Aarav sat hunched over the wobbly table in his one-room flat, sketchbook spread open, pencil
smudges staining his fingers. The fan above creaked with every slow spin, scattering pencil
shavings onto the floor. Rent was due in three days. He had exactly six hundred rupees in his
account and a packet of instant noodles left in the cupboard.
He should've been job-hunting. Instead, he was drawing again.
On the page was a figure with lion eyes and ash-gray skin, muscles coiled like stone ropes,
carrying a mace that looked far too heavy for any human. The figure's mouth stretched into a
grin that was half-snarl, half-madness. Behind him, a battlefield burned.
Aarav stared at the sketch, annoyed.
"Where the hell do you even come from?" he muttered.
The truth was: he didn't know. The images just arrived in flashes — sometimes while he was
half-asleep, sometimes in the middle of a crowded metro ride. People his age are worried about
EMI payments or dating apps. Aarav? He worried about why he couldn't stop drawing monsters
that looked like they belonged in some forgotten mythology textbook.
He tried once, when he was younger, to tell his cousins about the dreams. How he remembered
fighting creatures no one else could see. How he felt like he had lived another life before this
one. The teasing had lasted for years — "Reincarnation Boy," they'd call him. After that, he
stopped telling anyone. Better to keep quiet. Better to say it was "just art."
His phone buzzed. A WhatsApp message from his mother:
Maa: "Any updates on job interviews? Don't waste time drawing useless things, beta."
He typed out a reply — "Working on it" — then tossed the phone aside.
The ceiling fan groaned louder, like it might collapse any second. Outside, the sounds of
Hyderabad's evening traffic bled in through the half-open window: auto horns, temple bells, a
street vendor calling out about samosas. Life went on, indifferent to his stuck existence.
Aarav picked up the sketch again. The figure's eyes seemed to glint in the dim light. He almost
expected the creature to step off the page and speak.
"Useless," Aarav whispered, tearing the page out. He crumpled it and tossed it into the corner,
where dozens of other crumpled visions already lay like corpses of forgotten battles.
But when he turned to a blank sheet, the same image came back. The mace. The lion eyes.
The burning battlefield.
It always came back.
Aarav pressed his palms into his face. He needed a job, not hallucinations. Tomorrow he would
check job boards again, maybe apply for another ten positions that would never call back.
Tonight he'd just eat his noodles and try to sleep.
Still, as he crawled into bed, the sketch sat on the table, half-finished. In the shadows, the
creature's grin seemed wider.
And somewhere far away, beyond the noise of the city, something ancient stirred.