"Do gods really exist, Maa?"
Shankar's voice echoed faintly through the museum's old stone walls, swallowed by silence before it even reached the ceiling.
He stood in front of a giant mural—Maa Durga in full glory. Ten arms, lion roaring, trident stabbing into some ancient demon's chest. Her eyes blazed like fire.
To a seven-year-old, she looked unstoppable. Eternal.
Devi, his mother, was beside him.
One hand rested on his shoulder. The other held a golden prayer bead tucked quietly in her palm.
She smiled.
"Of course they do," she said softly.
She didn't hesitate. Not on the surface.
But Shankar noticed her hand trembled—just a little—against his shoulder.
"They protect us. Guide us. Even when we don't understand how."
There was reverence in her voice. Respect.
But not peace. Not anymore.
Shankar looked up at her.
"Then why don't you ever talk to them?"
Devi paused. Her eyes stayed on the mural—but her gaze drifted somewhere far past it.
Somewhere Shankar couldn't follow.
"I do," she said.
"Just not the way I used to."
Later that night, Shankar would remember the way the incense smoke curled in their house temple—beautiful, rising, then vanishing.
Just like his mother's faith.
He never stopped asking about gods.
But part of him always wondered—
If Maa believed in them with all her heart,
Why did her prayers always sound like goodbyes?
Shankar grew up in Siliguri, under grey skies and green hills, in a home softened by stories and silences.
His father died when he was just a child — a car crash, a burnt wallet, and too many unanswered questions.
But grief never ruled the house.
His mother, Devi, stayed. Not just in the city, but in spirit — strong, steady, unshaken.
She raised him alongside his grandmother, Martha, in a family full of rituals, arguments, hand-me-down wisdom, and frequent visits from noisy relatives with louder opinions.
They were Bengali. And that meant food, faith, and fierce love — all tangled into one.
Each night, Devi or Martha would tell him stories — not just from the Gita or the Bible, but from every corner of the world.
"Truth doesn't wear one name," Devi often said.
"A good human isn't about belief. It's about how they treat others when no one's watching."
Those words became his roots.
But as Shankar grew, so did his questions.
He turned to science. To facts. To what could be seen, touched, tested.
The gods faded into metaphors. Their stories became fiction. Beautiful fiction.
He stopped believing.
Yet… he never stopped reading.
He studied mythology like a map to the human soul — not to find gods, but to understand people.
To him, gods were just ancient superheroes, crafted from fear, faith, and the need for meaning.
Devi didn't mind. She saw what mattered.
"Believe or not," she told him, "just keep asking why."
And so he did.
Time passed, and Shankar reached high school. His curiosity about the world around him, fueled by his love for science, motivated him to choose science as his stream for further education. He dreamed of becoming a physicist, deeply fascinated by the mysteries of time flow and its mechanics.
However, the loss of his father still weighed heavily on him. Growing up without a father figure left a void in his life, one he often tried to fill with his dreams. As a child, Shankar imagined undoing his father's tragic death by altering the timeline, a fantasy born from his innocent desire to rewrite the past. But as he grew older and understood the limits of current scientific knowledge and technology, he realized that such ideas were beyond reality—just the musings of a grieving boy.
Even so, his fascination with time endured. Though he could not change the past, the concept of time remained a subject of great interest, driving his passion for physics and shaping his path toward uncovering its secrets.
It was a rainy day in Siliguri, and Shankar sat in his school's physics revision class, barely paying attention. The midterm exams were approaching, but the heavy downpour outside, combined with the cold, made the entire class sluggish. He wasn't alone in his disinterest—his classmates were equally unmotivated, wrapped in their own drowsy worlds.
The rain tapped steadily against the school windows, a soft rhythm barely audible above the hum of the ceiling fans. Shankar sat slouched in his chair, staring blankly at the blackboard while his classmates around him fought to stay awake. The midterms were closing in, but the weather had drained the room of all motivation.
Kanika Ma'am, their physics teacher, looked up from her notes and scanned the class. Half the students looked comatose; the other half were already lost in daydreams.
She set her chalk down with a sigh and crossed her arms.
"Alright," she said, "since you're all clearly more interested in the weather than wave equations, let's do something different today."
That got a few heads to turn. Shankar looked up, mildly curious.
"Let's talk about gravity," she continued, pacing slowly. "Not the equations—not the stuff you've memorized and forgotten five times. I'm talking about gravity as a force that holds the universe together. The thread that binds galaxies, bends light, and keeps time flowing the way it does."
Some students sat up straighter. Shankar leaned forward, just a little.
She gestured to the blackboard but didn't write anything. "Now here's the twist. Did you know that this concept—this invisible force shaping everything—wasn't just discovered by Newton or Einstein? Ancient civilizations talked about it too."
A few skeptical glances. Kanika Ma'am smiled.
"The Rig Veda, for instance, speaks of the universe emerging from Hiranyagarbha—the golden womb. An expanding creation. Sounds familiar?"
Shankar blinked. "Like the Big Bang?"
"Exactly," she said. "And that's not the only one. The Qur'an, in Surah Al-Anbiya, says the heavens and the earth were once joined and then separated. Sounds like cosmic expansion, doesn't it?"
