration beyond what should be possible, drawing on emotional intensity to fuel process that normally required only time and patience.
And the entire inner world was responding.
The valley trembled—not with violence, but with rhythm. Like breathing. Like heartbeat. As though the landscape itself was alive and stirring from deep sleep, becoming gradually aware of its own existence and purpose.
The Three Observers
At the edge of the valley, where infinite mountains rose into purple-hazed heights that suggested dimensional boundaries between inner world and cosmic reality beyond, three figures stood on an observation platform that jutted from the mountainside like natural balcony.
They were not physical bodies—those had been left behind when each had sacrificed themselves for purposes they deemed worthy of ultimate price. Instead, they were consciousness given temporary form, souls awaiting integration while maintaining enough individual identity to observe, comment, and contribute their unique perspectives to the fusion process.
"Something happening in the infinite valley gentlemen" first one who wear some kind of advance nano suits tells the others two.
"Anant deep pain is resurfacing which affecting the inner world" second one respond who wearing some kind of blue-white skin suit with 4 number symbol on his chest.
"My transcendence power is now flowing inside Anant body as the barrier has been shattered" third one tells quietly who is unique more than the other duo and there is a purple globe is glowing inside his chest.