The room fell quieter.
"In Genesis, the Bible says, 'Let there be light'—the first act of creation. A burst of energy out of darkness. Again… familiar."
Shankar raised an eyebrow, intrigued but cautious. "Aren't those just metaphors, though? Poetic interpretations? Not real science."
Kanika Ma'am nodded. "They're not science texts. They weren't trying to be. But they show us something important—something we forget too easily: that thousands of years ago, people were already asking the same questions we're still asking today."
She paused, then added, "I've read scriptures from all over—Hinduism, Islam, Christianity, Greek epics, even ancient Mesopotamian myths carved into stone. And you know what's fascinating? They all tried, in their own way, to understand the same sky. The same stars. The same fears."
Shankar shifted in his seat, curiosity sneaking past his skepticism.
"But myths aren't measurable," he argued. "Science is about proof. Experiments. Data."
"True," she said. "Science asks how. Religion and mythology often ask why. They speak different languages—but they're both trying to describe the same reality."
He frowned, thinking. "But if something is real, shouldn't it be… testable?"
Kanika Ma'am tilted her head. "Define real."
Shankar hesitated. "Something you can measure. See. Prove."
"Alright," she said. "Can you see gravity?"
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
"You don't see gravity," she continued, "but you see its effects. An apple falls. A planet orbits. We don't question its existence—we observe what it does."
She leaned against the desk, arms crossed. "Believers say the same about God. They don't claim to see Him—but they see what they believe are signs. Coincidences. Miracles. Moments that defy logic. To them, faith is a kind of formula. Not mathematical, but meaningful."
The rain outside softened, as if listening.
Shankar tapped his fingers on the desk, staring out the window as raindrops blurred the world beyond the glass. He had spent years believing that gods were nothing more than elaborate stories—comforts crafted by people afraid of the unknown. But now...
If these were just myths, why did they sometimes echo reality?
How could civilizations with no satellites or telescopes write things that, today, scientists were just beginning to confirm?
He turned to her, voice quieter this time. "So… do you think gods exist?"
Kanika Ma'am smiled, but didn't answer directly. "I think the universe is full of truths we haven't figured out yet. Some we'll reach through equations. Others, maybe… we'll just feel."
She looked at him thoughtfully. "What matters is that you keep asking, Shankar. Whether you believe or not—never stop questioning."
For a while, neither of them spoke. The class slowly stirred back to life. Chairs creaked, pens scratched paper. But Shankar stayed still.
He didn't believe.
Not yet.
But for the first time, he wasn't entirely sure of his disbelief either.
For days, the question refused to leave Shankar's mind. No matter how much he reasoned with himself, something about that conversation with Kanika Ma'am lingered. What if those ancient texts weren't just myths? What if they held something real, hidden beneath layers of time?
He tried to shake it off, but the thought kept resurfacing. Then, one afternoon, as he scanned a school notice, a familiar name caught his eye—
"Educational Excursion: Rajgir – The Land of Legends."
Rajgir.
Shankar frowned, the name stirring something in his memory. Magadha's ancient capital. The land of King Jarāsandha. A place deeply connected to the Mahabharata.
That evening, as he sat on the balcony, watching the fading hues of the sunset, he turned to his mother and asked casually, "Ma, what do you know about Rajgir?"
She looked up from her book, slightly surprised. "Rajgir? That's an interesting place. Why do you ask?"
He shrugged. "Just came across the name. Thought I'd ask."
She smiled, setting her book aside. "Rajgir is one of the oldest cities in India. It was the capital of Magadha long before the Mauryas. According to legends, great warriors and kings once ruled there. You've heard of Jarāsandha, right?"
Shankar nodded. "Yeah, Krishna, Bhīma, and Arjuna fought him there."
His mother nodded. "Exactly. Rajgir has always been a place where history and mythology meet. It has witnessed great battles, powerful rulers, and events that shaped ancient India."
Shankar didn't say anything, but something about it stuck with him.
A place where history and mythology blurred together.
The idea of guided tours, crowded buses, and forced interactions never appealed to him. But this time, something felt different. This wasn't just another historical site—it was a place tied to stories he had known all his life.
Shankar never cared for school trips. He never even asked. But this one—Rajgir—felt different. Not just because it was old or sacred or whatever the teachers said. It was something else.
Lately, everything around him felt like a half-truth. The strange pull he felt toward stories he once called fiction. It wasn't faith. It wasn't thrill. It was frustration. Restlessness. A need to breathe in a place that had seen things—things people still couldn't explain.
So maybe Rajgir wasn't just a destination. Maybe it was a question waiting to be asked out loud.
And maybe—just maybe—walking the same land where legends once stood would offer a glimpse of an answer he didn't know how to find in textbooks or prayers.
Not to prove that gods exist.
But to understand why people need them to.
For the first time, he felt the urge to go.
Maybe Rajgir was calling him.
Shankar had never been on a school trip before. He had never really wanted to, and even if he had, Devi would have never allowed it. She had always been overprotective, constantly watching over him like a shadow that never left.
But this time was different.
He wanted to go.